Burn (1/1)  by Emma Baker



DISCLAIMER:  The characters herein are the property of Fox Broadcasting and

1013 Productions.  The situations into which I have placed them are my own.



SUMMARY:  Withheld at author's request.



KEYWORDS:  V, MSR



RATING:  R (for sexual situations)



ARCHIVE:  Please archive at Gossamer.  Please contact me before placing on

specialty archives.



AUTHOR'S NOTE:  Although the finished product bears no resemblance, I was

inspired to write this after the wonderful "Secrets I and II" by Leyla

Harrison and Madeleine Partous.  Thanks, you two!  And thank you to the MG

crew for their continued support and friendship.  



********



BURN (1/1) 

By Emma Baker



I was right.



Now, how often do I get a chance to say that?



This time, it wasn't little green men, or little grey men for that matter.  It

wasn't a psychic or a flesh-eating monster.  Just an ordinary villain who got

her (Her! Evil seems to be equal-opportunity for once) kicks from using

various herbal combinations as incendiary devices so clever and hidden that

even the arson experts thought the victims had spontaneously combusted.  And

then she sat and watched while they went up in flames, timing them with a

stopwatch to see how long before they succumbed.



I thought hippies were supposed to be pacifists.  Go figure. 



So if it's Tuesday, it must be Dallas.  I watch Mulder as we drive back to the

hotel from the police station.  He knows I'm looking at him.  He loves it. 

Mulder can be so vain sometimes, but in a good way.  Daylight Savings Time has

just taken effect, so the streetlights have been set ablaze a bit earlier than

usual.  The sky is dark but the interior of the car seems to glow.

His face seems to glow.



We drive and I watch him.  Each streetlight we pass hits his face like a slap,

then slowly fades away.  The gold plays over his skin, suffusing it with a

luminescence seeping out of his pores, blending with the warm hues of his

skin.  



I think it's his skin I love the most.  No, not his eyes or his hair, or that

little mole on the side of his cheek -- the things I'm supposed to like -- but

his skin.  The way it contains his body, but doesn't.  His soul escapes it on

a daily basis and plunges into me as we make love.  His skin has always been

amazing, even more so since we took that weekend at the beach (Imagine that --

Mulder and me on a vacation) and lay naked on the deck, basking in the sun and

daring passersby to stumble across us.  I love the way his skin feels under my

fingers, the way it molds against their pressure with a warm smoothness.  And

I love looking at his skin in these streetlights as we drive, the lights

hitting it, keeping time with his own innate rhythm.  



But tonight the skin acts as a barrier.  We stop at a traffic light and he

turns to look at me.  I look back.  His eyes blaze.  I'm reminded of the video

footage of one of the fire victims, her eyes calm as her body slowly melted. 

I am melting.   But not yet.



"How are you feeling?"  



Mulder can be woefully unoriginal at times -- monotonous, even.



I love that about him.



"Fine.  Tired."  



"Ah."  He reaches over and runs his fingers along my jawbone and I muster up a

smile for him.  Only for him.  As a car behind us honks its impatience -- the

light is green now -- his hand drops nervelessly to my lap, begging me to take

it. I don't.  



He tries, he really does.  But he just doesn't know.  He's always watched

everyone he loves be taken away, sometimes snatched from his very arms.  And

now me too.  The cancer remains, lurking just below the skin of my forehead. 

Still the same, never changing.  No rhythm of its own.  Every day I feel like

I've taken the step down and am waiting for the impact of foot on cement, but

it never comes.  I just stand, poised for disaster.  For how much longer,

though?  



We are nearing the street of our hotel, getting ready to turn.  Mulder shifts

in the driver's seat.  "Dinner?"



"Just pull into a Subway or something.  I don't feel like going out." 



"Okay."  And as if by magic a sub shop appears on our right.  He pulls over a

couple of lanes on the road and turns into the parking lot.  As he stops the

car, I make no move.  He knows me by now -- knows how to read my signals.  



"Club sandwich with mayo?"



"You know what I like."



That earns me a rare smile.  He's so beautiful when he smiles. 



I watch him go into the small storefront then up to the counter.  He places our

order then has to wait while they melt the cheese on his meatball sub.  I have

a flash of tomato sauce smeared over the side of his mouth, and my tongue

moving over it, cleaning him up.  Mulder turns and smiles at me.  Two in five

minutes -- I feel privileged.  And though a pane of glass separates us, I've

never felt closer to him than at that glorious moment.  We need more moments

like this, I decide.



The sandwiches retrieved and paid for, he comes back out to the car, then

deftly starts the engine with one hand while I take the bag.  We are enveloped

in silence once again.  The hotel is just around the corner and we pull up at

a parking place close by, then juggle briefcases, laptops, and sandwiches on

our way up to the front lobby.  



I punch the elevator button for 13.  I love being on the top floor, high above

it all. 



Imperial.  Mulder has it easy, having been blessed with a briefcase complete

with shoulder strap.  Ever the gentleman, he takes the bag of sandwiches from

me and wraps his other arm around my waist, pulling me close.  He kisses the

top of my head in an old familiar routine.  I've come to appreciate routine. 

It gives life an order mine had sorely lacked.



We walk down the hall to our room as I fumble for our room key.  OUR room key. 

Ever since we became lovers, the FBI has been surprisingly supportive.  It's

my pet theory that since nothing we've done so far has caused them to separate

us, nothing ever will.  So much for the "Thou shalt not sleep with thy

partner" old wives' tale.  Besides, everyone knows that Jeff Wilson and Mark

Romo have been sleeping together for *years*.  Don't ask, don't tell.  That's

our new motto.  And if we save the American taxpayers money on a second hotel

room, more's the benefit.



I step inside and he follows.  In tandem, we set our briefcases down, slip out

of our shoes, and sit down cross-legged in the middle of the bed, our knees

touching.  Neither of us has the time or energy for formalities or unnecessary

motion.  We eat in silence.  I don't get the chance to lick tomato sauce off

of his face.  Damn his cleanliness.  He finishes before me, and watches as I

wipe my own face off after my final bite.  The wonderful man has already

cleaned up all the trash.  I add that to my mental list of things Mulder is

good for.  I close my eyes.



His hands are fire.  He caresses my shoulders as I feel the heat of his skin

through the silk fabric of my blouse.  I feel the bed shift below me as he

leans forward and nuzzles the crook of my neck, balancing precariously on his

knees. The thin gold of my necklace rolls against the tender skin.  I bring my

hand up and hold his head there for a moment, stilling it.  We sit there,

balancing, letting the rhythm of our hearts merge.  I feel the fire all around

me, but just want quiet. Peace.



Mulder begins to unbutton my blouse.  I catch his hand.



"Not tonight." 



He looks at me, reading between the lines of my eyes.  



I tell him I need him.  



I tell him I want him.



I tell him I love him. 



But not tonight.  Tonight I just want him here, just want the knowledge of him

here.  I want to return to myself, if only for a night.  Just one night.  And

then he can have me again.  I can have him.



He pulls away from me and stands next to the bed.  I can't tell if he

understands.  I follow him up and stand next to him.  I put my hands against

his chest.



"Let's just get undressed and go to sleep."  I smile at him.  He smiles back. 

Not a smile of desire or seduction, but of a deep abiding love and

understanding.  He is such a good man.  I am such a good woman when I'm with

him.  



I undress him slowly, indulging myself with the warm friction of the hair on

his skin rubbing against my palms.  He undresses me, his own hands giving me

goosebumps.  We stand together, naked and calm.  I watch him as he walks over

to the door and turns off the overhead light.  The brightness flashes into

darkness, but the burnished gold of his skin has imprinted itself on the backs

of my retinas.  A beautiful afterimage.



We lay on the bed together, falling into our old rhythm.  He spoons me into his

body, his chin once again resting against my shoulder and his knees bending

into mine.  I remain there, thinking of everything and nothing, for who knows

how long.  His breathing lengthens and deepens as his chest slowly rises and

falls into my back.  



I feel peaceful, content.



On fire.



In sleep, his arm snakes out and wraps itself around my waist, curling around

my other arm.  My limbs are a mass of kindling, slowly igniting even as he

rests. I forget about the cancer in my head.  I remember it.  A rhythm of

pleasure and pain.  The blaze spreads through my body, invades my sinusoid

cavity.  Burns the cancer to a crisp in my memory.  Only in my memory.  I

realize I am wasting time.  



I don't have much time to waste.



I roll away from Mulder, separating our skin.  I turn toward him.  My hands

roam of their own accord over his body, over his stomach.  I love his stomach.

I love the broad chest that encases his heart.  I love the collection of

cells that form his skin, holding so many passions and thoughts within.  



His eyes open.  They catch a mystery light within the room, showing a devilish

glint.  This is exactly what he has wanted.  I feel so powerful giving it to

him. 



I love feeling powerful.



I love him.



I indulge myself in his skin for a while, not tasting it, just running my hands

over it.  All of it.  Drinking it with my fingers.  Sating myself.  Sating

him.  Stoking his fire.  Stoking my own.  Spilling over, but not dousing it.



Burning.



Together.



********



THE END