The Unicorn Tamed 3: Intrusion

...Taste of heated flesh, salt-sweet slippery against his tongue, quivering ever so slightly from his exertions... looking up, searching her face anxiously for her approval. "That was all right, I suppose," spoken in a nonchalant voice, holding vague disappointment, and cursing himself: dammit, I still can't get it right...

..."I'll do better next time," pleading, as he knelt before her; feeling his own flesh throbbing beneath the tight confinement of his trousers, begging for a touch, any touch, to soothe the aching need...

...Unable to stop himself, a hand finding its way between his legs; and her face creasing with disapproval: "Oh, really. Have you no restraint?" as she studied him clinically, measuring him ruthlessly.

..."Please," his voice desperate, "I need... please..." willing to do anything, anything, for even some slight relief...

..."You know how I feel about that," and forcing his hand away, though it hurt, it hurt... "No, I'm afraid you really must learn to do better," and knowing that he'd blown this week's chance, for all his efforts: hating himself for the strength of his need, for not being good enough, for not having been man enough to keep his manhood under control.

...And the shower, cold needles against his flesh, freezing him to the core, yet not enough to subdue the raging heat within him: his erection, fierce and insistent, craving release, and not touching himself because she had forbidden him to, not even here in privacy where she would never know -- standing under the cold water for an hour, two hours, until his skin was all gooseflesh and slightly blue, until finally his cock had softened to placid submission, arousal once again beaten back in accordance with her specifications...

...Huddling in his uncomfortable dorm-room bed, feigning sleep as his rowdy roommate came in from a night on the pull, smelling of beer and sex and wanton abandon; cold and alone, feeling the small pulsings of suppressed desire racing through him, utilizing every ounce of control to keep himself sexless, so that next week he might please her, might win her approval, might finally be permitted to seek some satisfaction for himself...

The dream broke, left him awake and gasping for breath on his couch; he sat up, blinking at the moonlight streaming in through the window, reorienting himself to the here-and- now.

"Damn you," he whispered, into the darkness.

His body was taut with lingering arousal; one hand moved -- then stilled: the dream was too recent, too vivid to allow him even that meager fragment of satisfaction. A conditioned response, drilled into his mind by years of effort: oh, don't do that, it's vulgar -- so that even now, years later, it was all but impossible for him to escape her disapproval.

He groaned, and rolled over onto his stomach.

Pressure against his loins; friction of fabric against flesh... his hips moved, erection rubbing against the couch pillow, kindling the spark of arousal into full flame... But it wasn't enough: he needed more. Desperately, his hips ground against the padding beneath him, and still it wasn't enough...

In an agony of frustration, he levered himself off the sofa, fumbling with one hand for one of the tapes he'd painstakingly collected over the years, reaching for the jar of Vaseline with the other. Slamming the tape into the VCR with unnecessary force and cursing his clumsy fingers as he fought to get the machine working. Finally, the tape rolled; he stared at the screen, letting the imagery take over his brain. Faceless women, breasts and hips and thighs and pussies, doing things to men that the British bitch had never done to him, faces contorted in expressions of passions that she had never worn, moaning in delight at the physical prowess that he had never been permitted to display... his eyes devoured the images, drinking them in, letting them encompass his brain. It had to be that way, so that he wouldn't notice the moment when his hand wrapped around his straining hard-on; one instant of self-awareness would ruin the whole thing, and wreck all chances of bringing the act to its resolution... He didn't let himself acknowledge the exertions of his hand, frantically rubbing his aching erection, harder and harder, working desperately at relieving the pressure within him. He didn't exist. His body, with its damnable needs, didn't exist. No, all that existed was the television screen, the images of lust being portrayed there, the cries of the faceless women as penises pounded into them, bringing them to feigned climax...

He felt his body shudder, felt the spasms ripple through him as the stickiness spread over his hand, felt the tension drain away from him, leaving him to some semblance of peace.

I hate myself, he thought.

With his untainted hand, he fumbled for the remote, switched off the TV -- the imagery held no attraction for him now, only served to accentuate his perversion. Can't even jerk off like a normal guy, came the inevitable thought, filled with self-loathing. Goddamn her... But what did that make him, that he'd allowed her to mold him so thoroughly to her specifications?

As soon as he could move, he struggled to his feet and made his way to the bathroom.

Hot water, as steaming-hot as he could stand it, silent rebellion to her long-ago admonitions. Soap rubbed into a washcloth to scour away the remnants of his lapse, because even that touch brought the memory of her condemnation... He scrubbed at his skin until it reddened from the abrasion, wishing that he could wash away the memories as easily. Wishing desperately that he could rid himself of the psychological damage she'd inflicted upon him.

At least it was over. For now. For another night.

He always postponed it as long as he could -- because he couldn't bear to face his own deviance, and because the longer he waited, the more quickly it was done. Sometimes it took forever, tape after tape before he could finally manage to achieve release; and sometimes, just when he'd finally gotten almost to that point, something would distract him and make him aware of his surroundings, and thwart his efforts... The latter times were the worst, because once that had happened, there was nothing he could do except marinate himself in the proverbial cold shower until the ache had more or less subsided. Tonight's episode had been relatively painless. Hell, at least tonight he'd remembered the Vaseline; there were times when he didn't, and the aftermath of that kind of unlubricated friction generally left him all but unable to walk for at least a day.

And what would happen if he tried to have sex with an actual partner? How would Phoebe's 'conditioning' serve to sabotage him then? The humiliation of such an encounter was his worst fear -- and the main reason he'd never tried.

Scully didn't understand.

The thought of his partner, even such a vague one, caused a reaction within him... he groaned, and jerked the shower control over to "cold", forbidding the response to grow to the point where it would make his life difficult. She'd had that effect since the beginning: something about her... Well, more than 'something'. Everything, really.

She was the friend, the partner, the ally, the support, that Phoebe had never been. And she was gorgeous, besides.

Cold water wasn't helping. Maybe I should try an ice pack, he thought sardonically.

What would it be like to make love to her? To caress that creamy-pale skin, to kiss her sweet breasts, to bury his face between her legs and taste her essence? To feel her touching him, with those hands: so small, so strong, so gentle... She'd given him backrubs, once or twice; they'd been exquisite...

His hand wrapped around his growing erection -- flinched away, as memory set in -- with a determined effort, he shoved the memory aside, and let his hand wander where it wished.

Scully. God, she was beautiful. That first case, forever ago, and seeing her half-nude and vulnerable... times since, when he'd seen even more, when he'd dared to touch her in small, small ways... Her compassion. Her caring. Her steadfast loyalty, even when he didn't deserve it. She wasn't just beautiful; she was wonderful, in every way. Perfectly natural, that he should be attracted to her. That she should inspire his passion, just as she'd earned his respect and his trust.

Scully. Never leaving him, never abandoning him. Scoffing at his ideas, sometimes, but never at him; never seeing him as the buffoon that others seemed to. Nobody ever took him seriously, and he'd managed to use that to his benefit, sneaking in under their defenses and getting his own way -- Scully might not agree with him, but she never dismissed him as a fool.

Scully. Dancing with her at the bar. Feeling her arms wrap around him when he'd needed it, dispelling his misery with the magic of her touch. Sensing his need, and -- instead of using it against him -- reaching out to comfort him. Had she known how much he'd wanted to latch on to her, and not let go?

Scully. So intelligent, so capable, so composed and self- contained. Did she have even the slightest idea of how compelling a combination that was? Did she have even the slightest notion of how incredible she was?

Scully... oh, god, Scully...

The spasms seized him anew, this time bringing an intense pleasure that most of his exertions lacked; it swept through him, sweet ecstasy leaving him weak-kneed and gasping for breath. His hand moved in time with the contractions, prolonging the pleasure, drawing it out for as long as he could -- more than relief, this time; he felt satisfied, for a change, and vaguely triumphant that no old memories had intruded to rob him of that...

...And then it hit him, what he'd done.

Oh, god. You sick, perverted... His partner. His partner. As if she was some video whore, existing for no reason other than his cheap thrills... Oh, god. How could I?

Filled with shame and feeling nauseous, he stumbled from the shower, fumbled for a towel and wrapped it around himself, as if by hiding his fading erection from view he might banish the realization of what he'd done.

The memory lingered, even as he sat on his couch staring at a late-night infomercial, trying to think of anything else but. I jerked off. Thinking of Scully. Oh, god. And if she knew... what would she do? Would she despise him as much as he despised himself, eyeing him with loathing and disgust? Or -- worse -- would she view him with pity: poor damaged soul struggling desperately for normalcy in whatever small ways he could?

God. I really am hopeless.

And though, after a time, he managed to divert his thoughts to the mundane realities of daily existence, the feeling stayed with him: the shame, the disgust, the self-loathing, cloaking him like a shroud.

"Mulder?"

He should have expected it, he supposed. Calling in sick to work, then not answering his phone... She was his partner; she knew him. Knew him well enough to know that something was wrong, even if she had no idea what.

How can I face her?

It wasn't the sleepless night that had caused him to book off work; he'd endured those before, more often than even she knew. It was his knowledge that there was no way he could look her in the eye, no way he could face her, after what he'd done. At least, not yet...

But here she was, all wrapped up in her concern for him. I don't deserve it. I don't deserve her.

"Mulder, I'm coming in," in a voice filled with worry; and then there was the sound of a key in the lock...

"I'm fine," he called out hurriedly, before the door could open. "I'm just... I don't feel good. I think I'm coming down with something. Something contagious," he added quickly. "And I don't want you to catch it, so you'd better not come in," wincing as the words left his mouth, knowing that it was too much, knowing that her suspicions would kick in and that nothing would keep her on the other side of that door now...

A pause: then the lock clicked, and the hinges creaked as she opened the door.

He rolled over, buried his face in the pillow, hoping to avoid eye contact; subliminally, he could feel her presence as she moved silently to his side, knelt next to the couch. "Mulder?" and her hand smoothed over his head, stroking his hair, such a gentle caress that it nearly brought him to tears. I don't deserve this. I don't deserve you.

"I'm fine," he muttered into the pillow.

Her hand found its way to his forehead... "You don't feel feverish," she said dubiously.

"Trust me, I'm sick." And cringed at his own words: why should she trust him? He was inherently untrustworthy; his own actions had proven that. His partner, his best goddamn friend in the whole fucking world, and he'd treated her as if she was just so much meat... Even if she never knew; he knew, and that made all the difference. He was sick, but not in the way she might have thought.

"Mulder," she said firmly, "look at me," and he tensed, knowing that he couldn't, he couldn't...

"Scully," he responded, hearing the pleading tone in his own voice, "please, just leave me alone!"

Soft fingers wandered to the back of his neck and lingered there, massaging lightly. "What's wrong?"

"Don't ask me that," he whispered, as the self-loathing swept over him in a great, suffocating wave.

She was quiet for a few moments. "I'm your friend, Mulder," she said finally, in a quiet voice; he winced, feeling anew the shame of what he'd done -- to her, his friend.

"Please, Scully, go away," he murmured, hoping, praying, that she would listen, and go.

Another small silence. "Sometimes," she remarked, "being a friend means knowing when not to leave."

"Scully, please go..."

"No."

The touch of her hand against his skin was unbearable: such comfort in that small touch, and such despair -- he didn't have the right to that touch, or to the comfort it brought... Part of him wanted to tell her, to bare his soul in confession: so that she would know what sort of monster he really was, so that he could plead for forgiveness. So that he could know how awful he truly was, at the sight of her eyes widening in horror and revulsion... And part of him simply wanted to reach for her, to be held by her, to cry in the arms of the only person in his life who'd ever let him cry in her arms and find consolation there.

"You don't know," he heard himself say, "you don't understand," knowing that it was the first step to the final rift: knowing that he would spill his guts, seeking absolution and finding only rejection. It was inevitable. It was his lot in life: the only constant there had ever been, for him.

"Help me understand," was the soft reply; and he sighed.

"She fucked up my head, Scully... she really did. You have no idea..." Why am I doing this? he wondered. So I can lose my only friend?

Steady soothing motion of her hand against his hair. "I'm listening."

"I don't want you to know," he argued; last vestige of self-preservation coming to the fore. "I don't want you to know how fucked up I am."

"I'm your friend, Mulder." Such powerful words, spoken in such a gentle voice. "I will continue to be your friend. No matter what."

He drew a long, ragged breath. Did she know what she was promising? Did she have any idea that she'd be utterly unable to keep that promise, by the time he was through?

Did she know how completely she'd shattered his defenses with her vow?

In halting, broken sentences, he told her. From the beginning. What Phoebe had done.

...How it had started so innocently, the fumbling caresses of two young people in heat. And then he'd told her his secret... She'd seemed so sympathetic, at first. 'You must feel so awkward, so inept,' and though it had never occurred to him to feel that way before, suddenly he did... She'd promised to teach him: to instruct him in the ways of love. So many men were unfeeling, uncaring brutes... But he could be better than that, she said. He could be a truly masterful lover; and she would teach him how.

...Control, that was the key. Not letting one's testosterone take command. Male masturbation was, in her view, one of the key offenders: teaching men to find satisfaction quickly and brutally, so that when placed in a sexual situation, all they knew was how to thrust and thrust until they'd reached their own peak, leaving their partners unsatisfied. The first step to becoming a truly masterful lover was to master one's own baser desires -- 'so you mustn't, Fox; remember that.' Remember that...

...And of course, he needed to learn how to pleasure a female properly, with his hands and lips and tongue. Like this, and this, and this... oh, but you're not doing it correctly. Not hard enough, not gently enough, not well enough... Never well enough to please her.

...But what about his desires? 'Oh, but that's part of learning control, Fox.' No, no matter how aroused he might become, it was his duty to keep it at bay. 'When you've mastered the fine arts of feminine pleasure, we'll move on to the next step.' Except that nothing he did was good enough, ever.

...Time after time, he'd thought of breaking it off. 'What a shame you've decided that, Fox. I was ever so pleased with your progress... I suppose we won't be able to continue with the lessons.' And time after time, he'd let her lure him back. More lessons. More exercises in frustration.

...Finally, a small move forward. She wouldn't permit him to touch himself; but she would touch him. To a point. Until he was at the brink of orgasm; and then her hand would move to the base of his cock in a certain way, pulling him back from the edge, keeping his climax at an agonizing distance. 'All this time, and you still haven't learnt restraint... I'm disappointed in you, Fox; I'd thought more highly of you.' Hours of this, sometimes; arousal and frustration and more arousal and more frustration, until his body was shaking helplessly, screaming with desperate need. Then she'd pack him off to a cold shower, with admonitions that he should do better next time. 'And remember, Fox, you mustn't touch yourself without me...' Not that reminders were necessary, by that time. He'd already been conditioned to obey, and there was no respite beyond the occasional wet dream...

...Then the fateful day. Too much, too much for him to stand. She, in her slinky sheath of a dress, too impossibly alluring to resist... He'd grabbed her, right there in the dormitory hallway; pushed her up against a wall, hard cock trapped in his trousers pressing fiercely into her crotch, rubbing against her like a horny dog humping someone's leg, unable to stop until flashpoint: a ferocious orgasm consuming him, downpour after a long aching drought. Strangely enough, he'd thought he'd felt her shudder in his arms, with a climax stronger than any he'd yet managed to give her; but when she pushed him away, her face had held nothing but disgust. 'I see you've learned nothing,' retaining her haughty arrogance despite the stains on her disheveled gown, 'you're worse than an animal. Fox: how aptly named...' And her dorm-mates, passing by, whispering, snickering, dissolving into downright laughter as she'd launched into her tirade, berating him mercilessly as he'd felt the hot tears coursing down his face...

...There had been threats of charges, but she'd spared him that; spared herself, actually, as she didn't want 'any more public unpleasantness'. He'd begged, pleaded for her forgiveness, but she'd met his pleas with unyielding condemnation; and eventually he'd left England, left her behind, still feeling that he'd screwed up royally, that it was all his fault.

...It had taken awhile for him to realize just how severely she'd marked him; not until his first date, back in the States, months and months later. When he'd kissed the girl, and felt the first stirrings of arousal -- and then the wave of humiliation, the memory of Phoebe's chiding voice... He hadn't been able to call that girl again; after all, she'd seen him horny, and that was shameful enough... And when his arousal grew too great to bear, and he tried to assuage it himself, he couldn't...

...He fought it, of course. Studied abnormal psychology voraciously, striving to reach a comprehension of what she'd done to him, a way to find an escape... From staid textbooks to less scholastic material; and one day he'd found himself seeking research materials in Rachel's XXX Fun Shop, in a quarter-per-five-minutes video booth, and realized that he'd found, if not an answer, at least a temporary respite.

...The viewing materials had to be carefully selected, of course. The subject matter had to be... unobjectionable. No visuals that might remind him of her. Just women being fucked, women on their knees with cocks in their mouths, women pleading the way he'd used to plead; and if their pleas were met with harsh indifference, well, so much the better. Revenge. Retribution, against the memories that haunted him still.

...And even so, it was difficult. If he was lucky, he might manage to achieve orgasm on three out of every five tries. No pleasure in it, either; just the emptying of his balls, the release of tension, nothing more. And the lingering shame and disgust of knowing it was the only way he could get off, not a decadent accessory but a vital necessity. Of knowing that he was a pervert, a textbook case of perversion, unable to achieve sexual satisfaction (if one could call something so cold and mechanical satisfaction) through any other means...

...He kept fighting. Trying. Forcing himself to try to do it the 'normal' way, with nothing but mental imagery and a conscious awareness of what he was doing. Sometimes, if he waited long enough between times, it would work. More often, his efforts would leave him hanging on the brink of release, over and over until he had to resort to the tapes, because there was no other choice, except for last night, when...

And he bit off the rest of the words, just in time; because that was the part he couldn't tell Scully, no matter how much of a friend she was, or thought she was.

He still couldn't look at her; but he felt her looking at him, studying him closely.

Then she spoke. "It was me, wasn't it?"

Shit.

Yet still her hand stroked his hair, never faltering.

She leaned close -- his face remained hidden, half in the pillow, half behind the arm he'd raised to shield himself from view -- her lips brushed against his earlobe, all she could really reach. "Would it make you feel better to know," she said very softly, into his ear, "that I've done the same thing?"

Stunned beyond all rational thought, he had no idea of what to say to that.

"Do you know what this means, Mulder?" she continued. "Surprise! We're human."

He heard a sound, an odd hoarse sound; and realized that it was himself, laughing.

Her arm wrapped around him, urging him closer; he still couldn't look at her, but found himself reaching out for her, like a moth instinctively drawn to warmth, to light... his face buried itself against her chest, and his thoughts weren't of how lovely her breasts were, but how wonderful it was to be held; and felt his laughter transform into sobs in the space of a breath. Crying in Scully's arms: it seemed to be becoming a habit, and he supposed he should have been embarrassed or ashamed -- but apparently, she didn't mind; and it felt so good. So good.

"I can't believe you put up with me," he managed, through his tears.

"Mulder, I love you," she said patiently, as if it was something he should have known.

"Do you?" he wondered aloud. Is this what love is, then? Holding someone when they need to be held? Listening, and not laughing? Understanding someone else's pain? Being there, always? I never knew...

"Yes, I do," and she hugged him a little tighter, rubbing his back soothingly.

It felt so good, her arms around him... so good. Better than fantasies could ever be. Better than anything the BritBitch had ever done, or even promised him. Good to his soul, and so much more...

He pulled back a little, and looked at her. Into her eyes. As he'd thought he'd never be able to do again.

She gazed back: a warm, steady gaze. Accepting. Inviting? Maybe.

What would she do if... He moved a little closer, searching her face for any trace of hesitation, finding none. Closer still -- a little bit closer -- and still, he didn't know what she would do, if she would let him... then her arms tightened around him, and she completed the move, her lips pressing gently against his.

Kissing him.

God.

It seemed only polite to kiss her back, so he did -- her lips parted, capturing his lower lip between them, sucking slightly. Oh, that was nice. Very nice. So he kissed her again -- even more of a kiss this time; letting his tongue creep past her lips, exploring hesitantly... felt her tongue against his own lips, and that was... god. Amazing.

Scully. Kissing Scully. He was kissing Scully.

No, wait...

He pulled away, feeling dazed -- looked at her; she seemed flustered. "Why'd you stop?" she wanted to know.

Good question. Seeing as his lips were still tingling with the feel of hers, and the taste of her mouth lingered, tantalizing... He drew a deep breath, and remembered why.

"I don't want your pity," he told her sadly.

Her brow furrowed. "Pity?" she echoed, not understanding. "Mulder, I love you..."

"Yes, I know," he murmured. "I know you love me. I think... I think that you even love me enough to try to help me with my problems. Even if that's not what you really want. But you matter to me too, Scully; and I don't want it to be like this between us. It's not worth... getting laid is not worth jeopardizing what we are to each other. It's just not."

So this is love, he mused, turning down what you want most in the world...

And watched, as the look in her eyes altered from startlement to... anger? "So that's what you think of me?" she retorted. "I have news for you, Mulder; I don't do pity fucks. Not even for you."

Her arms slipped away; she stood up, paced away from him. "I lie in bed at night," she said to the wall, "thinking about you. Thinking about how attractive you are, and how attracted I am to you. Thinking about the way you move, and the sound of your voice, and the way you look at me sometimes. Thinking about the times I've seen you naked, and how much I'd like to repeat the experience under better circumstances. I lie in bed, and I think about you, and I masturbate..." it seemed to him that her voice trembled a little on the word, as if it was one she hadn't often used, or at least not in this context "...and I still can't believe that I told you that; but even after I've told you, you continue to think that my only interest in being close to you is pity? Get a clue, Mulder," and she turned around, stared at him challengingly, "I want you. Very much. And if you feel the same way about me -- which, it seems, you do -- then what the hell is the problem?"

"My problem," he said quietly, "is that I've had my head messed with too much to be able to approximate any kind of normal relationship."

"I know that..."

"And it's like I said. I care about you too much to want to screw up what we have between us." Silently, he pleaded with her to understand, to let it alone -- because he knew he didn't have enough strength to resist her for long.

She came back to the couch, sat down on the edge, gazed down at him. "And I love you too much to let you push me away."

"Scully..."

"Do you want me?" she asked him bluntly.

"Scully..." Don't do this. I can't take this.

"Do you?"

"What the hell do you think?" he snapped, then was instantly contrite. "Sorry. But that was a stupid question."

"It was," she agreed placidly. Her hand moved, settled itself against his cheek. "So why are you fighting me on this?"

He sighed. "I'm afraid," he admitted.

"Of me?"

"Of you knowing me that well. Of... you deciding that I'm not worth it. Of losing you as a partner and a friend." Be honest with her; she deserves that much... "I'm afraid of having sex," he confessed, in a voice that barely qualified as a whisper. "I'm afraid of trying and failing. That I won't be able to overcome my hangups, and that... the attempt will come between us."

"You worry too much," she said, gently.

"Scully..."

"Mulder." Her other hand joined the first, cupping his face in her hands. "We can make this work," she said softly. "We can."

"I want to believe you," he murmured, "but..."

"So believe. It's not as much of a stretch as some of the things you believe in," she added, with laughter in her voice; against his will, he smiled.

She smiled back, and leaned closer in silent suggestion; he levered himself to a sitting position and reached out for her, drawing her closer, nervous now that he knew what was happening, now that it was something planned...

This time, there was no shy brushing of lips; her tongue slipped into his mouth, sliding along his without restraint... God, it was wonderful. Incredible. Too good... he could feel his body responding to the kiss, tendrils of fire spreading from his lips straight down his spine to his groin... and pulled away from her again, sharply.

"What's wrong?" she wondered.

"I'm not ready for this," he muttered, hating himself more than ever. What a loser. Can't even handle a simple kiss, for crying out loud...!

He tried to turn away, but she still held his face cupped in her hands, and wouldn't let go. "You're underestimating yourself," she opined.

"You're pushing me!" He struggled, broke free -- huddled at the far end of the couch, feeling miserable and pathetic. Damn. Dammit. I can't do anything right...

A movement in the corner of his field of vision caught his eye -- her hand, sliding along the couch toward him. Silently, he reached out and took it.

"I'm sorry," Scully said quietly. "Whatever pace you want to set, Mulder. It's your call."

He wanted to reach out for her, take her in his arms and smother her with kisses; he wanted to run, as far away as he could, from the frightening idea of actually making love to her... "I need to sleep," he muttered. "I really... I didn't sleep at all last night. I really need to get some sleep."

She thought about that, then nodded. "Okay."

"You should probably get back to work," he added, as she showed no sign of leaving.

"I already booked off for the day," she informed him. Her hand tugged at his. "C'mere."

"Scully..."

"You liked it well enough when we were stuck in the forest together," she reminded him. "C'mere."

He remembered that night, falling asleep with his head in her lap, how incredibly comforting it had been, and dubiously edged closer. What the hell am I afraid of?!? It didn't make sense... but he felt nervous, nonetheless.

She helped him arrange the blanket over himself, found a suitable position and patted her lap. "C'mere," she repeated, and he settled against her.

Now that was comfortable: no stress, no tension, just her warmth against him. "You're gonna get pins and needles in your legs," he warned her.

"I'll survive. Relax." And she stroked his hair with gentle fingers.

He sighed, tried to relax as she'd bidden him -- found it surprisingly easy. His avowed need for sleep had been meant to get rid of her; but now the sleepless night was catching up to him, along with the tension of their conversation -- fatigue washed over him, and he smothered a yawn.

Was it really possible? It seemed far too good to be true... He'd given up hope of ever finding someone with whom he might feel close enough to even attempt to overcome the old hangups. Scully was closer to him than anyone else had ever been; if anything could ever work, this would be it... but would it really be enough?

He didn't know. But Scully was willing to make the attempt... and maybe they could make it work. Maybe.

At any rate, it was incredibly sweet to rest his head on her lap, to feel her hands smoothing his hair; so soothing, so comforting, so much so that for an instant, for just a moment, his tortured soul dared to believe that there might actually be an end to his private hell...

If anyone could give him that, it would be Scully.

I love you too, Scully, he thought sleepily.

And slept.

| imajiru | fiction | astrology | email |