Peace

I wake up from a sound sleep to streetlight sizzle and the crack of thunder outside my window, blink dazedly into another pair of barely-conscious eyes, and wonder as always why, and how, and for how long this will be.

Still fogged by sleep, those eyes are gentle; and I reach out to draw him close before awareness can harden his expression to mistrust.

Lightning flares bright against the windowpane, coinciding with a brief flicker of wakeful wariness; but he allows himself to be drawn, nestles into my embrace. We are enveloped in a cocoon of cotton-polyester quilted warmth, body heat keeping us snug and cozy: that storm outside might as well be a million miles away.

And I tug the blankets closer around us, as if by doing so I can preserve this haven, keep the world from intruding; for we have known our share of storms, he and I, and I am not at all anxious to see another one sweep in and shatter this fragile peace.

Small murmur of sound from the vicinity of my chest: "Mulder." A moment later, even more quietly: "Fox." From anyone else, that name would be an insult, a degradation, a reminder of hated torment and buried memories. Between us, though, first names are a symbol of trust: signifying a lowering of barriers, a setting-aside of the old animosity.

I nuzzle his hair and whisper back: "Alex." It is with these small things, with a name here and a blanket there, that we create a safe space for ourselves in these too-brief moments which we can call our own.

Next week, maybe even tomorrow, it might all change. What he does, what I do... there is no bridging that gap. By the next day's light, he might be running from me, I might be chasing him -- or vice versa -- both of us bound by external forces to our individual paths: I can no more cease to be what I am than he can turn his back on what he's become. And by all rights and reason, what we are doing now ought to be considered an obscenity.

But I can still feel, even now, the wonderful lazy relaxation resulting from our earlier passion; and I am so warm. So very warm.

Slow pressure smoothing along my back, as his hand moves over my skin. His one hand. When I'd first discovered what had happened to him... It felt like my fault for leaving him, even though I'd been dead certain that he'd meant to betray me. So I apologized. Over, and over, and over, until he told me to shut the hell up. And when I didn't, couldn't stop saying that I was sorry, he hit me: punched me hard, a right hook that threw me backwards onto the floor.

And then he followed me down and kissed me. Sweetly, lovingly, fingertips caressing the place he'd punched me, tenderly stroking flesh that would be bruised and swollen later. We made love, right there on the floor, and what should have felt awkward and strange was instead as natural as breathing; missing an arm, but nothing was missing, nothing at all.

It's like that, with us. We fight on opposite sides, we fight each other; I punch him, and every once in a while he punches me, and shows me just how completely outclassed I'd be if he ever chose to really fight back... and then we meet and unite as swiftly and totally as if we were one person, one soul, and everything is utterly and unbearably right.

The storm flashes lightning bright and hot, and I nuzzle gleaming raven hair; his arm squeezes, holding me tighter, as he breathes humid warmth against my chest.

Warm and cozy-dry, and yet I wish we were outside in it: I wish we were somewhere we could be outside and naked and alone together, rain pelting, streaming sleeting over us as the thunder roars in our ears. So many storms we've weathered, but all of them figurative; and just once, just once I'd like it to be real. To feel the fury of the storm, experience its passion and its wrath, and know that leaving it behind would be as easy as finding a towel and swabbing the droplets of rain from our skin.

But then, it's never been hard to leave the figurative storms behind, either. Animosity, hatred, righteous anger, bitter vengeance, curls and coils and burns within me -- only to be dispelled by a kiss, by a caress, by those eyes gazing into mine with that look that promises nothing but a truth that is all passion and tenderness.

In these few precious moments of intimacy, we forgive each other everything, every time.

Hot breath against my skin becomes moist kisses, slow and soft. There's never enough time for this, for us; and sleep is the obscenity, robbing us of precious time. Inevitably, though, by the time the chasing and fighting is done, we're both so damned tired...

Weary. Worn through, worn out by the struggle, by the effort of being ourselves, when these moments when we are merely us are so perfect in comparison.

And by the next day's light, we could be enemies again -- so we fight fatigue instead of each other, to share one more moment of unity before the dawn.

I shift position, tug him upwards until I can meet his lips with my own; his tongue greets mine like an old friend, comfortable instead of conquering. Still wrapped in our cocoon of blankets, we kiss and caress in slow, languorous strokes -- passion rising between us, but so is fatigue; and really, it's an open question whether we'll make love or simply fall asleep mid-kiss in each other's arms.

Both are heavenly; either would be all right. Anything, with him, is a treasure.

His hand settles against the back of my neck. Not pulling me down, not holding me close, simply... touching me there. Fingertips brushing that sensitive skin. Such an intimate touch; and it crashes in on me, suddenly, that this is not merely the longest-lasting relationship I've ever had, but the sweetest.

All at once I am crushing him against me, clinging, grasping, clutching at him desperately and still unable to hold him quite close enough.

Resistance -- he's drawing back. Not pulling away, just looking at me quizzically. "Fox?" slight startlement in the voice, along with that velvet softness that just gets to me every time.

I look into his eyes, willing myself to be silent, as the words well up in my throat and choke me with wanting to be said. Don't leave me, rises to the fore. Stay with me, Alex, cries to be spoken. So good, so good, and I need you, want you...

And this, most of all, must not be said.

He gazes at me, puzzled -- then something dawns in those night-darkened eyes. "I can't," he says slowly, sorrowfully, as if he's heard me after all. "I wish..." and then he, too, falls silent: fighting his own battle against words that need to be spoken, and cannot be.

For long moments, we simply look at each other; and the silence speaks for us, more eloquently than words.

Then his head tilts forward, his forehead touching mine; and his arm snugs more tightly around me. A single word, a breath of sound: "Fox."

"Alex," I reply, in the same soft whisper; and if my voice quavers just a bit, if my eyes are too bright and liquid with unshed tears, well, it really doesn't matter in the least.

He kisses me: and those are not my tears, sliding down my face.

And outside the storm rages, blustering in the dark; while inside, for this moment, there is nothing but peace.

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