Subject: NEW "Precipice" MSR SRA 1/1 From: "Dawson E. Rambo" Date: Mon, 29 Dec 1997 13:42:41 -0800 "Precipice" By Dawson E. Rambo Disclaimer: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner and any other tangentially mentioned characters created by Chris Carter remain his copyrighted property, as well as the copyrighted property of 1013 productions and Fox Television, a unit of 20th Century Fox. No infringement is intended. Posting Date : December 29, 1997 Archive Entry : "Precipice" 1/1 Classification : SRA MSR Chapter Rating : PG Story Rating : R Mailing List : mailto:drambo@azstarnet.com?subject=SUBSCRIBE Summary : Post "Pusher" story. Spoilers : "Pusher" "Anasanzi" Author's Note: I'm sure that there are about 200+ post "Pusher" stories out there, but I saw it again last night and thought I'd add my $0.02 worth. Thanks to JenRose and Shana, for the from-the-hip editing. Enjoy! +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= On the couch, remembering: +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= She led me from the hospital room, through the twisting corridors, to the elevator and down to the parking lot. Somewhere along the way I took her hand in mine again. She didn't pull away. Her fingers were cool and strong, and I felt the nails scraping lightly against the back of my hand, tickling the small hairs there. A shiver ran up my back and then down my arms; I wasn't sure if it was from her touch or the memory of tossing the table aside in that hospital room and standing over that sick bastard's body as I pulled the trigger again and again, the distant, hollow sound of the hammer falling on an empty chamber echoing in my ears. At that point, I didn't really care. All that mattered was that I was holding her hand and she wasn't pulling away. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= She drove to her apartment. She had to reclaim her hand to drive, and I missed it. I missed her touch, her warmth. Cold, I thought. So cold. Shock, my mind announced. Psychogenic shock as a result of having that...thing...inside my head. "What did it feel like?" she asked. I knew what she meant, and it wasn't a question about what it felt like to shoot him. That had felt good. Better than it should have. "Like a hand...a fist, inside my head, squeezing. Right around that part of my brain that was...will. Desire." She nodded, accepting this, not questioning it. Bless her. "I know you didn't want to shoot me," she said quietly. I gasped, a shuddering sob of pain. "I didn't," I said, repeating it. Not to her, but to myself. And then she said three words that I will never forget. "You were right." I smiled, staring out the window at the passing road. We were on the highway, heading back towards her place. She hadn't asked if I wanted to go there. There wasn't any place I'd rather be. I watched the patterns of light and dark, saw the orange glow of the arc-sodium lights sliding up the hood of her car and then over the windshield, saw the shadow of her car growing larger and then smaller as we passed in and out of the pools. It was lulling, in a way. Numbing. "Yeah, Scully...he put the whammy on me." She smiled, and I returned it, shyly. At a stoplight off the Beltway, she took my hand again, squeezing it. An intimate touch, but nowhere near as intimate as...her. Inside my head. Before he'd taken that from me. I sighed, remembering walking down the hall and into the MRI lab. Hearing her voice as she told me to walk over to the monitor so she could examine the MRI data. Symbiotic, I remembered thinking. Scully, inside my head, inches away from a place she'd inhabited without knowing for years. My heart. The images started then, flowing, one after the other. In the SWAT van, handing her my pistol, feeling her fingers on mine, the absolutely miserable expression on her face as she realized that I was right, that I had to go in alone, that it was going to be me and Modell against each other. Without her by my side. Remembering that I'd only been that scared once before, when she'd ...been gone. But this had been worse, in a way. Worse because she was so close, only a few hundred yards away, and totally unable to help. I knew it had killed her to let me go in there. And then I had almost killed her. For real. I can still feel the hard wood grip of the revolver in my palm, the checkered, knurled pattern pressing against the skin. The heavy pull of the trigger. I remembered thinking that the weapon had never been worked over by a gunsmith; the pull was too tight. There was no slack in the trigger. I had no idea when it would break, when the hammer would fall on the pin, the powder igniting, the bullet slamming out of the barrel. And the hardest part to remember. She'd been wearing a vest. But I'd been aiming at her head. The car slid to a stop and I looked up to see Scully's apartment building. I closed my eyes, knowing that I'd be spending the night on the couch, clutching a blanket to my shoulders, freezing and shaking and whimpering like a baby. Scully is the only person that has ever seen me that way, the only person that I'd ever _let_ see me that way. "Mulder?" she asked, her tone soft, gentle. "Yeah." Tired. God, I felt so goddamned tired. "We're home." I smiled at that. Home. In one perfect world, this would be our home. Or perhaps a house somewhere, with a white picket fence and tricycles in the walk for me to trip over in the morning as I ran to the car, balancing a cup of coffee and swearing at children that would still be asleep. Yeah, I snorted. Right. And the next time I came up against a bastard like Modell, or any one of the other monsters that she and I chase...the next time one of them wants to get to me, they'd use the kids. Or Scully. Or someone else close to me. Scully sensed it, saw my emotions whirling through my eyes. "C'mon," she said gently. "Let's go up." I nodded, too tired to actually say anything else. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Now: Inside, coat off, on the couch, feet up on the coffee table, Scully making noise in the kitchen to let me know she's there, that she hasn't gone anywhere, that I'm not alone. Comforting, home-sounding noises: cupboards opening and closing, mysterious clanks and bangs as she makes me something to eat or drink or both. The refrigerator opening and closing. If I concentrate, I can feel the cool blast of air against my skin. But that's just my mind. My gift. Getting into someone else's head. There's only one problem with this gift...this curse. The one person's head I want to be inside...I'd feel like I was trespassing. Sure, once or twice I could imagine what Scully was feeling. I'd get so close to it that I'd get burned. White hot. She comes in from the kitchen, holding a cup of something hot and steaming and chocolate. I smile at her as she offers it to me, concern written large across her face. I wonder idly if Scully ever imagined this being her field assignment when she was first approached by Blevins and the Gang. Spy on him, they said, hoping to plant a camel's nose under the tent. And in the process they gave me the best friend, the best partner, the best...anything a man like me, the miserable sonofabitch that I am, could ever hope for. She sits next to me; not too close, aware that I'm a little fragile right now, a touch brittle. But close enough for me to feel her heat, to draw from it, take some of it inside myself. Cold. So cold. "Wanna talk about it?" she offers shyly. I want to laugh; there's no one I'd rather talk with it about, and there's no damn way I'm going to tell her what was going through my mind as I pointed that Smith and Wesson at her. No freaking way. "Sometimes," Scully said, almost as an afterthought, "giving voice to the demons vanishes them into the darkness." "Where'd you hear that?" I say softly. She shrugs. "Around," she says. I want to laugh at _this_ as well, but I don't. I just shrug. "I almost shot you," I say softly. "But you didn't," she amends, laying a hand on my arm. "You had enough...presence of mind...not to." I giggle. She looks at me as if I'm nuts. Maybe I am. "Presence of mind..." I snort, shaking. "Well," she says, mock-offended, "What would you call it?" "Dumb blind luck," I say. "You didn't," she says again. "I knew you wouldn't." I snort. "I almost did, Scully. You ran out of there like your ass was on fire." She shifts on the couch, not sure she wants to discuss her actions. I can feel it coming off of her in waves. She's not proud of what she did, turning tail and running when I needed her. But I'd have done the same thing; a man's (and a woman's) priorities change when someone's pointing a gun at them. I know. I've been shot. By her. "I was trying-" "To save my life. I know." I do. But the thing of it is, I think, if I had pulled that trigger, and I had splattered your brains all over the wall behind you, there would be nothing in this world that would stop me from killing Robert Patrick Modell. With my bare hands, if necessary. And then....then, me. "I'm glad I didn't," I say, offering the peace again. "Me, too," she smiles. "My brothers would have kicked your ass." I grin. "Never had my ass kicked by a figment of someone's imagination before." "Yeah, yeah. Well, how about my mother, then?" I wince. Scully realizes the invisible line she's crossed and moves to correct herself. "You know what I-" "Yeah. But...I probably wouldn't have been around to tell your mother what happened," I say softly. She misunderstands. On purpose...by accident? I don't know. "Well, just imagine you having to explain the Whammy to the shooting board." I wince again. She's not helping. She's trying, though. "Can we change the subject?" I ask. "You need to talk about it, Mulder. To talk it out. Get it all out of your system." It's too much for me. I stand, carefully placing the hot chocolate on the table next to the couch. "You don't understand, Scully. I don't _want_ to talk about it. I want to _forget_ it. Forget that it ever happened. Forget that I pointed a gun at you with malice." She stands, joining me, her arms reaching for me. I step back, almost tripping on the chair next to the couch. "No," I say, holding up my hands. She ignores me, stepping into my space, her arms wrapping around my waist, drawing me to her. Sighing, I feel her warmth pressed against me. It's too much. I step away, rounding the edge of the couch, needing the space. "Scully..." "Mulder..." We stand, separated by the couch. She has that look of frustration on her face that I adore and despise at the same time. That look that tells me she's frustrated at having to deal with a Dumb Man, and that I'm acting the part with Oscar-caliber precision and dedication. "I. Almost. Shot. You." I say each word carefully, wanting her to understand. "I know," she says, moving to my side again. "Don't you get it?! I almost..." "Shot me," she says, reaching up a hand to cup my cheek. I sigh against her touch, sagging, closing my eyes. She draws me to her again, slowly this time, letting me get used to her being in my space again. I feel the press of her body against mine, and against all rationale, against all logical thought, against everything and nothing at all- I harden. She has to feel it. There's no way she couldn't. God, this dance of violence and death and sex is too strange, too weird. A million jumbled thoughts run through my mind in the space between two heartbeats; the way that many women think a man's pistol is a phallic symbol; how extreme violence can be sexually arousing to some people and how I don't want to be that person; how this woman, this tiny, perfect woman can hold me against her only hours after I almost shot her and feel my body responding to hers and either file it away under "hormonal male bullshit" or realize the truth, that I want her so much I tremble with the very thought of having her, that the feel of her body against mind is a reward and a punishment at the same time, how I'd do anything in the world to tell her that- And she tells me. I feel her moving closer to me, the lower half of her body sliding softly against me. How can I want this? Here? Now? But I do. I open my eyes, looking down at her. "Feel me, Mulder," she says softly, quietly. "I'm here. I'm alive. I'm not going anywhere. Touch me." She blushes slightly and looks away. Her words are whisper-quiet as she says, "I know you want to." I freeze. "I want you to," she adds, reaching for my hands. I touch her. For the first time, I touch her as a man touches a woman, not as a friend touches another, or a partner. But as a man. A man who hungers for this woman with an appetite that is unquenchable. "I won't be able to..." I start. Her tiny, perfect hand finds me through my pants, tracing the outline of me, the throbbing, soft heat. "Oh, I think you'll manage," she chuckles. "...stop," I finish. She misunderstands, her hand vanishing from me in a flash. "I won't be able to stop," I say again so she'll understand. She nods. "Who's asking you to?" she grins, reaching for me again. "Ever," I whisper, lowering my mouth to hers. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= In the bedroom. Don't ask me how we got here; all I remember is standing by the couch and kissing her. The next memory, the next coherent thought I have is the sound of Scully's bedroom door shutting with a soft snick! and turning to see her standing at the edge of the bed, her arms hanging loosely at her sides, staring up at me with an expression that I can't read and never want to forget. Hope? Fear? Hunger? Yes, all those, and more, too. She starts to undress and I move to stop her hands. "Let me," I whisper. She nods, arms dropping to her sides again. The business suit has huge buttons on the blazer, and I fumble them, my fingers shaking with fear and hunger and some evil combination of hope that she'll stop me and stark terror that she will anyway. The blazer slides off and puddles at her feet. I kick it aside, moving to the blouse. My fingers move surer now, thumbing the buttons, spreading the gossamer-soft material. I can see the pale skin of her belly, the beige lace of her bra. Right, I think. So, so right. Seeing her this way, undressed for me, for my eyes, only my eyes, only me allowed to see this part of her, this secret, dangerous part of herself that she keeps hidden from everyone. Sometimes I feel like I'm the only one that notices what a beautiful, sensual woman my partner is, my friend. Then I see the look Pendrell gives her, the sideways glance that Skinner affords her from time to time and I know that I'm wrong, that other men do notice her, do drink in her beauty the way I do. Sharing a secret with me. Me. Of all the people that she could share herself with in this way, it's me she's chosen. I can't get over it. Such a gift. A promise and a threat rolled into one. I know that if I screw this up, there'll be no second chances. No coming back. And it scares me. Terrifies me. She sees the hesitation in my eyes, the fear, the stark, draining terror that is rushing through my veins. "Do you know how long I've wanted this?" she asks, her voice a husky, whiskey-dipped whisper that I've never heard and would do anything to hear again. I shake my head, unable to speak, dumb with arousal and desire and hunger and want and fear and love. "I can't remember a time when I didn't," she says, and the raw- nerve quality of her admission spreads fire across my skin. "But I knew that...it had to be the right time. The right reason." She pauses, wanting to make sure that I understand. "And helping you through this is not the right reason, Mulder. But I can't wait anymore. I won't wait for a perfect moment when we're both in sync. I can't wait for this Quest to be over, for you to know the truth, for you to come to me and tell me that it's time. I can't wait until there's no more danger, because there's always going to be danger. We chose this life, Mulder. We chose each other, in a way." She smiles. "It's just ironic that it's you that I want, since it's you that I can't ever have." She pauses again. "Or, that's what I thought. I can't have anyone else, Mulder...and it's ironic, I guess, that I don't _want_ anyone else. I want you." She steps closer, threading her arms around my neck, pressing her half-dressed body against mine. The sensation of the silk blouse, the edges of it teasing me, the warmth and weight of her arms resting on my shoulders...it's overpowering. Intoxicating. "This isn't a relationship, Mulder. Not in any normal sense. I don't see us moving in together, buying a house and starting a family. Not anytime soon, my friend." She lowers her eyes and kissed me softly, once. "My lover," she whispers again. "That's what I need from you, Mulder. That's what I want...for now." I kiss her back, softly, sad that this is our life. "I'm sorry," I say. "For what?" "For making this your life. For hiding behind...all of that... and denying you-" Her fingers are across my lips before I can finish my thought. "Shhh," she chides. "I wouldn't have it any other way." My eyebrows crawl up my forehead and she smiles at me, possibly wondering again how someone as smart as I am can be as stupid as I can be. "Mulder," she says, leaning back a little, "there are women out there, women who are wives and mothers, who have husbands and children and the PTA and soccer games and ballet lessons and dentist appointments, and they're happy and fulfilled and they live each day with joy and happiness. And you know what? They read romance novels about dashing heroes taking them to exotic places far away where danger and romance fill the air." She smiles at me, telling me she's joking for my benefit, but that there's an undercurrent of seriousness, a grain of truth in what she's about to say. "But I live that life, Mulder. I've got a man who drags my ass all over the world, puts that same ass in danger again and again, and who makes my life the most interesting, exciting, fulfilling one any woman could ever imagine." "It's a nice ass," I admit. "You like it?" she asks, turning to show it to me. "Those pants don't do much to showcase it," I point out, smiling, getting into this, this new intimacy with her. She shrugs. "Can't have Skinner and Pendrell walking into walls." She steps back, working the button and zipper, letting them fall into a puddle to join the blazer. She skims the blouse off her shoulders and tosses it way, forgotten. She twists at the hips, showing me the soft curve of her rump. "This," she says, tapping it lightly, "is for your eyes only." I gasp. She steps into my arms. "I only want you to see that, Mulder." She pauses. "Don't you know that I see the way you look at me? Don't you know that it thrills me to know that you wonder what I look like?" I shake my head. I didn't. I still don't. But she's about to show me. She makes short work of my clothing. In moments, I'm in boxers and a nervous, shaky smile and not much else. She draws me to the bed, enveloping me in her arms. We move slowly at first, still unsure, still discovering each other. Deja vu, all over again. I can't remember how many times I've imagined, fantasized, wondered, pondered and just plain hungered for this, but it's all new, it's all Scully. The planes and curves of her revealed to me at last, I go slow, wanting to savor it, wanting to burn each image and taste and touch into my brain for all time. The softness of her thighs, the gentle depression at the small of her back, the smooth silk of her rump. The pressure of her nipples against my own as she languidly drags her body across mine to kiss me. Finally, we cannot stand another moment apart. She opens to me, shyly, begging with her eyes to understand that it's been a while. I ask with mine for her forgiveness, because it's been a while for me, too. I'm incredibly hard and hot and fat, throbbing with need and the desire to release, to spend inside her. She fits me to her with shaking fingers and shifts a little, lifting herself to me, accepting me, groaning with me as I fill her completely, sliding inside, feeling her spread around me, slickhotwarm. She is me and I am her. At some point we stop being individuals and become one entity, moving slowly at first, me waiting until she grunts her acceptance and I feel the seldom-used muscles opening, welcoming, granting me further access. Scully, I think. All around me, tugging at me, fingers on my shoulders then on my buttocks, then on my thighs, pulling, tugging, urging me on, me wondering at her need for the fullness of me to be so far inside her, feeling the hair on my chest rubbing across her softness, irritating her nipples with that delicious pleasure/pain that only a woman can truly understand. Slickhotwarmwetsoft. Pain. Death. The images are not far from my mind. I can hear the shot in my ear as I pulled the trigger, feeling the slam of the revolver against my palm, the jerk of the barrel as the bullet exits, slamming into Modell, pasting him against the wall. Pin the bullet on the asshole, I think. I feel her wetness seeping out around me, soaking me, greasing me. Her legs, stretched to the breaking point, wrap around my hips, heels tapping against my ass, a smile on her face as she realizes she has all of me. She always did. She just didn't know it. Or did she? She cried when I pointed the gun at her. I remember the sight of that fat, wet tear brimming over and then sliding down her cheek. Did she know? Did she know what it did to me to point that...thing at her? Such thoughts vanish from my mind as I watch her bite her bottom lip at the same time I feel something tugging at me, something inside her wanting me even deeper inside her. It's never been like this. It never could with anyone but her. I've had sex, I think, and I've done my share of fucking. This is the first time - of many with her? that I've made love. With anyone. I wait for her, moving slowly, wanting her to be there before me at least, and at the most, there with me at the same moment. It's not to be; we need the experience of being able to sense each other's peaks, experience that I deeply hope we'll acquire. But for now, she gets there first, closing around me, slickhotwetsoft pulling at me, tugging at me, swallowing me whole as she rides through the crest and down the other side. I feel her relax and I begin to speed up just a little, letting her know that I'm not far behind- And she rolls, taking me over, ending up on top of me, her hands flat on my shoulders, her slim hips moving up and down, withdrawing and enveloping me again and again. Her eyes clouded and yet bright with passion as she begs me to give her this gift she craves so much. Baby, I think. "In me," she whispers, whining. "In me. In me. Inmeinmeinmeinme." "Wait-" I say. Her eyes glare at me, if that's possible. She shakes her head, her meaning clear. She doesn't care. It's not important, and a part of me, a part so deep that it's never seen the light of day, that part of me knows several things at once. As I speed towards her, feeling the rumble in my loins, feeling the tug in my scrotum, I know that part of Scully, an equally deep part, almost half- hopes that we do conceive a child in the next few seconds. It would be so right, so perfect, to start a third from the wounded, loving, aching parts of our own two souls. I erupt. Contractions, almost painful, ripple out from my center. I see stars. I feel Scully collapsing on top of me, her sweaty face against mine, her lips seeking my own, her breasts crushed against my slick chest. She is squeezing me, riding me through it, her taut, tight little ass moving in circles as she drowns herself in my seed. And at that moment, I feel my own tears starting, tears of joy and sadness; joy because I've finally found what I've been looking for, my own abbreviated version of the Truth, and sadness because of what we had to go through to get her. The sobs wrack my body as I let the poison out, as I let the rage and the fear and the hatred for a man with an evil gift run through my blood. Part of me knows that if I'd shot Scully, it would have been that asshole's fault, just as I know it would have been my finger on the trigger. She moves against me again, her body curling around mine, the fine hairs on her arm tickling my face as she holds my head. She mumbles sweet nothings in my ear, and I finally understand what that phrase means. Not words, not phrases, just soothing, comforting sounds as I cry in her arms. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Later: We sleep the sleep of the blessed. The nightmares I knew were my due are held in check. The sobs have stopped. For at least one night, anyway. I know the nightmares aren't far off. They will come. Haunting me. Claiming me. Taking me away from this comfort, this softness. She, snuggled against me, making wry comments in my ear. "Took you long enough." Did she mean...tonight? That I didn't...release quick enough? Or the bigger picture? I shrug. "Staying power," I say, hedging my bet. A soft punch on the shoulder. "That's not what I meant." Oh. "Well..." I whine, looking for a way out. There is none. She looks at me, wanting me to explain why I took so long to realize that everything I ever wanted was next to me the entire time I was looking. I shrug. I can feel the apology written across my face. She laughs, accepting it. "It's not exactly as if I'm the easiest person to read." I smile in the darkness. Oh, there's wrong, Scully, and then there's WRONG. "Now what?" I ask. A hand, reaching in the darkness. Finding me, measuring my turgidity. "So soon?" My turn. "That's not what _I_ meant," I say. "I know." Quiet, a little scared. "Does it have to be a `now what' kind of question?" I shrug. "I don't want to fuck this up by doing the wrong thing," I admit. It's true. Then she says the wrong thing, but for the right reason. "Just be yourself, Mulder." How can I do that? I don't know who I am. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= THE END Dawson E. Rambo | Author, LANAdmin, Programmer, Dreamer drambo@azstarnet.com | http://www.azstarnet.com/~drambo/index.html "Do not meddle in the affairs of dragons, for you are crunchy... and taste good with ketchup." -- seen on a bumper sticker