TITLE: Never-Ever--Again 1/1 AUTHOR: Mystphile@aol.com Distribution, Gossamer, Ephemeral, and Xemplary, yes. Others, please ask. Classification: MSR, S/O, SA, post-ep NA Rating: R Spoilers: Never Again Summary: Premise: Scully and Mulder are lovers preceding NA. This one's for Nikki, explanation in end notes. Disclaimer: Characters property of 1013 Feedback: Please This is a moment of truth. I've had so many, especially in the past few years. I stand in Ed Jerse's apartment, his fingers biting into my shoulders, his intense gaze branding me, marveling that this is where I want to be. I need. . .this. Spontaneity, passion, a different man's body pressing into mine. A hard, hot fuck from a man I'll never see again, one snowbound night in the bed of a stranger. Sleet and snow might assault the windows, but tucked inside his sheets, our passion may ignite--and scorch away the icy core of my ennui. I guess I need a. . .break. One night away from the pressures of being everything to Mulder--partner, medical consultant, ballast, confidante, assistant, ready ear, nursemaid, sympathizer, lover. One night of oblivious, meaningless sex. Is that too much to ask? The pressure's been building for some time, and I've given my blind partner plenty of signals. Some were subtle, I admit it. I *am* a woman. But some were as blatant as little green men leaping up and down between him and his view of his tv, hollering, Here I am. But, head firmly inserted up rear, Mulder refused to hear anything that suggested that I felt trapped, that I was anything other than an extension of him, as eager as he to capture the aliens hiding behind every tree or the Russian conspirator hissing in broken English under cover of night. I tried to warn him. I mentioned wanting a desk. One thing that would be just mine. But he sees no separation between us. That idea could be romantic, cleaving unto each other and all that stuff, but not in this case. I think he's lost sight of me as an individual altogether. He couldn't believe it when I said I wouldn't go to Philadelphia. To him, that idea is as alien as if he were hungry and his body refused to eat. He can't believe that I don't want to eat, sleep, and breathe the X-Files. He was so surprised to hear that I don't want them to be my life. Although he sometimes shares my bed, he seldom shares my thoughts. He hears what he wants. But--why *should* he believe me? I refused to go to Philadelphia, yet look where I am. Not this minute, of course, Mulder. Don't look now! He'd be stunned to see me now, as this incredibly muscular, intense man draws ever nearer to my lips. I can feel the blistering heat from his mouth, the singeing lasers from his eyes. He is so *hot*. No, it's best that Mulder isn't here. He wouldn't believe for a second that I could turn to someone else. Just as he hears only what he wants, he never sees what he doesn't wish to see. He didn't really listen to what I said back in the office. A separation, he murmured, some time apart. Something about his spiritual pilgrimage. Yeah, fine. What about my spirit--growing smaller and smaller like poor Alice, withdrawing, balling itself into a protective knot. It began as a rose petal, alive and in full, lush bloom, reveling in the glories of the sun; now it's shriveled and dry. And dying. Used up, its moisture sucked out by the X-Files and Mulder's never-ending quest. Doesn't he see that we never get anywhere? Doesn't he *care* if there aren't any results? Is running around and listening to absurd conspiracy theories all he really needs to keep him happy? I don't think he needs me. But of course he didn't pay attention to what I said. Maybe he knows me better than I know myself. Because here I am. He knew to call me in Philadelphia and where I'd be staying. I am so fucking predictable. And that galling realization might explain what I'm doing here, in the arms of a man of whom I know only one thing: He wants me. His lips, misting me with heat and alcohol, are irresistible. The circle has got to break sometime. Why not with Ed Jerse? His eyes are fierce with flames of desire. I part my lips, feel his muscled body close in on me. I hear my own rapid breath and feel want, need for him sweep over me. How long since I've been with anyone but Mulder? Very, very long. And of course, Mulder, either oblivious to my feelings or enjoying a supreme self-confidence, seems unable to entertain the thought that I might look elsewhere. What did he say to me a few hours ago? "What, you got a date? You're kidding." Sure, Mulder. I'm kidding. How could any woman who has you in her bed look elsewhere? And normally I wouldn't. Not if I were myself. But this is Dana, not Scully. Dana, who's looking for herself, the one who got subsumed somewhere along the way. The oh-so-young woman who joined the FBI to distinguish herself. What a laugh. Instead, she lost herself along the way. No more Dana--all gone. It's my quest, Mulder. I need to find out what happened to me! No fair. I am throbbing with desire for this man whose arms are warming me and thinking about another man. Ed Jerse, you deserve my undivided attention. I suspect that tonight, you are the lost soul I need to meld with. A man who's been stripped of some valuable parts of his life, who's looking into himself to find what's valuable, or what, if anything, is left at all. Meet Dana. We're sharing a trip, pal. The picture I saw earlier, with his face burned out. His soul is dark, pained. I understand. I sometimes feel like I've been cut out of the picture. That there's just a Scully-shaped hole bouncing along at Mulder's side, delivering by rote the usual skeptical comments. That I'm long gone, and a stand-in could fill the role. Our dark pained souls could join, just for one night, to cling together with the same fervor as our heated bodies. Being warm, blooming again, even if it's only for a few hours. I need that. Dana was extinguished; maybe she could arise like a phoenix, just for a while. And stop feeling like the ghost of her former self. His hand brushes the tattoo, setting it afire, setting *me* afire. It looks like fire anyway, with that special red ink. And getting the tattoo--oh, my God, the burning needle penetrating, so intimate, so right. The pleasure of pain, the pleasure of choosing my pain, instead of having it thrust upon me. At last, something in my life that is happening to me because I chose it. Not because it's connected to the X-Files. Not because it's something Mulder wanted to do. Because I, Dana, have chosen. Ed Jerse, I choose to kiss you. I want a night of mindless passion with you. You are my choice. Our lips meet and part. His fiery tongue enters my mouth, melting the frost that surrounds my weary, wary heart. All is heat, not just at the site of the tattoo, or where our tongues push and probe within our oven-like mouths. My body breaks out in sweat as I press into Ed, feeling his erection in much greater detail than I should be able to through all these clothes. It feels like a poker that's been in the fire; what if it burns through my clothes? Suddenly, I can't wait to pull it inside me to cast out the chill I've felt lately. I who have been so frigid, so inert, am now aflame, scalding Ed with my breath, my tongue, my eager fingers exploring his smooth, sizzling flesh. He pushes me against the wall, one of the many empty walls in his empty life. His tongue scorches my ear, my neck, my chin as his heated fingers fumble with my clothes. As my shirt finally floats off into oblivion, my bra a banner in its wake, his mouth fastens on my breast, a fiery clamp that jolts my being. I lunge forward, thrusting my breast further into his mouth, desperate for more of his heat. I hear myself gasp as I reach for his buckle, fumbling weakly, distracted by the hot suction on my nipple. My God, I haven't felt like this in years. I may puddle onto his floor before I even get him unzipped. He, in the meantime, is trying to unfasten my pants with one hand while twisting my nipple with the other. I finally have his pants unzipped, and I reach out to pull them down. Our groping arms collide, mine whacking his bleeding, burning tattoo. He yelps, despite having a full mouth, and lets go of me, straightening up to check the damage to his arm. I stand here, naked to the waist, my bare back shivering against the cold, empty wall of a stranger who appears to have thrust a cigarette into his tattoo. I look down at my breast, which a minute ago had felt like the ignited tip of a cigar. Now, nipple erect and purple from pressure, it looks bereft, despite the moisture gleaming all over it. This was not to be. The truth is, this is not right. Whatever my issues are, and there are plenty, this is not the way to solve anything. Sex with strangers, especially those who appear to be into self-mutilation, is not the answer. I wonder if I would have realized this were it not for the fortuitous tap on Ed's tattoo. Would I have been swept away, had the good, hard fuck I need so badly? It doesn't really matter. I realize this is wrong--for me, right now. I am now in the unfortunate position of standing here half naked needing to explain to a man whose genitals I have groped and whose saliva is spread all over my upper body that I've changed my mind. And I'm way over sixteen. Shit. "Ed? We need to stop. I'm sorry." He's really nice about it. Jesus, I feel like a total shit. We agree that we're both in a bad place at the moment and there's no reason for me not to take his bed and get some sleep instead of trying to drive through a blizzard. I button myself into a shirt he lends me and crawl into his bed feeling sorry. Sorry that I was stupid enough to think that a quick fuck could solve my problems. Sorry that I didn't at least get the pleasure of said fuck before making this priceless discovery. And sorry that I intended to be unfaithful to the man I sleep with out of anger and a petty desire for vengeance. He had hurt me with his attitude, his lack of confidence in my judgment about the case, his lack of interest in my feelings about myself and my job. But to get even in this base way is beneath. . . the person I prefer to believe that I am. I am deeply shamed. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< This is a moment of truth. Another, and so soon after the last. My life is crowded with them these days. I stand outside our office, ready to enter for the first time since returning from Philadelphia. All the delicious heat I'd felt when I was close to Ed Jerse was, it seems, a mere precursor to his nearly incinerating me, then toasting his own arm. Poor sick bastard. He was a murderer, and there I was identifying with him, thinking he was my twin lost soul. I guess I'm worse off than I thought. And Mulder. I'll never forget his eyes as he stood--not sat on my bed as he usually does--but stood at some distance and told me about Ed's confession. His eyes were closed, not in the sense that they were covered by eyelids, but in the sense that they were barricaded against me. He doesn't want to let me see how disappointed he is, how hurt. He thinks I slept with Ed, of course. He read the police report of my being in Ed's apartment, looking like someone who'd just gotten out of bed. But of course he won't say anything about it. He's too proud, too aloof. I guess both of us are. He'll try to act as if nothing happened, as if we have no claim on each other. Perhaps he's right. If we can't talk about this, we really do have nothing. He arrives. He is biting, sarcastic, vicious in his attempts at humor. How dare he joke about my making a second appearance in the X-Files? The bastard. But, whoa. When Mulder is hurt, he strikes. Once he gets mad, he gets even. My lack of reaction, my frozen face, is getting to him. He makes a feeble attempt to talk about a new case, but even Mulder can't persist when faced with the embalmed persona of his former partner. I say 'former' because I don't see how we can possibly be considered partners any more. The barriers are up, and unless we can get past this, I think we're finished. "All this because I didn't get you a desk?" I sit with downcast eyes, fingering the withered petal that I saw as my life. I feel totally wrung out, with barely enough energy to move my fingers over the crumbling petal. I weigh five thousand pounds and will probably never be able to rise from the chair. Yet, this is Mulder, a man I have been with for years. We have made love together, he has been inside me, we have given each other joy. I can't let this heaviness, this hopelessness, prevent our reaching out to each other. If it's still possible. I tried to reach out before going to Philadelphia. No one was taking. A desk, I think. Who gives a fuck about a desk? We're talking about my place in this office, this job, this relationship. Do I exist, or have I disappeared into the quest? I feel the despair of a drowning person about to sink for the third time. I throw out a hand. "Not everything's about you, Mulder. This is my life." Is it, I wonder. That's the real issue here. I can say that, in the cold, dead voice that just emanated from me, but can I say it with conviction, with belief? "Yes," Mulder says, "but it's. . . " I sit here, letting the silence build. Will he complete the thought, or are all communications off? I have to try again. We have so much invested in this. "It's what?" "I don't know," he shouts. He flings himself out of his chair and paces to the other side of the room, the part he calls my 'area.' "What is it you don't know?" "What is it I *do* know?" he tosses back, Mulder style. I won't play. If this is over, what's left to lose anyway? Time to talk. "I think you know that I've worked with you for four years with never a disloyal moment. I think you know that I've been your lover for over two years, and it's never been enough. We exchange bodily fluids more readily than we exchange feelings. I sat here a week ago and told you that I've lost sight of myself, that I'm unhappy with my life. You practically ran out the door, then called me in Philadelphia to imply that I was too stupid to judge what I saw and so incompetent you needed to have me taken off the case. Before that, you implied that if you left for a week, the X-Files would fall apart. That I'd somehow completely fuck up everything without you here to give me orders. Despite the fact that you are not my superior. You, with your desk and your name plate and your fucking quest." Mulder blinks. He is obviously dumbfounded to hear so much truth-- or wrath--from my lips at one shot. We should try this more often. Or, after this conversation, we may never speak again. He licks his lips and comes over to perch on the desk at which I sit, poking at tiny bits of rose petal. This is your life, Dana Scully. Little pieces ready to scatter in the wind. "Somehow, I thought you were *my* superior, Scully," he says. "I've always admired your integrity, your honesty, the fact that you were the only one I could trust. I didn't mean to give you any of the impressions you just talked about. I'm sorry for the way I come across sometimes. I was just mad as hell the other day, being forced to go on a vacation. You know by now that I don't mean anything I say when I'm pissed." Not good enough. We're not talking about just one day, my friend. "But a lot of what I just said happened when I was in Philadelphia. You didn't trust my evaluation of the case. If you can't trust my judgment, Mulder, how can we be partners? I don't think we should be." "Maybe we shouldn't," he agrees. "This. . .incident has shaken my. . . impression of you. But on this issue of trusting your judgment." He pauses, gets up from the desk, paces restlessly. "I have to admit, I'm hard pressed to see how you can say that with a straight face. You, who never trust my judgment. I've told you I've *seen* aliens. Yet you don't believe in them. I've told you I've *seen* about a hundred things, all of which you refuse to believe. Any time I have a theory, a judgment, an intuition, you don't trust it. So," he sighs, "since you've *never* trusted my judgment, I just don't see where you're coming from." "It's not your judgment," I tell him, sweeping the rose fragments off the desk. "Whenever you tell me you've seen something that seems impossible, I try to examine the statement to see if there's any way to prove or disprove what you've just experienced, seen, or hypothesized. Your seeing something gets us nowhere, really. What we need is proof, and I'm always looking for that. Whether it shows you were right, or whether it shows you were wrong. I don't care if you were right or wrong, just about what the evidence suggests is most likely to be the truth." He continues to pace the office, his face still impenetrable. The only thing I can tell is that he's lost in thought. He returns to where I'm sitting and pulls a chair over to sit beside me. "Evidence," he says. "Let me give you a case." I have my own intuition this time. I think I can see what's coming. I brace myself. "A woman spends the night in a man's apartment," he says, his voice so quiet it's almost a whisper. A flash of pain darts through the mask that is his face. "She's dressed in his shirt when interviewed by policemen in the morning. She's said to look as if she's just gotten out of bed. She and the man have received tattoos bearing the same ink, ink that leads to hallucinating and strange behavior, ostensibly homicidal." He looks away, continuing to speak in a monotone. "The man who did the tattoo describes her nearly orgasmic behavior upon being tattooed, all the time gazing sensually into the face of the man she then goes to spend the night with. Before that, she is said to have spent several hours drinking with the man, displaying intimate gestures. A note is found in his apartment telling her he's gone out to get food for breakfast, signed with X's. Like kisses. As if they'd had a great time together the night before." He stops and takes a deep breath, then plunges, "You said that what the evidence suggests is most likely to be the truth, Agent Scully. So, can you blame me if I act on your own assumption and judge you on the basis of the evidence?" I stare at my hands, stuck in a moral quagmire. I didn't sleep with Ed Jerse, but I was ready to. What, exactly, was I guilty of? I meet his eyes. "Whatever the evidence shows, Mulder, I was there. I know what happened. I didn't sleep with Ed Jerse." "Did you fuck him?" Trust no one. Right. "No." We sit at the desk, neither of us, apparently, sure what to do or say. No one seems to know what comes next. Well, I'm the one who's unhappy here. I'm the one who doesn't see how this partnership can work. So, why not tell the whole truth? "I thought of it," I tell him. "I was in this dark mood, and I kind of lost track of who I was. I felt I'd lost Dana, if you know what I mean. I was feeling that. . .as Scully, I'd kind of gotten tangled in the job and lost myself. . . the one who took the job in the first place." Unclear as that is, he thinks it over. "And fucking Jerse would make you Dana again?" he asks. "It'd put me out of my misery for a night," I say, recalling the waves of hot desire that assailed me that night. The temptation had been overwhelming. Why minimize it? "You're familiar with the expression, 'fucking your brains out.' And I was really, really angry with you. I think there was an element of vengeance." He nods. "We've never pledged our eternal fidelity to each other," he says softly. "But I have to admit I thought we had an understanding." "Yeah. I thought we did too. But maybe we have to *say* more to each other, Mulder. For instance, *do* we have an exclusive relationship? *What* do we mean to each other? How much trust do we really have in each other? It didn't take you long to conclude that I'd fucked him, did it? I don't see you believing in me with a touchingly blind faith." He turns on me. "Well, what about you and your suspicions of that blond detective in that crummy little town, whatshername?" "The one I found straddling you on your bed?" He looks sheepish. "Yeah, that one. I told you, Scully. She jumped me. Everyone was acting weird, including us." I nod. "The question is, do we have a relationship? A partnership? Trust? What's going on with us, Mulder?" "I trust you," he says, taking my hand. His hand feels good in mine, solid and very. . .there. "We're always going to argue about our cases, because that's how we work best. We challenge each other all the time, Scully." He pauses, still thinking. "I want you to be my partner. In every sense. I think you're right. We need to talk more. About our feelings. And I think we both need to listen more." I can go along with that. It feels unfinished though. There's something I want here that I'm not getting. In the spirit of the new communications, I tell him this. "Do you need to hear that I love you?" he asks. I consider that. "I don't know," I tell him. "I know that you love me, just as I love you, in some sense or other. I know we're not ready to talk about riding off into any sunsets. I don't know what's missing," I confess. "I want to be the only man in your life and in your bed," he says. "I want this to be an exclusive relationship. Do you?" That's it That's what I wanted to hear. He's not as oblivious as I thought, to have figured that out. Maybe I need to pay more attention to him as well. He's right. We both need to *listen*. "Yes," I say. "I want to be the only woman in your life. And I'd like the relationship to be more personal, not just a matter of our talking over our cases and then falling into bed." I pause, then find the words I need. "I'd like to give more, and I'd like to have more." He leans forward to kiss my cheek. "Deal," he says. I feel unaccountably happy, as though the future has turned into something I can deal with--*we* can deal with. The clouds of discontent drift away and I smile at Mulder for the first time in days. Our eyes meet and hold and speak. THE END NOTES: This trifle was inspired by Nikki, who in feedbacking my story, "Injuries Redux," agreed that the duo could be lovers without interfering with the usual conflicts, but also mentioned that if they were lovers, some of the bittersweet eps would be even more hurtful. She said, What if they had been lovers during Never Again? I thought about that interesting comment, and this was the result. Thanks for the idea, Nikki! I read many post-ep Never Again stories back when it was aired, and I hope I'm not repeating the premise of a previous story. I simply don't recall the content of any NA post-eps, at this point.