From: Exley_61 TITLE: THINGS WE NEVER SAY Author: Exley_61 (typo@clam.rutgers.edu) RATING: NC-17 SPOILERS: none DISTRIBUTION: Most places, just let me know so I can visit. CATEGORY: MSR, ANGST and love, baybee, love. FEEDBACK: PLEASE DON'T HESITATE TO LET ME KNOW HOW YOU LIKED IT. AUTHOR'S NOTES AT END SUMMARY: The things we never say can burn hotter inside us than any fever, any misgiving, any hesistancy. Scully tries to still a voice seeking release. Mulder tries to resist the voice unspoken in.... XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX THINGS WE NEVER SAY by Exley_61 typo@clam.rutgers.edu XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX I want to touch him, graze his skin with my own, scar his flesh with the branding heat of my body. I want to smuggle my touch beneath his shirt, let my nails explore his hot skin, drawing across his heated muscles, grazing on the smattering terrain of his chest hair. I can feel my fingers mangling and pulling at the small collection of strands just before I rip his shirt open, letting the pearled buttons fly every which way. With my eyes, I want to creep past the bounds of decency. Cup him within my blue-flamed irises, irises that have ignited to engage him, stroke him with the veiled brush of my view, paint him in tones of smudged crimson lipstick. My lipstick -- from my lips. I want to leave my signature in a searing shade of need that leaves him panting for more, panting for me, against me. I want to see his pores capture the red and sink into the palette of his lips... "Scully!" I feel his hand grip my leg through my pants suit. I jerk my eyes open and find myself in the car with Mulder sitting beside me -- staring. My body is shaking and I can feel a small trickle of sweat dappling my forehead. I am humiliated, humiliated at the impropriety of my thoughts, particularly here, now, in the field. "Are you all right?" he asks. I notice he has yet to remove his palm from my thigh, and its warmth seeps through the material, burning against my supersensitive skin. I clasp his hand, lifting it off me and giving a slight squeeze of attempted reassurance -- anything to remove his fingers from my leg. But that's a mistake because now the comforting warmth flows against my own finger tips and drenches my nerve endings with waves of emotion, emotion that usually stays buried, rarely seeing the light of day. I toss his hand away from me, feeling stung. Except this sting isn't numbing me with paralysis, it's poison is something much more depilitating and I can't stop it. "Scully?" he questions. I open the car door, "Let's go, Mulder." I can hear the weariness in my voice. As I step out of the car, I have to catch myself against the door frame. The winter wind grabs at my hair and thread the strands over my face, but the chilled wind is not what pauses me. I blink my eyes a few times, trying to clear away a wave of dizziness that is whipping its way around me. I also notice that my muscles have become a bit sore, too sore for such a short car ride. I groan, a cloud of white exhalation crystalizing my breath. I come to realize that I can't avoid it any longer. I had hoped over the past day or so that my suspicions were wrong. I hadn't been coughing or sneezing, but sore muscles combined with this dizziness make it impossible to deny. . . Flu. Damn. It had been a surprise visit from Bill, Tara and my nephew Matthew that had me spending time over at Mom's this past Saturday night. More specifically, it had been quite a long while since I had seen my nephew, so I braved the waters of possible contention and soon found myself actually having a nice time. Bill and I had, by silent decree, tactfully agreed not to mention Mulder or my work -- instead opting to concentrate upon Matty and how big he was getting, coupled with how the rest of the family was doing. Thank God. Spending time with Matthew, I found, was exactly something I needed. He was adorable and full of laughter and life. Just being with him helped to lift some of this melancholy I've been experiencing over the past few months. Not long after I had arrived there, I noticed that my sister-in-law, Tara, didn't looked very well. As the day progressed she became more ill and developed the tell-tale signs of influenza. After having watched Tara's pile of bunched up tissues grow into a mountain, and listening to an endless chain of ragged coughs, I'd left Mom's with soothing words and a prayer that the flu shot I had received nearly six weeks ago would hold against contagion. It seems it didn't. I hate being sick. I HATE it. The feeling of vulnerability and weakness that tags along with being ill is something I don't look forward to going through. But, it appears that both side effects have already started to wreak havoc with me. I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to blot out the fantasy of moments ago. I can't believe I slipped into such a day dream with Mulder sitting mere inches away. Unfortunately, or fortunately, I know myself. I know that it is - that it will be -- hard to keep everything under control when I'm not feeling my best. And as I struggle to appear well and not have Nurse Ratchet, I mean Mulder, hovering over my shoulders, I see my subconscious thwarts me in other ways, deciding to play games with my mind and build a mountain of frustrated irritation. Slamming the car door, I walk away from it as I push the arm of my coat sleeve back to quickly glance at my watch. It's only ten AM. Great. Just great. I sigh, crossing my arms over my chest as I meet up with Mulder upon the doorstep of the Arlington County's fourth district police department. "Are you sure you're all right, Scully?" he asks. "As rain," I reply, stepping around him and opening the heavy glass door. XXXXXXXXXXXXXX All I want is to feel him throbbing against me, his shuddering breath hitching in gasps of crushing desire. Desire specially developed, honed and synthesized to fit me, only me. I want to draw a bath of wanton wizardry, submerging him under my spell, my smell. I want him -- his hands to harness me, pulling me against his rippling touch that lets me spark him to quivers so that they bleed out against me. Bleed into me, coat and cradle me. I want to feel his sweat-slicked skin against my own. I want to lick the salty treat, let the rock hard candy ignite my taste buds into a salivating vortex, provoking pulsations to canvas my mouth. Dizzying desire spreads through my body in an ever increasing range of need. . . I feel a sharp nudge in the side of my ribs and my eyes crack open - then they snap completely open as I am brought back to the lower level conference room, South A, of the Hoover building. What the hell is the matter with me? I am now sitting around a large conference table surrounded by over thirty agents. The lights are dimmed and a slide projector is displaying pertinent information about the case we have been working on this morning, a case that Mulder and I were assigned to help with. I grip my hand to my forehead, rubbing my thumb against my temple. Trying to tame the throbbing that is beating a wicked staccato against my head, I am unable to withhold a soft moan that is part frustration but more pain. I slide my hand down my face and cover my mouth as I squeeze my eyes closed. My head feels heavy and clouded. My muscles are becoming increasingly sore and I am rapidly realizing that I am not going to make it through the day. I glance at the wall clock and see that it is only three PM. A wave of chills slide around my skin and I surreptitiously wrap my arms around my waist. A creak of leather and wheels and I find Mulder is leaning over to whisper in my ear, almost accusing, "Scully, you're not well." I nod my head in response, neither agreeing or denying. In the background I can hear the occasional question being asked and answered, but the words aren't really registering. I know I should be trying to decipher what is being said but I can't quite get myself to do that. "Scully, we should get you out of here. You need to see a doctor," he continues whispering and I get a whole new set of chills, only these stem from the reaction of feeling his warm breath tickle over my ear and cheek. He swivels in his chair some more and I feel him lay his arm around my back. Habit forces me to scan around the darkened room, quickly looking to see if anyone has noticed this seemingly intimate picture we are presenting. "Mulder, please," I whisper back, my voice edged with defensive irritation. My hands lower under the table, gripping the material of my pants in fists as a heavy breath passes over my lips. I meet his eyes. 'Please don't do that, not here,' I redefine, finding myself silently pleading with my stare. He nods his head, withdrawing his arm from behind me. I almost sigh with relief because it is not just for the sake of others, and what they'll think, that I ask him to stop touching me -- no, not just for them, but for me. I am feeling very vulnerable toward him and I hate feeling like this. Usually, I can control any wayward thoughts or impulses regarding Mulder, but my intentions are being blocked by this fuzzy haze of illness that is swiftly dwindling my defenses. Shivering, I look away from him. I almost jump, feeling Mulder reach under the table and across my lap to grab ahold of my hand that. I nearly moan in anxiety and pleasure at his touch. He tugs our joined hands over to his thigh, trying to get me to meet his gaze. It works. I manage to lift my eyes to his, albeit reluctantly. He is staring at me, trying to see beyond my deteriorating facade and gauge just how well I may or may not be. I begin to feel suffocated, his attention is intense and overwhelming me. I can't handle it, not with how I'm feeling right now. It's just too much. Suddenly, without much thought or direction, I twist my hand free and find myself shooting out of my seat. "Agent Scully?" I turn and face Senior Agent Sisco, meeting his questioning stare as he pauses in his presentation. "I'm sorry, Sir, sorry, " I mutter, untangling myself from the chair, table, and Mulder. Quickly exiting the room, I let the door shut softly behind me as I enter the, thankfully, empty hallway. As I walk down it a few feet, I am seized by an unsteadiness that shakes my knees. I fumble for balance, reaching for the wall next to me. The touch of it is invitingly cool and so I lean against it, pressing my feverish forehead against the chilly surface, trying to smuggle some of its coolness into my heated skin. "Scully," Mulder calls. I heard the door open, I knew he would follow me. 'Nurse Ratchet to the rescue,' I think. My reaction is sarcastic, but it's because I am sick and tired. Sick with the flu, tired with fatigue, and sick and tired of my partner's hawk-like attention. "What, Mulder," I answer without turning to look at him, my voice soft, tired and maybe a bit annoyed. His footsteps sound against the corridor walls, stopping as he comes to stand beside me. He lays his thumb against my flushed cheek, his fingers cupping my neck as he reaches around me in a quasi-embrace. I want to pull away but as I begin to move, it feels like my head is shifting helter/skelter beneath my skin. I hiss, leaning more against the wall. Turning my cheek against the coolness as I feel his hand pull away. I open my eyes and discover my view is filled with Mulder's concerned features. "Let's go, I'm taking you home," he says, stepping closer and invading my space. I just stare at him, not moving. "Scully?" His voice is exasperated and I don't care. "Mulder, I'll be all right, just give me a minute," I say, trying to believe the hollowness of my words. He tugs at me and I slap his hand away. "Mulder!" I threaten, becoming supremely pissed by me, this situation, and his overbearing actions. "Sure, Scully, you wanna peel yourself off that wall, then?" What I really, really want to do is smack that knowing look off of his face. Determined to prove him wrong, even if it kills me, I slowly back away from the surface, only to be struck with another bout of dizziness which causes me to weave on my feet. Instantly his arms catch my waist and he is staring down at what I know to be my flushed features. "Are you ready now...or are you going to continue telling me you're right as rain?" If I could bother to gather the energy to do it, I know I would be smacking him... hard -- the hell with decorum and maturity. Unfortunately, it seems slipping out of the conference room was the last of my self-powered efforts, at least for right now. My glaring expression apparently speaks for me. He grins and lowers his mouth to my ear. "Do I detect a little thundercloud descending?" I open my mouth to retort something... anything... but the effort proves too much. I try to back away from him but my equilibrium is off and instead, I stagger towards him. He catches me again and curls his arm around my shoulder. I am pillowed against him as I finally acknowledge that the hope of maintaining any pretense of being /as rain/ has completely disappeared. Damn. As we walk down the hall toward the elevator, I find myself surreptitiously turning my face against the soft material of his warm suit jacket, littering my senses with the touch, feel, and smell of him -- an action to which, I don't bother to dwell upon. XXXXXXXXXXXX ...continued in (2/4) "Things We Never Say" by Exley_61 From: Exley_61 disclaimers and notes in part 1... XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX I want to feel his lips chain me, for his teeth to become the manicles that imprison my skin. I want his touch to cause my heart to bleed and melt the insides of me until I am nothing but a puddled pool of fluttering sensations. With his kiss, I want to feel him scorch me, incinerate any protest I might have, leaving nothing left but pure thoughts in a pile of smouldering ashes that are too hot to touch upon. I want to feel my insides drip to the floor at his touch, my head falling back and my mouth left open to struggle with words that wouldn't dare try to form. I want to feel a bundle of rip cord need spread into the stratosphere of the undefinable as I hover above the landscape of increasing demand, demand from just his touch, only his touch.. I want this, him... Mulder! XXXX "Scully!" Awakened, my eyes snap open, rubber banding me back to the confines of my living room. I can hear music playing from the television and turn my gaze to look over at it. The credits to the movie Mulder brought are scrolling across the screen. I struggle to an upright position upon my sofa and feel that my brain is still content to swerve and sway inside my head -- unfettered and free to slap against the sides of my skull. I moan, grabbing, gripping the edge of my temples. I'm still sore, more so than ever, my arms feel heavy and I end up dropping them, useless, upon my pajama-clad lap. Mulder clasps my hand and I raise my eyes, staring up at him through my spiky lashes. That's when a semblance of coherent thought actually enlightens my mental processes and I feel a double burn splash over my skin and senses. I pray, feverently, that I have not embarrassed myself by muttering something, well, anything in my sleep. "Scully?" he calls me again. "What?" I ask still interpreting the world in shades of fuzzy. His question is reinforced by a squeeze of my hand. I can feel my skin is sweaty against his, hot and tingling and not from this illness, not this time. "The movie's over, will you go and lie down now?" he questions. I had refused to go to bed when we arrived at my apartment and in turn, he refused to leave. So, I had decided to ignore him, abandoning him in my living room as I went to go change into my flannel pajamas. I'd come back into the room, having every intention of spreading out on my couch and listening to some soothing music on my stereo. At least, that's what I had planned to do. But when it comes to plans and Mulder, nothing works out the way it's supposed to... I'd made my way back to the living room, trailing a bracing hand against the wall. I still felt dizzy but the intensity had eased up a little at that point, just enough to enable me to get around, albeit slowly. When I entered the room, I found him still here, still refusing to leave. And apparently, he'd made a run back out to his car while I took my time getting changed, for I found that *he* had changed also, replacing his suit with a gray t-shirt and jeans. 'How very nice for him', I had thought. He was uninvited, but he was staying. And, it seemed, he had been making himself at home. Quite cozy, in fact as I noticed his white socked feet when he padded over to my computer desk, sitting in the chair before it. A heavy sigh filtered through my teeth and he'd turned around at the sound. "Ah, Scully, you didn't have to go and get dressed-up for me," he teased. It was then that I knew it was going to be a long night. I'd looked down at my flannel pjs, touching the faded checkered red and blue print. They were my favorite "under the weather" pajamas stemming back from med school. I'd looked over at him againand saw a playful smile on his face. Which had made me severely tempted to stick my tongue out at him, but I didn't. That would have been a child's response and I am an adult. Besides, he would have probably considered it an invitation. He'd swiveled around in the chair, his legs stretched out before him, ready to stand and assist me. I stuck my hand out to halt the action. Instead, I had carefully walked past him and accidentally on purpose stepped on his sock covered toes as I made my way to the couch. "Oh sorry," I said, and had given him his playful smile right back. His eyes had narrowed but he didn't say anything as he rubbed his toes against the carpet. It was then that the saying, 'Silence is Golden' had fully realized its potential. After he finished consoling his foot, he lifted up a video box from the top of my desk behind him -- "Invasion of the Body Snatchers". It was the one with Donald Sutherland, the one I have seen a million times, though I've never told him that. "Look, Scully, I brought you a bed time story," he'd said, smiling. I glared at him. I could swear on a stack of bibles that he was taking advantage of my inability to wrap my hands around his throat. Have I mentioned I HATE being sick? Anyway, it seemed he had the video stashed in his car. Why he had it in his car to begin with was beyond me, but that didn't really matter. What mattered was that he had refused to leave. Getting up from the chair, he chose a spot on my carpet to plunk himself down upon to watch the movie, his back resting against my couch. . . "I don't need a baby sitter, Mulder," I had argued, agitated, staring at the back of his head as he crawled over to the television and slipped the movie into the VCR. Please go. Please go. Please go, just go. "Maybe *I* do," he'd replied, sitting back against the couch and turning his profile to me before glancing away. Despite the fact that I believed that particular comment to be true, I had still tried to reason with him for his health's sake (well, mostly for my own emotional sake -- my sanity's sake) but regardless, it seemed he was determined to place himself in germ's way. In the end, I hadn't the energy or, as I discovered, the will, to actually make him leave. Besides, I had grudgingly admitted to myself that it was nice to have someone (okay not just someone but Mulder) around taking care of me -- no matter how I protested to the contrary. Well, that's what I had thought at first, but what I am finding out now, is that as the night wears on, I feel myself becoming more and more agitated and more ill. Intellectually I knew I would be feeling sicker before I would even begin to feel better. The virus has to run its course. The problem is, what I didn't know, is the reality of just how emotionally raw I would be feeling with him still here. "Scully?" Mulder says, interrupting my lengthy contemplations. "Hmm?" I ask, my thoughts still a bit felt-covered as I try to process what it is that is going on around me now, and trying to steadfastly ignore the licks of excitement that the touch of his hand is creating upon mine. "What," I question again, my eyes owlishly blinking. I twist my head to look beyond him at the clock on the mantel: Six pm, only six. Wonderful. I moan, biting my lip and scrunching my eyes closed, trying to stem another wave of dizziness from taking over all of my senses and making me nauseous. That would be the very last thing I need. It was bad enough I feel too weak to stand without clasping to something or... or someone for support -- to get nauseous on top of that... it would just about be the end of me. And try as I might to reconcile myself with the knowledge that this weakness will pass, that the fever that I feel growing will eventually break -- it doesn't work to calm me, not how I want it to. Instead, through this forced reconciliation, I am made aware of a haunting logic that is telling me I am becoming more and more susceptible to another, ever-present weakness, a weakness of the soul, my soul. And that can't happen. I desperately open my eyes upon that thought, trying to blind it with the surrounding images. I turn my gaze to Mulder -- bad idea -- who I find is still hovering over me. He has raised my arm with our palms still clasped together and his skin is hot and soft against my own. I shiver, not from chills this time, but from memories. Memories of repeated fantasies that have been plaguing me with such ferocity today, fantasies that have latched onto the forefront of my consciousness, exploding from the bottle I'd corked long ago. I am feeling exposed or very nearly so and it is horrible. I fear... I fear, that's what it is, really. I fear that he will see what we both suspect and secretly know of each other, what we both try to conceal by this silent pact we've enforced. I wonder if he knows what he is doing by staying here with me. I wonder if he knows that by staying here, I am only holding onto our thinly woven veil with the very tips of my fingers. I wonder. Feeling Mulder rub his thumb on the inside of my palm, my blood ignites beneath my skin -- also, I know, coloring my neck and face in a warm shade of crimson. I try to tug my hand away from him but he doesn't let go. "Mulder!" I say, glaring at him. He seems to think I must enjoy this man-handling he has become so suddenly fond of. Which, actually. . . no Dana, do NOT go there. My breath softly expels. I find myself licking my lips, moistening them against the dryness that is threatening to crack and peel them. "Come on, I'll help you to your bed," Mulder offers. I acquiesce, letting him help me to my feet. Once again, as this afternoon, I am overwhelmed by his presence as I stand against him. He drowns out everything else in the room, including my sight as I take a moment to rest my cheek atop his gray t-shirt, warmed by his muscled body beneath it. So strong, I can feel, hear, his heart pounding beneath my ear as I hang upon him like a rag doll. I hate this, but I don't pull away. I hate feeling so dependent upon him. Yet, I reassure myself that it isn't mere dependence that has me clasping my chest against his, my arms wrapped around him and my hands bunching up his t-shirt as I hold tight. The thing of it is, is that I don't want to let him go. I want to feel him, and get away with it. I want to bury my nose against his warmth and breath him in and not worry about our insecurities, dangers and what have you. I want to bind him against my body, no matter if I am aching with illness or desire. Even if it has to be a little of both, I want him, Mulder. So, I clasp him against me in the guise of acceptable aide. I know he has done and does do the same. I know he feels the curvature of my back and the softness of my hair as it brushes against his face. I know he whispers incoherent nothings that reassure and comfort me without really saying a word. I know he takes from my warmth as I submerge myself in his. I know he does this, for we both have at one time or another. It's the game we have learned to play, having eventually become masters at it. Only now, tonight, I don't know if I can keep it going. Once again, I silently beg for him to leave, to just go while everything remains at status quo. But I know he won't -- and it's dangerous, so dangerous to the warped balance we have maintained for such a long time. I pull back from him, reluctant. Our time of excuse has past but I refuse to allow the web that weaves us together to break apart, opting instead to clasp his hand within mine. Adding a bit of my weight upon him, we begin to walk. My thoughts take over again as we shuffle down the hallway to my bedroom. I feel ill, but the real point of that acknowledgement is that I feel. I feel like I could scream these very walls down sometimes. I feel the harsh demands of lies and half-truths that float between us, because they have to. I'm tired of them having to. I'm just tired. And I realize that, in more ways than one. I have to lie down before I fall down, not just from this flu, but from this deluge of contemplations that threaten to suffocate my already pounding head. Mulder. He just holds my hand and I accept it... but I don't know how long that will be enough for me or for him. I just don't know. I sigh. What I do know is that my thoughts are rambling and I can't seem to direct them as they flit and flutter in and out of my consciousness. We arrive at my room and he helps me over to the side of my bed. Again I feel a rush of irritation that I can't turn the bed down, that I can't do this for myself, at least I can't do it without extreme exertion. Mulder anticipates my actions, grasping my hand away from the bedding. He rubs my hand as if to say, 'just let me do it, Scully.' I catch his eyes and quickly turn my head away, fisting my palms against my thighs. Leaning around me, he easily turns the bed down, holding the blankets up for me to slip in. I oblige, sliding in between the sheets. I know my fever is rising. I can feel myself becoming increasingly flush from more than just his touches, though they are certainly reason enough. No, it's not just the feel of his skin against mine that is provoking this burn. He reaches over me and I breathe in the sweatly sweet tang that clings to him. I now know he has run today, probably during lunch while I was hiding out in one of the forensic labs -- working, but really trying to rest without him seeing me. I can smell the faintly musty odor of sweat clinging to him, mixing with his cologne and combining to create such an elixir to my senses that I grip the hanging edge of his t-shirt as he continues to reach behind me. Fluffing my pillows, he piles them for me to lay back against. I wonder if he knows that I am inhaling his scent as it bathes my personal space, invades my space, as he invades me -- saturating me through my skin and firing my want for him. I shiver, but I don't release his t-shirt. He pulls back, sitting on the side of the bed as I continue to clasp the edge of the material, rubbing my thumb against the treasured cloth. I love this shirt. His hands, large, strong and capable, cover mine, sliding over my wrist. I feel his fingers cup the inside of my nearly fisted palm. His hand presses against the top of mine, heavy but safe, weighing warm against it. I bite my lip, struck as I stare down at our hands nearly entwined together, nearly entwined but not exactly. No, not exactly. He firmly grabs my hand, rubbing his slightly callused thumb atop my raised veins that peek through the thin layer of my skin. He gently pulls his shirt free of my grip and I feel inexplicably bereft. I don't want to meet his eyes but I slowly raise my head, knowing I have to. "Scully, " he sighs. My heart races. He knows. He isn't blind, particularly when it comes to me -- which can be as endearing as it can be irritating. But, he knows what I have been suffering through, and it is suffering when I can't say, can never say, what we both want. I should have realized he would know. In his sigh I hear my longing mixed with his, choreographed together in a tango of denied emotions that are tired of this overplayed dance. Tired, so tired, but seemingly unable to pull the needle from the record player, forcing us to perform just one more sequence, one more dip and twist. I give a weak smile, meeting his eyes, which seem just a little too damp despite the soft, warm lighting that usually hides more than it reveals. I stare at him in the amber glow cast by the lamp light. Again, I am struck. He is so handsome, beautiful even. Now I know I am really sick, waxing over his looks like that, but I can't help it. Maybe, maybe I want to see more tonight, maybe I feel safe enough to do so. As soon as that thought breaks through, an irrational sense of fear ferrets it away again and my smile falls from my lips. Maybe I don't feel safe enough after all. I let go, let him go, turning my eyes away. "Mulder, could you get me a glass of water?" I ask, nearly whispering as I lay back against the perfected pillows. He doesn't speak. He hasn't spoken, not since we touched. That is the way between us. We don't speak, never saying anything when the silence of looks and touches talk a language that our mouths refuse to utter. The bed rises with the relief of his weight as he gets up. I reach over to my nightstand and open a drawer, pulling out a bottle of aspirin. A few tears slip down my cheeks and I hastily brush them away. Shaking out two chalky pebbles, I snap the lid back on, letting the bottle lay upon the bed. Quickly, my eyes glance up. I see Mulder re-enter the room with my requested glass in hand. "Thank you," I say, gripping the chilled drink in my palm as I toss back the aspirin. I chase the pills down with one sip. Mulder sits down in the chair beside my bed, watching me. I'm beginning to feel like the latest zoo attraction and ignoring him doesn't work, unfortunately. I attempt to place the remaining drink back upon the nightstand but I miss and it thuds against my carpet. I don't bother to look at the spill. I fall back against the pillows as Mulder gets up and rescues the glass from the rug, placing it upon the table. Disappearing, he then returns with a towel and mops the spill up. "Scully, I think we should call Dr. Levine," Mulder says, referring to my general practioner as he tosses the sopping towel on my nightstand and kneels beside my bed. I reach out and lay a finger against his mouth. "Shh, no. It's all right, Mulder, it's just the flu," I let my finger slide down his lips. I feel the bottom lip roll open and wet and sensuous against my skin, my hand reluctantly falling away. I lick my bottom lip, barely thinking as the softness of the bed and drowsiness of my spirit lulls over me, dampening my thoughts with a thick haze. "Good night, Scully." He sighs before leaning over to kiss my temple. I want to acknowledge the touch, the feel of his lips, his breath and stubble against my skin. I want to acknowledge his voice, but I'm being pulled away from my senses as they submerge into a funneling whirpool of exhaustion. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX ...continuted in (3/4) "Things We Never Say" by Exley_61   From: Exley_61 disclaimers and notes in part 1... XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX I'm wet, swimming in a tidal pool of some sort. I look around the surrounding rich green foliage, searching. That's when I see him. He emerges from the water, diving above it. I watch mesmerized as the water drops cling to his chest, clasping the tanned muscles, the water level resting at his waist. He opens his eyes and stares at me. Caught, I am tugged toward him by the power of a look. I can feel the moist air around us vibrate against my damp skin as I move to meet him, magnetized by the fluctuating green, then brown, then golden gaze that clasps me like a tethered touch. I stand before him and feel his fingers start to unbutton my soaked top, his fingers touching my skin as he slips each creamy button loose from its hole. My blouse lies sticking against my skin until he slowly peels it away. We stand naked yet clothed by each other's look, longing, and love. We step back and I feel the cool whoosh of the waterfall cleanse the dirty sediment of fear that has cloaked me. We continue back until the crystalline waters which create a wall to the outside world, leaving us in a cave of rock and a wall of cascading translucence. The secluded cave echoes with our ragged breathing -- ragged from tears and need and undeniable desire. The sound of the waterfall claps against the water in a soothing tirade of calming peace. And we reach for each other, our lips softly clasp and promise a million more such unions to follow. I taste him, feel him, my hands outlining his body, branding it with the touch of my fingers and committing every millimeter to memory. My lips reach up, grazing his temple, my tongue tasting and licking as I pull him closer, running my hand through his damp, slicked back hair, bringing him, breathing him and saturating him with everything I am. Everything. His lips pluck at mine, hovering, teasing and diving against my own. I wrap my hand behind his neck and halt the teasing motions as the burgeoning, emerging heat crawls up my body and consumes me. An aching inferno that leaves me desperate, hot and weak -- my knees buckling as he wraps an arm about my waist and crushes me against him, chest against chest. Mulder. I let him see my nakedness, my trust, as it perfumes us both in our actions. My skin goose bumps and I feel his fingers trace a circle upon my back, his other hand tracing my face -- slow, teasing. I want to explode and combine again against him, with him. And I do. I do... XXXX "Scully, oh Scully, please!" I can feel his hand mopping my forehead and I moan. My eyes flutter open and fall closed again as I cringe, trying to crawl back. "Scully, come on now, you have to talk to me, talk to me," I hear him say -- demand, desperation coating his voice. "Mulder...?" I whisper and I am burning up, my skin feels like it has blistered and peeled off my body. My head is so heavy, so very heavy. I can feel it resting against Mulder's arm. "What's going on, where's the water...?" I stammer, moaning the end of my sentence. My thoughts are jumbled, jangled together and I can't seem to concentrate no matter how hard I try. "You're in the water, Scully, I had to cool you off," I hear him explain his voice sounding calmer, but that is not answering my question. I want ... I want to go back to.... "Scully!" I feel my face slapped and my eyes snap open and I finally see that I am submerged in my bathtub with Mulder leaning over the side and holding me up. I feel the abrasive rub of a wash cloth sponge against my forehead and down my cheeks. "What's happening?" I can't help asking though clarity is slowly seeping back to me. "You were burning up, I couldn't wake you, Scully. I got you in the water to try to cool you and lower the fever. I couldn't risk wasting any time. Christ, Scully, you just wouldn't wake," he explains as he continues rubbing the cloth over me. I can hear a residue of fear coating his voice. I slowly rolled my eyes toward him and saw that his t-shirt was soaked and his hair was wet. I turned back to look at the length of my body. It was naked and the soft fall of the shower spray continued to hit against my skin. The shower spray... the... the waterfall. I moan, a feeling of loss consumes me. More than my muscles and bones ache now. My heart is a leadened canon ball beneath my chest. I can feel my tears slipping silently down my cheeks and mixing with the shower spray. 'I should have known. . . I should have known,' my thoughts scream. "Oh Mulder," I sigh, as the weakness settles over me completely. Even now, as I become more and more lucid, I feel my skin cooling and know the fever is breaking due to his quick and smart actions. But I find myself wanting to succumb to the feverish burn if only so that I can crawl back into paradise and lose myself in him, in us. But no, the hope of ever finding that place, even in my dreams, is becoming nothing but a faded memory, a treasure that is sinking back to the bottomless sea of my emotions with each and every passing second. "Get me out," I say, my voice stronger. I grip his hand as it makes another pass with the rag over my cheeks. I meet his gaze. 'You should have been there, Mulder,' my hand squeezes and my eyes say to him. And whether it was through escaped moans of my delirium or just the telegraphed thoughts I lay before him now, I know he understands. I feel his hand cup my chin, as the arm wrapped around me gives my shoulders a slight squeeze. "Soon, Scully, soon." But the fear is still there in his voice. And yet I want to believe his words. I want to so desperately that I am almost willing to believe them, him. "Soon," I lie with him, as he helps me stand in the tub. I raise my arms above me, trusting. After he wraps the towel around my body, I collapse against him -- hiding a few more tears upon his soaked shirt as I lean upon him. I am still weak, but it will pass, is already starting to. Inevitably, we will once again continue our weary tango that was started so very long ago. 'Soon,' I say to myself as he walks me back to my bedroom. I cling to him, stealing a few remaining moments of touch before once more whispering the lie, "Soon." XXXX Mulder helped me get clothed in a new set of pajamas and I now sit, dressed, with my knees huddled to my chest, watching him strip the bed and put clean set of sheets and blankets on my mattress. We don't speak and I don't want to. I just stare and watch him as he moves about my bed tucking in sheets and spreading blankets -- waiting for him to finish so I can escape from consciousness and from him. I feel wrung out and torn up. It isn't a pleasant feeling. There is also a definite tension between us. He wants me to go to the hospital, but I adamantly refuse. I know the fever has all but passed and there is nothing a hospital can do that bed rest and I can't do for myself. I remain firm on this point and he is not happy about it. I'm just too tired to argue with him, so instead I have lapsed into silence, letting the convenience of it once again speak for me, for us. I watch him, my head collapsed back against the chair as he finishes with the bed. Before he can turn around, I close my eyes. I know doing that, hiding from his gaze, could be deemed a cowardly action but I am too weak and feeling too twisted inside, and out, to really care. "Scully," he says. I can hear his footsteps against the carpet as he approaches me. His shadow falls over me, spurred by the bedside lamp. I open my eyes and see he is studying me once more. I try to smile but I know it contrasts with my eyes and I know he doesn't believe in my effort to reassure, to put him off. Before he can continue in this hospital vein, I cut him off. "I told you, Mulder, I'll be all right," I say, trying to convince him as best as I can. And it is another lie that has spilled past my lips because right now I don't think I will be all right, not emotionally. I know he understands what I am really saying, what I am really lying about and going to a hospital won't change or make anything better. He holds a hand out to me and I place mine within it. I feel his fingers close around my palm and I can't help feeling my heart tweak at the touch. I meet his gaze and it is right now, at this moment, that I feel most vulnerable. It is now, when I am even more lucid and more responsible for what I reveal. . . and I do reveal. My head shakes side to side, trying to negate the look of my eyes. Mulder's grip tightens and he steps forward. I find myself mentally cringing but not physically moving. I wait, watching him as he fills my view. Perhaps most amazing of all is that his gaze is left bare and open too, if only for a moment. My stomach flitters with a stretch of... of hope. He continues closer, pulling on my hand. Suddenly our silent communication is broken as he slides another hand under my arm and turns his gaze away, helping me to stand up against the chair and causing my lingering, exposed hope to fall apart. I am too stunned to say anything as he walks me over to the bed, placing me between the covers. And it is more than my physical weakness that leaves me so pliable and nearly unresponsive. I feel razor sharp pain clawing at my heart. I pray for the muscle to scab over quickly so I can't feel anything as I am forced to turn my head away from him, damnable tears falling down my cheeks. If he sees me crying, he makes no mention and maybe that is for the best. The room blackens as he turns the light off and I bite my lip, determined not to make a sound, a sob. I turn completely on my side, away from him as I am choked with such a suffocating wash of despair. Despair at my weakness of self, but more specifically, despair at the silent rejection Mulder graces me with. Refusing to acknowledge or clasp my heart, he stays back behind the veil, haveing caught it when it finally slipped completely from my finger tips. My tears turn from those of despair to ones of frustration. It sparks into an anger, turning into a burning that feels almost as strong as the fever that raged within me. His word "soon" rings in my memory like a mocking cadence. I roughly pull the comforter over my shoulders and bury my face in my pillow, not bothering to turn around and face him again as my weariness drags my anger, my everything, and me down into a merciful oblivion. XXXXXXXXXXXXXX I awaken, stretching my arms over my head and twisting in the covers. Searching for my clock in the semi-darkness, I see that it is now five-thirty, no, five-thirty-one in the morning. The big red numbers change on my digital clock. It takes a moment, but my eyes become adjusted to the grayish black and I find myself peering around the room. Nothing seems out of place, nothing that is, until my gaze lands upon the shadowed shape in my chair that sits about a yard or two away from my bed. "Mulder?" I question, though I can plainly see it is him. My heart jumps a bit as I sit up. "Scully," he answers, not moving. "What are you doing here?" I ask, grabbing my blankets against my chest. It has been four days since, since my fever and although it is gone, the one delirium of my dreams has continued to rage on inside of me. 'I'm not ready to see him, I'm not ready to see him. . . not yet, not yet,' I hear my thoughts chanting. "I had to come... I had to... to see you," he answers, his voice floating through the shadows. I feel a lick of traitorous heat spiral out from my chest. His voice is rough, deep and ragged. I close my eyes, berating myself for my reaction to him. I had initially thought I was prepared, ready to go slip back into our designated roles. . . but I guess you can never go back, never, and I think he knows that, knew that before I did but I'm not so sure that I actually do know it. I want to remain strong, firm, collected, always collected even as fear snakes its way through my soul and squeezes, squeezing so tightly my mouth opens in a silent moan. "Scully?" I recover, pulling on the tattered pieces of my resolve for one last ditch effort at normalcy. "You'll see me in. . . ," I look at the clock again, ". . . in about four and a half hours. I'm due back at the office today." Does my voice sound as strong as I want it to? I desperately hope so. If I can just get through this moment, whatever happens... if I could just.... I hear his knees crack as he stands up. I lean back, instinctively as he crosses over to the side of my bed. "Mulder?" I ask, silently swallowing back my rising trepidation, if only barely. He kneels on the floor and his hands come to rest atop my bedspread. He looks down at his hands, watching them as they rove back and forth against the fabric. I want to be angry that he has taken it upon himself to slip into my apartment, that he has invaded my privacy. I want to, but I can't. There have only been a few times in my life where I have felt completely powerless and it stings me that this should turn out to be another one. I reach into my thoughts, gripping and trying to shake myself into action. This isn't me! But as soon as I think that, I hear the contrary ringing true. This *is* me. This is me exposed. His hands continue to trace the threading of my blanket and the slight sound is deafening in the quiet of this early morning. I find myself covering his meandering hand, holding it in place if only to silence the action. We both stare at our hands. His is warm beneath mine. I can hear the clock on my wall ticking away the seconds into minutes. It seems by mutual consent we both raise our gazes to meet each other and I begin to feel winded, as if running for my life. And in a way it is running for my life, or after my life. . . the life I used to know and had become familiar with over the past four or five years of our six year partnership. No, it didn't start in the beginning. No, not in the beginning. His eyes have closed. I swallow again, forcing myself to speak, to whisper, "Why are you here, Mulder?" I can hear the anxiousness in my voice and I mentally cringe against it. He reopens his eyes and looks at me, memorizing my face from the roots of my hair to the curve of my neck, his eyes sliding back and forth as if reading me and maybe he is. He speaks and his voice makes me jump as it sounds harsh in the familiar silence, "I'm here because. . . because I. . . No, I mean. . .. " He snaps his mouth closed and lowers his face onto the mattress, I can hear him breathing against my blankets, heavy, strong and jagged. My hand reaches out despite myself, hovering above his hair, the back of his neck exposed to my view. My hand reaches down and brushes through his hair, scratching against his neck in repeated strokes, my actions continuing to spite my striving alternate intentions. And he moans, his hand reaching across the mattress to grip my leg, squeezing it. My eyes widen but I do not stop touching him. I can't; I just can't. "Mulder?" I say. Is that my voice, breathless? It can't be, but I know it is. He turns his face out of my covers to rest the side of his head against the mattress. My hand compensates, threading against the side of his hair, touching on his cheek and pulling through his short strands. He stares at me and I stare back. In a low, rumbling tone, he speaks, "Scully, I can't stop thinking about the other night." And neither can I. It's all that I have thought about, even when I have told myself not to, stomping it down and trying to forget the insanity of that whole day, trying to forget the fantasies that wove and wreaked havoc with my life, with both of our lives, exposing us to each other, if only for one small moment. Perversely or not, I struggle, trying to cling to the top layer of our conversation, and maybe I do it out of habit, but the point is I find myself doing it. "Mulder, what you did was right. It was quick thinking on your part, putting me in the tub. The fever hasn't done any damage." "Didn't it, Scully?" he asks, temporarily knocking the wind out of me as he lifts his head off the bed to look at me, our eyes level. "Of course it didn't," I quickly respond, too quickly, regaining my voice and pulling my gaze away to stare through the shadowed morning haze, staring at my bedroom door. How much I want to run screaming through it! "Scully," he says as if admonishing me for pretending not to understand. I hang my head, my chin touching my chest and my eyes falling closed. It is a final attempt and he calls me on it, pushing me like only he has the ability to do, pushing me when I don't want to acknowledge something, anything. I shudder out a sigh and it blares loudly in my ears. I feel his hand grasp my thigh and my eyes snap open, triggered and remembering the beginning of this rapidly approaching end. The car and his questions of concern sing through my thoughts like a haunting melody only to be interrupted by the harsh notes of my caustic tone that had assured him I was all right. . . right as rain. He continues and his voice latches onto me, dragging my gaze back to his and demanding I not miss a word he utters. "When I came in to check on you that night... and I couldn't wake you.... Scully," he pauses and I watch as he relives that moment, his body shuddering. "I couldn't do anything. I was. . . I. . . I, " he pauses again, I can hear him swallowing. Suddenly, his eyes seem to sear into mine as he continues, determined to tell me everything, perhaps everything he has always wanted to, "I don't think I experienced that level of fear since. . . since your cancer." The last bit of words were said in such a hushed whisper that it was almost impossible to hear them, not that I wanted to ... God, not that I want to. I can feel the pain lacing through his words as they force the memories of that dark time to wash over us both. "Mulder, don't," I hear the plea in my voice and I don't care. He continues, regardless, his hand sliding off of my leg to seek my hand that now lies beside him. Clutching it, he squeezes my palm as if to say that it would be all right for him to continue, to just wait, but I don't want to. . . *I don't*. I watch as his eyes unfocus, not seeing me as I am now. He sees me as I was that night, mixing with the memory of how I was a little over a year ago. I know this because... because I can see myself in his eyes. "I was. . . I was scared, Scully," was his whispered words, his gaze staring beyond me and the walls of my bedroom. My stomach muscles clench, squeezing my insides in a vice grip. Here it is -- I know what he is going to say. I knew before he even began speaking and no amount of effort on my part was going to stop him. And as I sit here, listening to him, I realize that I don't want him to stop. "You want to know what really petrified me?" "he continues, his eyes refocusing upon me as his arm reaches up across me. His hand comes to rest against the side of my face, making sure to bind us together through touch, through our language, as he speaks. He waits until he is sure I have met his eyes before continuing, "It was your delirium, Scully...I don't know...maybe, maybe because your guard was lowered...maybe the fever made you delusional...but you were saying things about you and me...about us...." I feel a shudder ripple through me and I am sure he can feel it too. Habit makes a temporary resurgence and my eyes beg, plead for him to stop as I whisper, "Don't." "I have to...," he replies, rubbing his bent knuckles against my cheek. "Scully, you and I both know that there are things. . ., " he pauses and I watch, mesmerized as he climbs off the floor and sits upon the bed, his thigh now brushing against mine. His hand slides off my jaw line and crawls down my neck, sliding down it, and I can feel my heart jack-hammering against my chest, my breath nearly whistling through my teeth. ". . . there are things we never say," he continues, and my blood is boiling again, simmering beneath his touch as his words continue and so does his hand -- tracing just above the V of my silk pajama top. The pads of his fingers begin to create such a fluttering feeling in my chest that I find myself biting back a moan. ". . . things we never say," he repeats and I watch him watching his hand trail against my skin before he raises his gaze to seal upon mine and it is crystal clear to me now, as we sit here in this moment, that it really is too late to stop this, too late to ever go back. But something in me forces one last try, "If they're not said, Mulder, then maybe the words aren't meant to be spoken." "But you did say them, Scully. . . ." "But I was delirious, Mulder, I had a fever. . .," I counter, but my voice is so weak, soft, as the rebuttal struggles past my lips. Instead of answering, arguing, he just stares at me. It's as if time has become stilted, slowing down to hinge on the power of a gaze, his gaze. . . he speaks. "Didn't they teach you in med school, Scully?" he asks, pausing. And I am inflamed from the brush fire that overcomes his gaze, his stare locking with mine as I wait for his words to continue -- they do... oh, they do. "Fevers are contagious." And with those words our silent pact becomes nothing more than ashes. ...concluded in (4/4) "Things We Never Say" by Exley_61 From: Exley_61 disclaimers and notes in part 1... I find myself paralyzed, trapped in his gaze. I feel his hand reach for me. His finger slides beneath the silky material of my pajama top and another grasps the top of the material, flicking the button free of its hole. I swallow, my chest rises in increased exhalation. I find myself licking my lips. I do not still his hand. I don't do anything but look at him as he looks at me. He leans forward and I fall back, moving with him as he comes closer, slowly advancing and obliterating the space that remains between us. The pillows block me from sinking any further. His other hand rises up to touch me and I stick my own out, hitting against his as my palm lands upon his chest. The bed shifts as he shifts and I am trapped within his arms. My eyes move from side to side, reading the need, the overwhelming desire that he has chosen to release to my view, to my touch -- his desire that reaches to join with my own. "Mulder," I sigh -- cry, both. And his head descends as his hand trails up my throat again. I can feel his fingers reaching around my neck and sliding into my hair, holding me in position as I feel his breath painting my face. "Scully," he says, reaching his other hand to touch the top of my left cheek. He pulls his hand away and I can see a tear trapped on the tip of it. I didn't even notice my vision blurring. I close my eyes and now feel wetness reaching for my hairline as it trickles from the corner of my eyes. "Look at me, Scully," he says, his voice, his mouth so close to me that I can feel them vibrating against my skin. I open my eyes and all I see is him. We are so close, so very close, and still it is not nearly enough. He lowers the remaining inches and I find myself lifting my head off the pillow to meet him halfway, always meeting him halfway, a partnership, even in this. Our lips sweep over each other, both of us pulling away from the first initial touch, our eyes wide open. I slide my hand up between us and touch my lip, rubbing my fingers against the damp skin. I then twist my hand around and lay my fingers against his warm lips, sketching them into my memory to replace my fantasy of what this moment, this touch would be like. It isn't hard to do. He grabs my hand, pulling it down to rest against his chest. It remains clasped within his and I can feel his heart beneath my palm as it rapidly thuds against my fingers. I look down at our hands, then back up to his face. "Now you know," he says, his voice husky, low and devastating, "now you have the proof of what we never say." I shudder at his words, biting my lip. His mouth descends upon mine again and he frees my bottom lip from my imprisoning teeth, sucking on it between his own lips. I can feel spirals of pressure ricocheting off the inner walls of my body. Finally, he gives me a moment of unwanted freedom. "Proof, Scully," he repeats and I close my eyes at his words, his touch, overloaded with emotion and sensation. He reaches for me with more than his hands, his lips or his body. He reaches for me through the science of my mind, the structure of my thoughts, presenting the thrumming of his heart as the ultimate piece of evidence, an evidence I can no longer deny and nor, do I find, I want to. "Proof, Mulder," I agree, wrapping my arms around his neck and taking my turn to throw the heavy veil of denial into the fires of this displayed passion, of this... this... love. Our mouths meet again, lips flicking and licking, searching out each other, reading and talking as we have always done -- through touch. He presses me into the bed as he climbs fully onto it, his arms circle around me, imitating mine as he rolls on top of me and over me, dragging me atop of him. My blankets tangle around my legs and I struggle to kick them off. Our kiss deepens and I feel his hand slide down my back, then leave it as he grips the edge of the blanket, tugging it away from me, helping me as I kick it down to the end of the bed. Freed, my leg slides over his, sliding between his as I find myself lying completely on top of him. My hair creates a curtain around our faces as it falls forward. Our lips tangle and twist, tasting and tantalizing each other, the temperature of our bodies rise and meld to form a burning band that ties us together -- an immolation by desire. I am sinking through his skin as our kiss deepens. My body sizzles as my heart rattles the cages of its small confine, demanding to expand beyond the boundaries of my physicality. And it does. . . It does. . . We twist again and this time I am lying upon the bed as he is above me. I reach down to his waist and grasp the edge of his t-shirt, pulling it up and over his head. I take a second to notice that it is, again, my favorite gray one, but that is all the time I spare as I reach up and latch upon his skin, my lips wet against his salty sweet body. I let my tongue play about his muscled chest and I can feel his moan against my taste buds as it pulls from his lungs, slips past his throat and spills out of his mouth to drench us both in rising excitement. He slides down my body, his jeans slipping against the silk of my pajamas as his mouth comes down to capture my lips in a gripping, demanding tug that pulls me with him as he draws back. I feel his hands upon my shoulders before they slide back to my chest to finish what he started. The buttons seem to rapidly slide free of their eyelets. I can feel the cool air weaving between our bodies to tease my skin as my top lies open against my breasts, which are already aching for more than the touch of material, aching for the feel of his skin against mine. With every moment, every second, that passes, I am aware that the fantasies I have woven are obliterated by the reality of him, of us. "Scully, " he groans, and I mirror him in a groan of my own. Suddenly, he pulls back, leaning away from me. I look up at him in confusion. He begins to slide his hands up the edges of my chest , sliding up my arms to clasp my wrists above my head. His grip is strong and binding. We stare at each other, both of us agitated with desire. I find it a struggle to suck in the air over my tingling lips. They feel swollen, and I suppose they are. I flick my tongue over them, tasting the saltiness of his kiss. I hold his gaze, watching and waiting. He releases my wrists, yet... not me. His fingers slide from my wrists and trail back down the length of my arms, landing on my shoulders and cupping my throat and chin. He draws me towards him. I raise my hands, touching his bared waist. "No," Mulder admonishes, his breath bathes my face as his lips play about mine. That one word slides down my throat and touches my toes. The timbre of his voice rumbles against my mouth. It coats my body better than the best of clothing as it wraps me in its essence... his essence. And whereas I would balk at any semblance of being ordered, I find myself obeying, obeying because it is a partnership of touches, turns and desires. Mulder slips his hands from my throat and down the sides of my breasts, teasing me by neglecting them. A whimper escapes me as his hands encircle my waist, his thumbs rubbing against my stomach in small languorous circles. I lean into his touch. My voice is breathy as I moan his name. "Mulder." His hands stop their motion. I feel him, instead, opening my pajama top, lifting me up to thread it off my shoulder. His lips sink to my skin, kissing, suckling the crook of my neck and trailing down the slope of my shoulder blade. Finally, the material is replaced by the warmth of his skin against mine. I gasp from the fire that spirals into a ball within my chest, melting me and rebuilding me. I reach for him, but he stills my hand, kissing the inside of my palm. "No," Mulder says, whispering into my ear, then grabbing the lobe within his teeth and sucks it between his lips. I twist my head, giggling, but he won't let go. "Mulder!" The giggle turns into a gasp. "You are so beautiful," Mulder declares, his voice husky and sure. In his arms, I don't doubt him, and wonder if I ever will again. He pulls back and slides my pajama bottoms off, leaving me naked to his gaze. I watch him as he looks upon me, imprinting my image forever in his memory, finally he speaks,"You are more than beautiful." My eyes close at his words and I feel his touch. My heart flutters within my chest as I feel his fingers sketching my body, drawing me into such a heated fire that I feel like I could implode. Opening my eyes, I turn to fully face him. I notice that the room has become lighter. The morning is exposing more than just my bedroom -- it exposes us to the world and to each other. Mulder laces his fingers with mine as he looks at me. His fingers tighten upon my hand as he leans forward. My mouth moves to meet his as he comes closer. Our mouths separate and I softly sigh. Swallowing, I lick my lips once more. He inhales deeply as I trail my hands down his thighs, sliding them inside the tender side of his jean clad skin and then climbing upward. The back of my hand brushes against his trapped and rising desire. I feel it jump at my touch and hear a moan wrenched from his lips. I continue to brush against it. Back and forth, back and forth. He leans into my touch, but I pull away, waiting. I watch him. His eyes have become shuttered and he has removed his hand from mine. His arms brace him above me, his knees stationed around my hips as he holds his weight off of me.. I reach for the waistband of his pants. My fingers wedge between the fabric and his skin. With deft fingers, I unbutton him. As I slowly slid the zipper down to reveal the black straining boxers beneath, I lean once again towards his chest. My tongue licks, teases and tantalizes his sensitive skin as I slide his boxers off of his hips, having my turn to expose him. And I believe that it is he who is the truly beautiful one. Suddenly I hear a growl over my head as he grabs my upper arms and pulls me up as he twists around, forcing us to change position, I lay atop, melting into his hard curves. His hands roam against my back. My knees slide to the sides of him and I push myself up, straddling him beneath me. I can feel him hard against my sensitive skin but we are not ready to join, not yet. He reaches for me with both of his hands, sliding them up my stomach, his touch is teasingly light. I long for his mouth upon me. I see him smile as he sits up. We are practically chest to chest before he bends his head down to clasp the tip of my breast between his warm lips. I cry out, tossing my head back as I feel propelled beyond the stars he has so often contemplated. I wrap my arms around his head bringing him tighter against me. He does not quit, but turns his attention to my other neglected breast. I bite my lip... hard. My fingers tangle in his luxurious strands as I gasp in delight and desire. I begin to rock my hips against his. I can feel him growing beneath me, more and more. My breath is hitching in my throat and loud moans crawl from the center of my being and explode from my lips -- how could they not? I feel flushed and burning, my blood near boiling beneath my skin. His attentions to my body ignite me beyond words... beyond thoughts. Mulder pulls away from my stimulated, sensitized breasts and trails upward. Up my chest, my throat, my chin, latching onto my lips. "Mulder," I gasp against his mouth, "Mulder, I want you... to feel you..." "You will, he answers, falling back upon the bed, pulling me with him. "You will." His tongue caresses mine, our lips press together. He runs his hands over my back. I love the feel of my breasts against him. His chest hair is a soft mat upon my skin. I run my hands over his face, through his hair, pulling him ever closer to me. He rolls me over onto my back. I lay caged under his body. He releases my lips and places moist kisses upon my eyes, my cheeks, my chin... trailing down my throat. His palm slides over my face. I trap his index finger between my lips, sucking on it. He begins to slide it in, then out, in then out. All the while his head continues its downward journey. He kisses around my breasts, avoiding the aching tips, teasing me. I moan against his trapped finger, arching my body towards his exploring mouth. His tongue burns my skin but still he stays away. I let his finger slide from between my lips. "Mulder!" I growl. He turns his head and kisses my hand again. I cup his face, I can feel the five o'clock shadow against my palm. He pulls away and leans back down to my chest. I love how he turns his cheek to rub his face against me, brushing my skin with the soft bristly growth. Finally he turns his lips to where I want, to where I have been waiting. I gasp, crying out. My hands reach out over my head, sliding underneath the pillows. I grab at the pillow cases, twisting them within my hands. I am burning up, there is no other way to describe it. I am aching; I feel the insanity of desire building strong -- burning between my thighs. I want him and I want him NOW! "Mulder... Mulder!" I cry. He looks up at my face. His eyes burn into me. I am sure the intensity of desire I see matches my own. Our silence deafens the room as we speak with the intensity of our stares, our need. He nods his head. Reaching up, he captures my lips again. I feel his knee nudge my thighs open. He raises himself above me, poised. Catching his eyes and holding them, I watch, waiting as he says, " things we never say, but have always known." And with those words I find myself arching against him as we join, our touch becoming the loudest of words. Desperately seeking, our fingers find each other and thread together. Mulder squeezes my hands and we both cry out as we are joined more completely, drowning together, with and in each other. He makes no further move, pausing. Nothing is heard but the rasps of our breathing which is ragged, loud within the confines of my now brightened bedroom. The morning sun has chased the shadows away and we see each other without impediment and perhaps there never were any real barriers but our own. Mulder starts to move, so slowly at first. I grip him inside me as we build and build, growing closer and closer to a release that has been coming for longer than this moment - than this day. I wrap my arms around his back, clutching him. I feel my nails ripping into his skin. I, we...both of us, have become wanton in our actions. I crush him to me. I can feel his breath at my throat. His cheek lies beside mine. He slides his arms under my back and pulls me up so that I am straddling him. We meet over and over and over again. My legs are wrapped tightly around him and we become nearly savage. We reach, reaching and reaching. I lean back, pulling him in deeper. We are close so close, I can feel it building faster and faster... tearing through me, through us both. I feel sensitized to everything - the air against my skin, my hair brushing my back, fully aware of every inch of his skin touching mine as we sway and rock, flying higher into pleasure... pure devastating pleasure and realized love. Mulder moves faster and I clutch him as he does me. Each movement undoing us both. Suddenly I freeze as I become saturated in heat and fire crashing in on me and blocking out the room and leaving just him and me in a passionate swirling web of flaming nerves and feelings. Everything seems to slow down, unnaturally so. Mulder kisses my lips again and again, finally giving a deep cry of release against them. I swallow his cry, echoing it with my own. It connects and bonds us more than the physical. It is the pure combination of intertwining souls, a sealed pact that is stronger than anything we have ever heard, seen or done. I gasp into his mouth, as he does mine. We litter each others' faces with slow, soft, moist kisses. Finally, I latch onto his mouth as another wave rides through my skin and bursts through my heart. I feel tears slipping down my cheeks, pouring down my face. They are his tears, his tears that bathe and mingle with my own. He tenderly lays me back against the bed. I love the weight of him atop me. He makes to separate us, to leave me. "No," I whisper in his ear. He stops and kisses my cheek, brushing the wet strands of my hair from my face. We lie there, cradled within each other's embrace. He kisses me again, pulling on my bottom lip as he lifts his head from my mouth. Releasing my lips, he just looks at me with his soft, hazel eyes, eyes that have turned to a dark emerald green. Their intensity continues and will forever continue to hold me better than any chains, whether they be physical or emotional. "Lets just stay this way all day," I whisper, kissing his shoulder. I give out a surprised cry as Mulder flips me atop of him, my weight trapping him now. I melt into his hard form. Mulder smiles and then his face turns solemn and serious, "Let's stay this way forever." My heart crumbles and rebuilds at his words, suffused with a liquid warmth that bathes my body and soul. "You read my mind," I reply, sealing our fates and banishing our fears where the dark of night nor the light of day can ever find them again. F I N I S XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX THINGS WE NEVER SAY By Exley_61 typo@clam.rutgers.edu XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX F E E D B A C K A P P R E C I A T E D 3rd Xfic story I've written. july 22, 1999 NOTES: Someone emailed me and said that they really Enjoyed reading my other two stories but would like To see me try my talents at a single POV, to see how I would do. So, this is, in part, an answer to that challenge. This is also the longest xfic I've written, and man, did I NOT intend for that to happen, but it seems to have worked out. I would like to give my undying gratitude to a fabulous beta reader who puts up with me and has been such a supportive force even when I wanted to tear my hair out by the roots. So thanks, you know who you are. I would like to thank Kimberly and her Hidden Gems archive, for her beta assistance and for housing my stories. Clinique's Hidden Gems in her World of Chaos can be found here: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Hollow/7147/ All of my stories can be found at: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Hollow/7147/e.html I would also like to take the time to thank Audrey Roget for her volunteering to give a "fresh eye" read over. She is a fabulously brilliant grammaritarian... hehee... and she has offered wonderful suggestions. I appreciate her time and effort. I hope you enjoyed this story and if you did, let me know, Feedback treasured and framed. . . okay, not framed, but XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Exley_61 typo@clam.rutgers.edu XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX