From: "e. b.e." <ebe1013@hotmail.com>
Date: Thu, 13 Jan 2000 17:37:48 GMT
Subject: New: That Night III: The Morning After
Source: direct

And now, the moment you've all been waiting for.  Well, not all of you.  A 
couple of you, maybe.  Right?

Rating: PG-13 (I know, I'm as shocked as you are)

Spoilers: Extremely mild FTF

Keywords/Category: MSR, S, A

Summery: The forging of a new emotional relationship

Archive: Oh, by all means.  Will be sent to Gossamer separately.  All
others, if you tell me where you're at, I'll stop in for a visit.

Disclaimer: My psychiatrist keeps telling me that they aren't mine,
and if I ever want to eat using regular utensils again, I better go with 
that theory.  But they sure have more fun with me, don't they?

This is a continuation of the "That Night" series, and as such is
probably best if read in order.  However, it's not really necessary, so long 
as you keep in mind that Mulder and Scully have already done
the naked pretzel and are likely to continue doing so.

Last but not least, all hail to my beta readers: Bonnie and
Addicted2fanfic, both of whom graciously volunteered to proof read
my work after the "taunt/taut" fiasco.


            That Night III: The Morning After
             by e.b.e. (ebe1013@hotmail.com)

Dawn.  Unlike those millions who curse the first harsh beams that
pierce the cool sleek night, I have always been a morning person.
With or without the warm slide of caffeinated liquid I am full of
energy, ready to conquer the unknown of the day.

I wonder if Mulder knows this about me.  Does he know those early
morning flights and adventures were never a burden of bleary eyes or
groggy mind?  Or does he assume that I fought them on some level,
rising at absurd hours only because duty compelled, silently cursing
him all the while and thinking only of the warm cozy haven of my
bed?

These musings strike me as odd, even melancholy, as we lie tangled
in a spider's web of limbs and bed sheets.  He is plastered against my
back, his warm breath tickling my ear, his arm anchoring me firmly
against the steady rise and fall of his chest, and his morning erection 
nestled coyly against my backside.  Finally, finally we are together and I 
lie here brooding about whether he knows I'm an early riser?

But I can't shake these thoughts.  How well does he really know me?
Or I him, for that matter?  I can tell you how his voice sounds as he
cries out in the ecstasy of release, but I can't tell you his favorite
color.  We are so intimate in so many ways, yet perfect strangers in
others.

And suddenly I comprehend the roots of my mild mental turmoil.  I
want to know these things, the dull ordinary everyday details that I
had never before allowed to pique my curiosity.  I want to poke and
prod, explore every dusty crevice of his personality, every quirk,
every nuance.  What he is thinking as he stares brooding in the quiet
of his apartment, and the content of those nightmares that even in the
earliest days of our partnership compelled him to call me, just to hear a 
friendly voice.  I would know him better than he knows himself.  And perhaps 
of utmost importance, I would open myself to him as fully, have him know my 
mind and heart so completely that I could not hide from that dark soulful 
gaze, could not cloak my faults and insecurities.

I shiver as the potential impact of my theoretical construct hits
me.  No place to hide.  Total intimacy, total freedom.  I've never
wanted that before with any other man, could never fathom allowing
someone free rein over the peaks and valleys of my life, letting
them into the dank shadows of my fears and foibles.  I've shied away
from even a hint of such intentions before, retreating with all the
speed and dexterity one would expect of the Ice Queen.  But even as
a frisson of terror sweeps through me at the mere contemplation of
such a venture, I still can't stem this longing to lose myself in him.  Lose 
myself in us, and in so doing gain an independence of
expression I had never hoped to know.

But what does Mulder want?  Oh, I know he loves me.  He has loved
me, even been in love with me, for ages.  I know this on a level that
eludes and confuses him; it is part of my inherent nature, the rock
solid certainty that this man cares for me more than any woman he
has ever cared for in his life.

However, I made an eloquent argument only hours ago that love and
intimacy are separate entities; logically, this must hold true for
emotional as well as physical intimacy.  Will he be satisfied as we
are now, so happy to have reached this level unscathed that he will
not risk the trek to the next peak?  As much as I hunger for more, I
could hardly blame him for resting after such a long and frustrating
battle.

"Penny for your thoughts."

I was so immersed in my inner world I had not noticed the subtle
signs of his awakening.  His words feather past my ear, warm and
fuzzy with sleep, and his arm tightens its hold on me.  So
comfortable here, such a beautiful happy place; is it folly to risk all we 
have achieved only hours after the victory?

For this is the perfect opportunity to tell him what I want.  Standard
operating procedure would have me say it was nothing, that
everything is fine.  But oh, to take that leap and tell him what I really 
think and feel....

"I was thinking about us."

His lips blaze a trail of fire along my shoulder, tongue flickering
against my skin.  "What about us?" he mumbles against my collarbone, nipping 
at my neck, at the little flutter of muscles as my heartbeat responds to his 
actions.

"About the next step we might take."

His mouth stills, his body tensing behind mine.  I think I've
frightened him; not surprising, since my own mind trills with the
force of my trepidation.  Gently I extract myself from his embrace
and slip from the bed, feeling the need to separate myself from him
in order to organize my thoughts.  I walk to stand before the room's
window.  It is shuttered, veiled, the secrets beyond cloaked from my
prying eyes.  Nor can an outsider's eyes pierce my inner sanctum.

His voice is quiet, serious.  "Scully, I was sort of hoping to celebrate 
where we've gotten before we got ready to plunge ahead."

I sigh and shiver, the air just too cool for comfort against my bare
flesh.  "I know, Mulder.  You're probably right.  It's just..."

Habit is a powerful creature to tame, especially a habit so ingrained,
so enduring.  In my fantasies, conversation between us flows like
wine; sometimes a touch bitter, often intoxicating, always smooth
and potent.  Reality, as usual, proves more problematic, and I
stumble.  My creature of habit, self-isolation, rears its ugly head; it is 
easier to not speak than to say too much.

I can hear him move on the bed, and an irrational fear of his touch
surges through me.  This is difficult enough standing alone.  I am
afraid of the power his touch has, that it would hold those words I
can't seem to say at bay.  But the rustling stops; I do not sense his
presence close at hand, and as suddenly as the reluctance for his
embrace appeared it is replaced by the sickening plummet of regret
that I cannot feel his arms around me.  Fickle heart, mine.  What is it I 
really want?

"It's just what, Scully?" he asks softly.  His voice is low, sincere, the 
husky timbre conveying his thinly concealed confusion.  Oh, how I
must perplex him.  Last night the seductress, this morning shrinking
from him.  All because I want to be close to him.

I turn to face him, drawing in a steadying breath.  Mulder is a
beautiful man, all sculpted muscles and burnished skin.  He sits at
the end of the bed, naked and serene; only his eyes, swirling
concerned hazel set in that handsome face, belay his apparent ease.
And somehow, seeing him this way, exposed and bewildered but
watching, waiting, the implicit trust burning from his gaze, gives me
the strength to breach the silence.

"Mulder, where do you see this relationship headed?"

He tilts his head slightly, his half-grin deceptively cocky.  Would
others notice the slight waver in his expression, the flicker of
uncertainty, or are these things I and I alone can detect?  "I'd like to see 
us headed back to bed."

So like him, to use humor as an attempt to defuse the tension, to
mask his own anxiety.  My answering smile is just as patented, faint
and more sorrowful than humorous.  When did my smile become
the antithesis of happiness?  Another thing to remedy.

"I'm being serious, Mulder."

He rubs the sleep from his eyes with the palms of his hands, his sigh
muffled behind them.  "I know you are.  I wish I could give you an
answer, but I honestly don't know.  I never hoped...expected to make
it even this far.  There's no road map from here."

My own humor surfaces, oblivious to the gravity of the situation.
"That may be for the best.  You seem to get lost with directions."

His eyes burn into mine.  "But I found my way here."

My head dips in acknowledgment, hope brushing against my mind.
We did find each other, against all odds and obstacles.  Is it so
inconceivable that we could go further?  No, not outside the realm of
possibility.  If it's something we both desire...

"Scully, please..."  He pats the bed next to him, gesturing for me to
sit with him.  Though not without a touch of reluctance I do so, allow
the rush of warmth as his fingers insinuate themselves between my
own.  His words caress me as his fingers do, gentle firm strokes that
soothe my psyche and bolster my confidence.

"Scully, please tell what's going on.  If you have something you need
to say, say it.  I can't promise I'll agree, or be able to give you what you 
want, but unless you talk to me, I *know* I can't.  I can't read your 
thoughts.  I need you to tell me what's going on in that mind of yours."

I watch our intertwined hands, the slow rhythmic glide of his thumb
over my knuckles.  Does he know what he's asking?  Be careful what
you wish for...  "Do you really want to know?"

Another quirky grin, quick reassuring squeeze of my fingers.  "Of
course I do."

Deep breath, deep breath.  Concentrate, you can do this, it's what
you want, oh God I step into the abyss, protect your wayward child...

"That's exactly what I want, Mulder."

He's really confused now, the furrows of his brow crinkling as he
replays the conversation, turning it around like a puppy chasing its
tail.  Meaning eludes him.  "I don't quite follow, Scully."

"I want to tell you what's going on in my mind.  I want you to do the
same.  Even when we're worried about looking foolish or weak, or
that we may hurt each other.  I want the censorship of our lives to
stop."

Understanding creeps across his features, and his expression is so
tender and wistful I want to cry.  "Oh, Scully, is that what this is
about?"

I nod, suddenly shy, face burning with the relief of having spoken
and the burden of waiting for his response.  "Yes, that's what I
want."

His free hand cups my cheek, cools the hot flesh.  "Scully, I've
wanted that for years."

I'm agitated; his touch comforts, but his reply strikes me as glib, a
half-truth at best.  "Don't bullshit me.  I'm serious.  All the white lies 
and the hiding from each other, I want it to stop.  You can't tell me you've 
been making any real effort to be that honest with me before now."

His eyes darken with a touch of anger, but the brush of his hand on
my face never falters.  "No, I haven't.  It's a two way street, you
know.  How many, 'I'm fine's have I heard in the last six months
alone?  Would you expect me to open up if you weren't willing to do
the same?"

My eyes lower, ashamed for my flare of indignation.  The truth of his
words stings, penetrates my righteousness.  I haven't been
forthcoming in the past, especially about my emotions.  I hold back,
bottle them up; control is my catch phrase, and the lack thereof the
cardinal sin.  To feel is to be weak, look weak, and in this man's
world I have chosen to immerse myself in, weakness is unacceptable.

But the fatal flaw is that I do feel, and so does he.  Does our
humanity mean we lack strength?  If so, then this is by design and
necessity, for I could no more stop feeling than I could stop
breathing.

Or loving this man.

It is difficult to set aside a lifetime's worth of prejudices and
misconceptions.  I may, no, will, relapse, close the doors to project
an illusion of fearless independence.  He will relapse, too, I have no
doubt, though for reasons different than my own.  The important
thing is to begin shedding these mirages and grab hold of the truths
we have struggled so long to deny; that we experience fear,
exhaustion, rage, insecurity.

That we are human, less than perfect, and this is neither a weakness
nor a source of shame.

I raise my eyes to his again, smile into those green-flecked depths.
"You're right, Mulder.  Neither of us has been very honest.  I'm
willing to try to change that if you are.  I want to know everything
about you."

His smile is wide, his voice husky.  "Everything?"

I shudder lightly, reflexively.  Damnably sexy man.  "Everything.
No matter how inane or intense.  Stupid childhood stories and your
deepest darkest fears."

His eyes are glowing darker, hotter.  "I'd love to try that.  I've had
questions about you since the beginning, but was never sure how to
ask.  We never talked, I mean really talked...."

"I know, and I'm sorry."

"You're my only true friend, and sometimes it seems like I know
parts of you that others can't even see.  But then something
happens..."

"And you feel you don't know me at all.  I know exactly what you
mean."

His smile is wondrous, like a child contemplating which gift to open
first.  "This should be fun."

My smile is genuine now, the relief flooding my body.  As difficult
as this will prove, this total overhaul of our relationship, the potential 
rewards are staggering.  "I wasn't sure if you'd be open to being so...open. 
  This is the intimacy that has always scared me the most, and I presumed it 
would scare you, too."

He smiles in return and brushes a kiss against my lips, light and
reassuring.  "It does scare me, Scully, more than I think you realize.  But 
it's a good sort of scare.  Besides, given what I thought when this 
conversation started, total emotional veracity is a picnic by comparison."

"Why, what were you thinking?"

"Well, you know.  You said something about the next step, where
our relationship was headed..."

The implication dawns, and I laugh aloud.  "You thought I was
talking about marriage, didn't you?"

Mulder, with his darker coloring, hides a blush better than my fair
Irish skin, but I can still see the redness creeping across his face.
"That was my first thought, yes.  And you think agreeing to be more
revealing petrifies me...let's just say I haven't been that terrified that 
quickly since I was locked up in Dallas with a bomb masquerading
as a soda machine."

"Are you saying that contemplating marriage to me is akin to facing
death at the hands of an incendiary device?"

"No, no, I just wasn't prepared, is all..."

I smile, amused as he flounders to cover his verbal faux pas.
"Mulder, relax.  I'm extremely content with where we are now.  I
have no plans to haul you into a church wearing a tux...yet," I tease.

He feigns a sigh of relief.  "Oh, well then I suggest we start exploring 
this honesty thing.  There's something I think you should know about me."

My heart soars.  "Such as?"

He sidles up to me until our sides are flush against each other, his
trademark leer dancing across his lips as his long, agile fingers begin to 
play with my breast.  "Agent Scully, I think you should know I'm naked.  And 
so are you."

My answering chuckle is lost in his mouth, his hard urgent lips.
Already I can feel the distant throb, the tension beginning to swell to what 
will surely be a dramatic release.  We slide quickly back into
the bed, his tongue starting to journey down my neck.  I hum my
approval as he sucks the sensitive skin into the humid recesses of his
mouth.

"So, you don't want to know my favorite color?" I murmur, the last
syllable rising in timbre as his teeth assault my flesh.

He smiles against my throat.  "Maybe later.  But there is something
else you should know."

He raises his head, his face level with mine, and the force of his love 
floods from his eyes, causing mine to burn with a sudden rush of
tears.  "You should know that I love you, Scully."

"I love you, too, Mulder."

And we have all the time in the world, it seems as the seduction
begins anew, to share the dark and the light.  For now there is only
the slide of lips and sweat, and our discovery is limited to the myriad ways 
to pleasure and be pleasured.  Later I will pick his brain, and laugh and 
cry at the contents thereof, and he will tease out my embarrassing moments 
and hold me when the bitter memories spill
forth.

But now there is only his body blanketing mine, and the taste of him,
and the slow escalating passion.

We have all the time in the world.

          Finis.

Feedback is like chicken soup for the writer's soul.  Flames will be
used to heat the soup.  But why would you want to flame me?  Huh?
You love me, you know you do.  All comments/criticisms welcome
at:

ebe1013@hotmail.com

"That Night IV: Afternoon Delights" will appear sooner or later and
will once again provide that delightful smut you have all come to
know and love.  I promise!  Stop beating me....ow!