Doors Part 1/4 by Lydia Bower and Alanna Baker. I promised myself I'd never make the conscious decision to profile Scully. So much for good intentions. I could be a real jerk and put the blame on her. Claim that her actions forced me; gave me no other choice but to get inside her head. There's something very sexual about the idea of doing that, and the realization disturbs me. I shouldn't get a hard-on from thinking about really getting into her head. But I do. And just because I shouldn't profile her, doesn't mean I won't. I didn't set out to do this because of the way she looks at me these days; with those big, wet eyes and that candy-apple mouth. And it's not because of the numerous opportunities she's taken to make sure we come in casual contact as often as possible. It's not even the innuendoes she's been tossing my way; blatant enough to shock me into silence--not an easy feat. It's just that it all fused together and came crashing down on my head this afternoon. The combined force of five years of curiosity and fear and emotions both primitive and ethereal. All gathering together and exploding from a single spark that flared in a dingy interview room. Lanford, Indiana has taken on the distinction of becoming the place where I will break all my self-imposed rules. And all because Scully didn't pull away from me. The word came down that the man who'd been sacrificing innocent victims to fulfill some inner demon's need had been caught. Not some monster with glowing eyes and razor-sharp teeth as per the stories that'd brought us here in the first place. It didn't take us long to figure out it was just a man. One smart enough and crazy enough to construct gloves tipped with bear claws and a second skin of fur. A man who'll no doubt spend the rest of his life on a steady diet of thorazine, therapy sessions, and bad sit-coms blaring from a TV on a high shelf in a room of the state wacko ward. One more down, countless to go. I was happy, relieved--as was Scully--and it seemed perfectly okay to grab her for a celebratory hug. And it would have been enough if it had ended that way, too. But it didn't. Instead, as I held her tiny, perfect body close to mine, various parts of me rebelled against my tight control. First it was my nose, which decided that Scully's hair was the perfect place to bury itself. Then it was my hands, when they decided they really liked how well they fit curled around her waist. And then it was my mouth, which decided it needed to leave its invisible mark everywhere on her face but the one place it wanted to touch the most. It all went straight to hell from there. Ending when Scully made the monumental mistake of pushing her hips up close against me. She felt mine and I felt the heat of hers and it was incredible. Everything from the waist up drew apart while our lower extremities stayed nice and cozy. Scully looked up at me, her eyes wide, and pushed out a breathy, "Oh." It was an "oh" of many different flavors and textures. It was a welcome and an acknowledgment and an acceptance, all rolled into one. It was what I'd been waiting to hear for a very long time. I saw it in her eyes. Saw the final barrier falling away. It scared the hell out of her. And me. But then I've always found it easy to take a leap of faith. I don't spend as much time questioning things like that as I should. But Scully does. And when she gets scared, she tends to back away. She was true to form this afternoon. But by then it was too late. We'd both seen it, felt it, knew it to be inevitable. And I've just discovered that I'm not nearly as patient as I used to be. I want this for us. I want it now. After all we've been through, we deserve some measure of happiness. So here I sit, former profiling wonder boy of the FBI, lounging on my motel bed, staring at the walls and not really seeing anything. All my thoughts are focused on the woman who's separated from me by a thin wall and little else. Our connecting doors stand open, as usual. I know exactly where she is and what she's doing. Sitting at the tiny table right across from the connecting doors, tapping away on her laptop. I can smell her. And it's so easy to let my eyes slip shut and open the door in my head. Easy to step through and into a different country; the lush landscape of Scully's mind. I look around and catch the glittering sparkle of each clue and motivation, each need and desire she so vigilantly hoards and hides away from me. I crouch down and gather all the pieces into a tightly woven basket. A gentle shake begins to bring them together. It's shocking to discover how easily the puzzle is solved. Either I'm very good or I've know it all along. I should be ashamed of myself for doing this. I should be guilt-ridden and repentive. Embarrassed as hell for what I've got planned. But I'm not. It's time to bring this particular dance to its end and begin a new one. I hope I don't fuck this up. I may not get a second chance. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ I am in so much trouble. I don't know what got into me this afternoon. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that one day I'd be standing in a police station in my partner's arms, pressing my hips up tightly to his. But now I've gone and done just that. Oh my God. I am in so much trouble. I knew the moment I looked up into those smoky, heavily-lidded eyes. Knew that Mulder had seen right through every excuse and rationalization I'd ever thrown up between us. The corner of his mouth lifted in a secret smile and I conceded my defeat. It didn't matter that I chose that moment to step away from him, to try to salvage some measure of control. He saw everything there was to see. He tucked the information away in that massive file cabinet he calls a brain. There to be pulled out and run over and over again, like one of his videos. Damn his eidetic mind. And damn his wonderfully lean body and his quirky, perfect face. Damn those eyes that change color from one second to the next. And damn those lips, that beckon me to come close and spend the rest of my life exploring their texture and taste. I glance down at my laptop and sigh at the gibberish I see there. My fingers pound out words and sentences that might as well be in Reticulan for all the sense they make. But I have to do something to keep my mind occupied; to help me forget that he's just on the other side of our opened doors. I must be sensible about this. I must approach this newest development rationally and with caution. I must. God grant me the serenity.... With the reprieve of my death sentence came a new awareness. My cancer ushered in more than the possibility of my death. It also swiftly and cleanly severed almost all emotion. All but rage and confusion and a burning need to distance myself from all things living and alive. I couldn't afford to let myself want or need. Anything. I denied the most basic of human desires. I continued to feed my body, but my mind and my heart and my soul went without. And now, now that the specter of death has been lifted, I find I am hungry. Starving. For Mulder. For his life and his passion. For the fulfillment of the promise he's been silently making me all these years. For his obsessive nature that threatens to take me and swallow me whole. I want to be consumed, and to consume in my surrender. I think of his hands, with their long, elegant fingers. I remember how they feel as they touch my shoulder or the small of my back. How easily they've cupped my face. How they reach out to me with a surety once gained and lost and gained again. I have been shameless in my pursuit of him. I have teased and flirted and felt pride when my arrows pierced their target with great precision. But I went too far today. I took a giant step when it should have been a small one. I pushed the limits. I offered a challenge I wasn't prepared to follow through on. I'm afraid of this, afraid of wanting him as much as I do. Afraid of the effect it will surely have on our relationship. It's happening too quickly now, careening out my control, and I have no one to blame but myself. I wish I could go back and erase that moment in the interview room. I don't think I'm ready for this. Not yet. But I fear it's too late now. Mulder, once set in motion, is like a dog with a bone. He will not give up. Not until he has what he wants. And now he wants me. All of me. He won't be satisfied with just my flesh-- though that is the tension and need that drives him tonight.. He will demand my heart and my soul, as well. I can do nothing but sit here and wait. A small sound alerts me and I glance up to find him in the doorway. My mouth goes dry. He's slumped with one shoulder resting against the door frame. His tie is unknotted and hanging loose, the top two buttons of his dress shirt undone. His sleeves are carelessly rolled up to the elbow and the light from the table lamp plays on the silky brown hairs that cover his forearms. His hair is tousled and fanning across his brow. "Hey." I somehow find my voice. "Hey, yourself." He spends an uncomfortable amount of time just looking at me. I feel like a bug under a microscope. It takes all my control to keep from squirming in my seat. "I'm gonna, um, grab a shower and hit the sack," he finally says. My sense of relief is almost overwhelming. His statement marks the end of the day for us. A simple declaration of intent that implies a reprieve. He will turn soon, and close the door on his side. This is what we do. Our routine. "Okay. 'Night, Mulder. I'll see you in the morning." "Sweet dreams, Scully," he tells me. And then he turns away. But he doesn't close the door. Instead, I watch as he steps to the table in his room. Watch as he digs through his overnight bag and comes up with his toiletry case. Without a look in my direction, he steps from my view and towards the bathroom. I hear the shower come on. He's leaving the bathroom door open, too. Curiosity battles with confusion battles with apprehension. I can't help but wonder at this turn of events. Leaving the doors open was a deliberate decision on his part-- that's obvious. But why? Does he expect me to see it as an invitation to join him? Could he be so arrogant that he believes himself that certain of my response? So get up and close your door, Agent Scully. Put an end to it right now. What Mulder has done is a subtle invitation at best. To decline by closing the door wouldn't be seen as a blanket rejection of him, would it? More of a similarly subtle indication that I'm not ready for this. I'm not, am I? Leave it open, Dana. Let's just wait and see what happens. Don't you want to know how far this will go? In the end I do not move. A heavy lassitude settles over me. I manage to convince myself it's easier to do nothing than to force my body to take some action. My only concession is to reach over and switch off the table lamp. I am bathed in shadows. Waiting. Long minutes pass before the shower is shut off. The sudden silence envelops my room. I can hear the steady beating of my heart. I close my eyes, feeling the blood coursing through my veins. I sense movement from the other room and my eyes fly open. Mulder stands naked and wet, no more than twenty feet away. The soft light from the lamp on his night table catches the rivulets of water that run from his scalp and trail down his neck and his shoulders and his arms. He stands in profile, searching through his bag. My eyes are drawn to the dark forest at the apex of his thighs. His sex is heavy and swollen, semi-erect. From the warmth of the shower or the heat of his thoughts? If he turns, will he see me sitting here in the dark, watching him? I feel like a voyeur. An ember of pleasurable shame creeps up to color my cheeks. At the same time, a different heat settles low in my belly. He's beautiful. His hair is a dark corona plastered to his head. His skin is golden and slick. I watch the play of muscles across his back as he half-turns away from me. Broad shoulders taper to narrow hips and down to the perfect globes of his small ass. His legs are lean and muscular and endless. There is a snap of his wrist and now I can see the dark blue boxers he holds in his hand. Bending slightly at the waist, Mulder steps into them and slides them up. They come to rest low on his hips. I am both disappointed and relieved. He steps from my view without having thrown a single look my direction. The small light in his room is extinguished seconds later. A few moments pass before I see the flash of the TV coming on, hear the dim voices floating through the air. Then follows the chaotic noise of channels being changed. Snippets of canned laughter and anchor-man voices, of country music and sports announcers blend and blur before they fade away completely. The faint light from the TV continues to flicker across the far wall of his room. He's muted the sound. The air around me grows charged in the silence. I can feel his attention. Now we are waiting together. Suddenly cowardice fills me and finally ends my stasis. I indiscriminately grab clothing from my bag and escape to the shower. I stand under the needle-sharp spray of hot water, not daring to do any more than barely skim the bar of soap across my body. My skin has become so very sensitized. It would be too easy to slip into familiar fantasies of my hands becoming Mulder's. I quickly lather my hair, and it's as I'm rinsing the last of the suds away that I remember anew the doors standing open between our rooms. As I took Mulder's gesture as invitation, will he see the same in mine? Could he even now have crossed the threshold of our rooms and be standing just outside the shower? Suddenly I'm convinced it's true. Every nerve in my body screams that he's here. I savagely twist the knob to kill the spray and wrench the shower curtain aside, my heart pounding in my chest. The bathroom is empty. I grab a towel with trembling fingers and quickly dry myself. I slip into panties and an over-sized FBI Academy t-shirt I normally wear when jogging. I'm aware of how much skin it leaves exposed, but the thought of trading the shirt for my usual pajamas is oddly unappealing. Teeth are brushed and flossed, hair is combed and towel-dried. I squeeze a generous dollop of lotion into my hand and slather it onto my legs, strangely anxious to complete the routine and leave the steamy confines of this room. I am greeted by the same weighty silence as when I fled. But wait... There: a small noise. And then another. A pair of soft sighs from Mulder's room. My feet propel me to the doorway before I've even decided to move in that direction. I take a tiny step inside the room and look over at him. I freeze in my tracks as I forget how to breathe. Time stands still. The cool blue light of the TV washes over his body. Mulder is once more naked, lying on the bed atop the spread, eyes closed. But he's not sleeping. Oh, not at all. His left arm is folded and serving as a pillow for his head. His right arm is draped along his torso while his fingers tap slowly but firmly against his cock. His cock. Oh, God. I find myself whispering the word aloud, again and again. A litany, a chant. "Cock." It is a smooth breath that catches on the last "k". Such a difference from the fluidity of his name. Mulder. Mulder's cock. The clicking of my tongue against my glottis is louder than I'd realized. Just as he is beginning to take his penis into his hand, he stops and his body stills. Becomes erect. I see the blood under his skin even from this distance and it mixes with the pale ghostly blue of the television. And slowly--so slowly--his head turns toward me. His eyes open, slowly, like a louvered door curtained in thin gauze. And Mulder looks at me. Watching him. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Doors (2/4) By Lydia Bower and Alanna Baker. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Scully's mind is a dense, dark forest. Each step further into it leads me closer to her, closer to the hidden treasure in the lush, secluded cave. I step cautiously, afraid of getting lost within it, but also afraid of losing sight of her and of my map. But I'm not afraid. I can't be. I'm in control, even as my self-control slips away smoothly, like silk over my fingertips. She stands at the doorway, watching me as I watch her. Neither of us will pull away, each drawn into the pull of the other. We're like a pair of fingers caught in Chinese cuffs--unable to leave each other, only able to disentangle if we move closer together and relax. I don't want to relax. I don't want to disentangle. She doesn't either. I can see it in her eyes, even as she tries to pull a veil over them. I pin her with my gaze. I take another step into the forest of her mind. The dark canopy of foliage soothes me but darkens my desire. A tree looms ahead of me. She is confused--that much I can tell. She wants this, but the cool detachment of her face suggests she is scared--of being too interested, of what this might change, *will* change. I wish I were a clairvoyant. I wish I could step inside her mind and convince her that this is good, so good. Instead, I step away and hope that actions speak louder than words. She's still watching me. Triumph: she takes a step forward or perhaps shifts on the balls of her feet. I dare to smile at her--just at the corners of my mouth--the pull of my cheek muscles suddenly an erotic sensation. She does not smile back at me, though her eyebrow seems to twitch, wanting to be raised. I wonder if she really knows how much I want her. I wonder if she knows that if sheer will and desire could move mountains, I'd have the Himalayas at my feet. And I'd climb across them to get to her. Every cell in our bodies and every atom in the air between us is alive, even more so than when we stood pressed against each other in a dismal steel-and-safety glass room. Every move I make is of the utmost importance--one wrong one and it will all be over. So we stay locked in the fingercuffs, simply staring at each other for one long moment. I take myself in my hand once again, though I barely even feel it as all my thoughts are channeled on watching her watching me. Scully's hands twitch nearly imperceptibly. She must feel her hands on me as surely as I feel them, even though my own flesh and bone clasps my cock in my slightly callused right hand. I hope that her reaction means that she wants to take me into hers. But she stays where she is, denying the clear invitation I have extended--hot and thrilled and engorged with blood--to her. Her eyes flicker down to my hand and then back up to my eyes, setting a calypso rhythm in time with my pulse. And then I swoop my sword down, ready to parry, ready to cut away the underbrush which blocks our path through the forest. "Do you like to watch?" Her eyes widen then narrow, the motion fluttering and intense. My breath catches in my throat. My hand instinctively clenches around me at her reaction. Blood surges through my penis and my ass cheeks tense. I realize that I could come right now, just from watching her watching me. But I don't want to, not yet. She has to participate. But she will not. In the space of the blink of my eyes, her back is to me, though she doesn't take the final step through the proverbial and very concrete door. And all I can think is ohgodohgodomigod don't leave don't leave pleaseineedyou i need you to come to me i need it more than i've ever needed anyone ineedtolookatyoulookingatmewatchyouwatchingme don'tleaveme i can't lose you any more than i can lose myself. A litany of confusion and pain and terror and loss, all directed at the smooth back turned to me like a stop sign draped in white mourning muslin. "Scully." A wave of tension ripples down her back, fluttering the curtain of cotton. "Stay." She does. All my best friends are women. My best friend is all woman. I know the female interpersonal dynamic, especially when it's directed toward men. I hear the phrases on Oprah and at the table behind me at Shoney's and on the garish covers of Glamour: "Men Who Think With Their Dicks and the Women Who Love Them." Right now, my brain has been taken over by the thin nerve connecting it to my core of arousal. And I'll continue to think with that nerve if it'll only bring you back to me, Scully. If it'll only show you how much you mean to me and if you'll only show me how much I mean to you. "I was thinking about you, Scully." I speak quietly, unthreateningly. "I do that a lot." Her back is still to me, but she hasn't walked away. Not yet. I may still have some hope, so I pour all that hope into my seduction of her. My voice drips honey from a comb of pure need. "Don't you want to see what you do to me?" And then she takes the fateful step into her room. "No." The word leaves my mouth with a shuddering firmness. She stops once again. "But you don't have to turn around. I don't want you to look at me." Beat. "I want you to listen to me." She turns toward me slowly. Deliberately. That's my Scully--never one to heed the demands of others. Her eyes lock on mine as she walks over to the bed and stands at the end, her knees nearly brushing my toes. She's interested. Oh, God, she wants this, though she's trying her hardest to hide it. My hips buck involuntarily, and the pressure of my hand against my balls releases another wave of tension rolling over me. The corner of Scully's mouth curls up in a half-smile. Glory Hallelujah. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Mulder has rounded second base and is going for third. I find myself patting the patch of bed next to me lightly, then murmuring, "C'mere." She comes. As she turns away to sit down, her t-shirt rides up a little and I get a glimpse of her beautiful ass, framed by a plain pair of cotton panties. Those panties brush against the hair of my forearm as she nestles in next to me, trying not to touch but helpless not to. I look up at her looking down at me, the same half-smile on her lips. So I begin to move my hand up and down my cock, losing all of myself in the sensation except the part of me which belongs to her only. My other hand reaches up and takes her own, then places it on my chest. Her palm rises and falls with each labored breath I take. Scully's head rotates down to look at my other hand and my eyes follow hers. "Do you want to know what you do to me?" I repeat. "Yes." Her voice is barely more than a whisper. It whispers over my body. "Tell me. Show me." Gladly. I place my free hand over hers, our palms rising and falling together with each labored breath I take. "I watch you, Scully. Do you have any idea how often I look at you?" She exhales a brief, self-conscious laugh. "I watch you walking through our office, or down a hallway, or even through that field where we found Wilson today." Slight humor mixes with intrigue on her face. "Your body moves with such strength and poise that it takes my breath away. I should be ashamed of wanting to take off your clothes and feel that body under my hands, but I'm not. Why be ashamed of something so perfect, with such potential for beauty?" She holds my gaze. Desire flushes her skin, flares her nostrils, and dilates her pupils. I deliberately move my hand up and down my cock, then again, squeezing harder this time. But I don't need the added pressure when She is looking at me, so perfect and exquisite. My eyes glance down and the top of my sex glistens against the backdrop of the television, now showing nothing but a Technicolor test pattern. "Do you want to taste what you do to me, Scully?" Her head lowers in the start of a nod, but doesn't raise. I bring my hand up to my tip and catch the droplet of creamy liquid with the hand which had just rested on hers, then raise it to her lips. Scully's tongue snakes out and swipes over the top of my thumb, then draws it inward, suckling firmly. Oh, God. Oh my God. I have to fight for restraint, or this might happen way too soon. My deep shuddering breath reverberates her hand against my chest. "Make me come, Scully." "Yes." I feel her word against my thumb, the breath moving over the saliva-slickened digit. Then she takes it in again and begins suckling more fiercely, her cheeks hollowing around me and her eyes boring into my penis. My other hand jerks and clenches around me. This sensory overload is all I need to explode into a million pieces, my stickysweet seed covering my hand. She has not moved, but her small, strong body anchors me. And as my body thrums with the release of pressure, she grabs my other hand and begins to lick it clean. As I react to that divine assault, she bends down and drapes her body over mine, her breasts burrowing into my chest. Her kisses rain over the side of my face not resting against my pillow, and her voice whispers into my neck... "I know, Mulder. I know." ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ It would be so easy to lose control to Fox Mulder. It would be so easy to sit back and let him take over my life. He already does in so many ways. Sometimes I feel helpless against his power. Sometimes I want to be helpless. I can taste him. I taste him on my tongue. I swirl him around my mouth--over my soft palate, around the soft fleshiness of the insides of my lips, in the crevices between my teeth and cheeks. He tastes salty and bittersweet and of the promise of life to give. But I feel hollow. I like feeling hollow. It's easier that way. It's easier than waking up next to someone and trying to come up with something deep and emotional and romantic. It's easier than giving myself to someone and carrying the baggage accompanying a relationship. It's easier than falling in love. My life has been so damned difficult--why can't my sex life be easy? Somehow, I know that Mulder will not make this easy. I wish he would. I wish we could just lay here together and touch ourselves and enjoy it. And then we could walk away from it and everything would be normal. But instead, I'm lying on top of him, his hard body pressing into mine, my lips defying my logical realm and pressing kisses to his beautiful face, which is flushed from the ecstasy I have just given him. Oh, Lord. "Hey." His voice is still ragged and breathy. "Hi." I can't help but respond. I find myself wanting to feel what he feels. I want him to feel it with me. The risk factor has risen exponentially. Against every decision I have made about my life, I want this risk. I want it so much I can taste it, just like I taste him. I raise myself and sit back on my heels. The brief headrush brings white spots to my eyes. I'm reminded of the blinding delirium of orgasm. I want to feel that. I look down at Mulder. His eyes are focused on mine, with a look I dare not interpret, but it thrills me. It's the look I've always secretly wanted to see in a man's eyes when he looks at me. I wish I could capture that look and hold it close to me, but without all the other things--frightening things--which come along with it. "Your turn, Scully." My turn? Do I even want it to be my turn? Do I want to lay myself bare to him, to put myself in his hands and let him feel me touch myself? Do I want to come in his arms, vulnerable and needy? I look down at him. I run my fingertips over his chest. He shudders slightly. "Yes." I voice my assent aloud, but am answering my own inner questions. He smiles at me. A wave of arousal flows through my entire body, and it is my turn to shudder slightly. "Yes," I repeat. And I mean it. I begin my dance. He is my accompanist. We don't even need words to begin--our instinct is our cue. I turn my back to him and sit near the edge of the bed. He pulls up on his knees behind me. My body shifts with the bed. His fingertips move to my shoulder blades and pinch the tired cotton there. I raise my arms like a child, and the t-shirt is lifted off. I fall backward and raise my hips. He hooks his fingers under the waistband of my panties and pulls them off, his fingertips grazing my legs all the way down to my toes. And I lay bare before him. Bare. Naked. I like it. I don't want to, but I do. I wonder if he likes it. I want to open my eyes and look at him, but I don't dare because I'd never be able to look away. I'd fall in love, but I can't do that. So I sit up, regaining my self-control. I feel him move behind me and sit down on the bed. His hands come up to my shoulders. He speaks softly, his chest vibrating against my back. "You're beautiful, Scully." My breath catches. I'm sure he has noticed. He continues speaking. "I want you to feel beautiful. I want you to show me how beautiful you must look when you come. I want you to come in my arms." That's my cue. I'm supposed to get my shirt and leave now. I'm supposed to walk away from this and everything it could mean. That's the easy answer. But then my tongue flicks against my palate and I taste him. I'm filled with a shiver of need. I want him to taste me like I can still taste him. Mulder sits up straighter and his legs straddle me. He takes my right hand in his and laces our fingers together. I grip them tightly, then relax. He groans slightly into my ear. His left hand picks up mine and places it on my breast, pressing it into the pillowed flesh. I breathe into his hand, deeply aroused. Inflamed. We begin a pas de deux. He moves my hand over my breast, the taut skin of my palm whispering over my skin. He commands softly, "Touch your nipple." And I do. Oh, God! I do. My breathing is heavy, labored, against him. The nubbin moves up and down against my hand, catching on each finger like a button. "Pinch it," he orders, his voice flowing like cream. I pinch it firmly, then tug slightly and roll my nipple in my fingers, his own hand moving with mine. My breath is lilting and I begin to moan softly. Mulder's voice drops to a whisper. "How does it feel, Scully? How does it make you feel?" "Good." I breathe the word. "So good." He places a kiss on my shoulder blade, his breath warm against my skin. "I'm glad. I want you to feel good, Scully. Do you know that?" "Yes." Yesyesyes. I'm so far gone that I can only say that one small word. He anchors my hand to my breast, moving my fingers over the flesh, rapture making me dizzy. All logic has left my mind, all reserve has left my soul. What's happening between us isn't easy like I'd wanted, but God, it feels so good. I'm so lost in the feeling of my fingers on my breast that I almost fail to notice Mulder picking up my other hand and placing it on my thigh. He unweaves my fingers from his and places my first two fingers together. Pinching them together, he says in a voice which tries for firmness but wavers like a reed, "Put your fingers inside you." And I do. Oh, my God. My fingers are lost in a hot, smooth sheath of muscle and heaven. He doesn't even need to whisper "Move them, Scully" before I begin to pump in and out. In and out inandout. His hands leave mine and move up to my shoulders as my own hands work their magic sensually, fervently. Then Mulder says the words which could complicate our relationship manifold, yet I welcome them. I cherish them. "Come for me, Scully. Come. Let go." "Yes." And I begin the climb to ecstasy. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Doors (3/4) By Lydia Bower and Alanna Baker ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ This is almost surreal. My desire-addled brain is finding it difficult to take it all in and comprehend it. Scully sits with her back to me, one hand between her legs, touching herself. The other is slowly twisting one erect and perfect nipple between her fingers. All because of me. Because of my hands and my words. Because somehow, beyond any reason, she's let me lead her on this journey. My hands have settled lightly on her shoulders; my presence no more than a whisper-touch. It's my job to simply guide her now, to hand over the completion to her. She sighs quietly and her head grows heavy on her neck, lolling back to rest against my chest. Her skin is like alabaster in the bluish, ghostly glow of the television. The long lashes of her closed eyes throw shadow curves against her cheeks. Her beautiful mouth is open and I can see the moist tip of her tongue, the sharp points of her teeth as her lips draw back. She has a distant look on her face, an expression that's part arousal and part something I can't name. It's almost...closed-off. As though my presence here has been forgotten; as though hers has. An itch of doubt takes up residence in a dark corner of my brain. I drop my eyes to the hand between her legs and my breath leaves me in a rush. She has opened her thighs even more now, and I can see the swollen folds that surround her fingers. I dip my head and bring my mouth close to her ear. "Does that feel good, Scully?" Her head nods slowly. "Uh-huh." I watch as her fingers move in and out of her body, pumping languidly. My cock twitches with every bend of her wrist, growing firm and solid against her back. It's so hard not to drop my hands and touch her again. My fingers ache with the need to join hers. It's a sweet pain. "Would you like to touch your clit now?" I ask her. Her left hand closes around her breast and squeezes in answer. "Then do it, Scully. Touch your clit. Show me how you like it." There is a soft liquid sound as her fingers leave her body. I watch as they spread her dewy petals apart, sliding up to the hooded bundle of nerves that top her sex. They land and begin a slow circling. Scully tenses and her hips arch up from the bed. "Yeah." The utterance slips from my mouth uninvited. I can smell her now. Heavy and musky sweet. I imagine the taste of her on my tongue. Savoring her essence as she has savored mine. God, I want this for her. I want it for both of us. I want her to feel her hands as my hands, circling and pulling and tugging at tender flesh. I want to fill her dreams and her body and her heart. Become her fantasy and her reality. "I could be touching you," I tell her. "In all kinds of ways. I could be touching you there with my tongue." She gasps and I can't stop the smile of satisfaction that crosses my face. "Would you like that, Scully? Would it feel good to have my tongue on your clit; stroking, circling, flicking against you?" "Oh God...." Her plea is no more than a breathy whisper. Her left hand slides across her chest to finger the nipple of her right breast. Her tongue snakes out to wet her lips. As I watch over her shoulder, Scully dips her fingers inside her body to gather more moisture. Back up they slide, spreading her juices over the tight bud of her clitoris. She is flushed now, and breathing in tiny pants, her fingers moving hard and fast. Almost there. I press a kiss against her shoulder. "You're close, aren't you, baby? You gonna come for me?" She can do no more than nod as her head rolls against my chest. I'm filled with a wonderful rush of power that humbles me even as it feeds my ego. I know that at this moment I hold her soul in my hands. But at the same time, everything I am, everything I dream of, is at her mercy. "How do you feel, Scully?" I have to know. "I... Oh...oh... Empty," she tells me. "Then fill yourself." Her response is immediate. She plunges her fingers back inside her core and thrusts them in and out. There is no grace, no slow erotic movement. She is desperate to come. I am desperate to see it. The ball of her hand bumps against her clit with every stroke of her fingers. "Yeah, that's right, Scully. Bring yourself off. I wanna see it. I want to watch you come." My hands tighten on her shoulders as I hear the keening begin. It starts low and deep in her chest. Each plunge of her fingers increases the volume and pitch of it. "Ohgodohgodohgodohgodoh..." And then she is crying out, her fingers once more pressed to her clit, her hips bucking, her body thrashing against me. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and I love her more than life itself. She sags against me, her hand soon lifting and landing curled on her thigh. The hand at her breast skims slowly down and comes to rest on the swell of her belly. I kiss the curve of her neck and once more take her right hand in mine. Raising it my lips, I pull her fingers inside my mouth and suck away the sweetness of her body. The dark and smoky taste is like nectar on my tongue. She shivers as I lick her fingers clean and then gently ease her hand back down to her side. I want to taste her mouth now. I want to suckle her lips and hold her close. Wrap myself around her and keep her safe in the shelter of my arms. I dip my head and drop a single kiss just behind her ear. And then another. Cradling her jaw in my hand, I turn her face to mine and brush my lips across hers. Like a shot, Scully is off the bed and plucking her t-shirt from the floor. I barely have time to think before she's slipped it on and is heading for the connecting doors. "Scu..." She swings around, glaring at me, as her name catches in my throat. What the fuck is going on here? "Scully? What's wrong?" She dips her head, refusing to meet my eyes. She's slowly side-stepping her way to the door. Stunned, I get to my feet and move towards her. Her open palm shoots up in an unmistakable warning. Stop. Do not come closer. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Go straight to hell. I've cornered enough desperate people to know when to back off. Every instinct is telling me that if I don't play this right, my whole world will end tonight--in this motel room, in the middle of nowhere. No fanfare, no headlines. Just a quiet, deadly end to everything. I stand perfectly still, my arms at my side. I keep my voice gentle and non-threatening. "Scully. Talk to me. Tell me what's wrong." She lifts her eyes and I'm almost knocked off my feet by the fear I see in them. I feel like someone has punched me in the gut. "I can't..." She stops and licks her lips. "I can't do this, Mulder. You shouldn't have tried to kiss me." That is absolutely the last thing I would have expected to come out of her mouth. "You..." My head is shaking in confusion. My body trembles, strung tight by adrenaline. "You'll pleasure yourself in front of me..." A low chuff of pained, incredulous laughter is pushed from my throat. " my arms--but you don't want me to kiss you? What is going on, Scully?" Her voice is flat as an icy pond and just as cold. "I'm sorry, Mulder. This was wrong." And then she turns on her heel and walks out, slamming the door behind her. Stunned, I stand frozen, my toes digging into the worn carpet beneath my feet, my hands tightly curled into fists. Her words echo in my ears--the tone remote, disconnected: "This was wrong." No. How can she say that? How could it be wrong? How can she just walk away from me like that? White-hot anger boils up suddenly from my gut, eclipsing everything else. I've gone from sexual bliss to spiritual fulfillment to utter shock to burning rage in the space of a few minutes. Right now I can't decide which I prefer, but the heat of anger is feeling pretty good. And it doesn't take long to reach indignant. I can't--won't--let her do this to us. I won't let her. Four long strides bring me to the door she's slammed between us. Some small, polite part of my brain tell me I should knock first. Primal instinct tells me otherwise. I reach for the knob and find it locked. Fuck. I jiggle it in my hand and call out hoarsely, "Scully? Scully, let me in!" Nothing. "Goddammit, Scully, open this door before I break it down!" My voice is aloft on an air cushion of fury and pain and need. I can feel the emotions rolling off me in waves, seeping under the door and filling the room beyond. She has to feel it, too. How can she not? My foot snaps up and connects with the bottom of the door. Wounded toes scream at me and feed the fire in my belly. I give the door another kick. My voice, rough and bitter, spews the words from my mouth: "What? Do you think you can retreat into your little corner and pretend this didn't happen?" Finally she answers me. Her voice sounds dead as it rasps, "Just leave me alone, Mulder. I can't do this right now." Oh God, Scully. Please. I can hear her breathing just on the other side of the door. My own breath hitches and stops until it picks up again--this time in unison with hers. This is one connection she can't sever. She has to breathe. But, apparently, not with me, not so close to me: I can sense her walking away. "You can't ignore me, Scully. Not after what just happened." Her voice rings out, spewing its own venom, muffled by the distance she's once more put between us. "I know what just happened," she spits. "You jerked off. I helped you. I fucked myself. You helped me. It's perfectly natural. It happens all the time." Of course it does, Scully. Of course. People masturbate while being held by the person who loves them more than anything else in this world *all* the fucking time. Just like clockwork. I almost have to laugh. Her next words are filled with an air of resignation and condescension. "Why the hell do you have to make it into something it's not?" "Something it's not? What are you talking about?" I am met by silence. I raise my voice, desperation coloring my words. "Open the door right now, Scully! I mean it!" Or what, Mulder? What are you going to do? Kick the door down? Oh yeah, that'll make her see the light. Just put on a convincing enough display of manly power and force and she'll just fall right into your arms. The anger is draining away to become something cold and empty. Something that imagines what my life would be like without her. Think, Mulder, think. I raise my hands and brace them on either side of the door and drop my forehead against the cool wood. Don't yell at her. Talk to her. Beg, plead. Do whatever you have to do to get her to open the goddamn door. A single anguished thought runs through my mind and out of my mouth with no volition: "Why are you doing this to us?" And then the door flies open and I nearly stumble into her arms. Scully scurries away slightly and squints at me, her face a mask of fear and anger. "This is about *you* and this is about *me*. This is not about *us*. There is no *us*." Each phrase is a bullet aimed straight at my heart. I can feel my face crumple like onionskin, my body sag with defeat. She can't really believe that, can she? "How can you say that? This was *all* about us." Scully turns her back on me and walks away in the direction of the bed. She yanks the bedspread off and drapes it over her shoulders like a cape--hiding her body, hiding herself . It swirls around the smooth curve of her ass before settling around her shins. It's then I realize I'm standing in the doorway completely naked. Completely vulnerable. So be it. She starts pacing the floor in front of the bed in erratic figure eights, mumbling quietly under her breath. And then she veers off and ends up facing the wall in front of the bathroom. She wearily rests her forehead against it and my heart lurches in my chest as her words become clear. "...ican'tican'tican'tican'tican'tican't..." Over and over, like a vow. Like a prayer. I ache for her, for her pain. But I hate her for doing this to us. How can I function with two such opposing emotions at war within me? Bite it back, Mulder. Shove it all aside. Just find a way to breech the distance. I take a literal step towards her. And then another. One more and her arms shoot up, warding me off, the bedspread slipping from her shoulders and puddling on the floor behind her. And then, very calmly: "There can't be an 'us', Mulder." My rollercoaster ride of love and fury begins anew. Welcome to my nightmare. "There already *is*! How can you think otherwise?" How can you be so fucking cruel, Scully? "We both know what just happened," I tell her. "You knew what you were getting yourself into when you walked into my room and stayed." I take another step towards her and she shrinks back--like I'm going to hit her or something. And for some ungodly reason, this just makes me angrier. "Don't you *dare* pull away from me now." She hits me with laser eyes and I can feel my heart crisping in my chest. Her eyes narrow and she hisses, "I walked into your room because you wanted me there and weren't going to stop making a show of yourself until I gave in and joined you. You wanted me there, Mulder, and you just couldn't leave me alone until you had me. I am *not* an object for you to attain." "And you let me 'have you', Scully. I wasn't in that room alone. Let me remind you who was sucking on whose thumb and why." The gloves have come off and we're down to no-holds barred. It's not the fighting itself that twists my guts. Scully and I have heated arguments down to a science. It's what we're each fighting for that wounds me the deepest. I was under the impression we were doing it to stay together. Now I'm not so sure. Because I think Scully is fighting to keep us apart. And how fucked up is that? I should just walk out of here right now. Cut my losses and try to salvage whatever remains of my dignity. But I can't. I can't leave. And I can't seem to shut up. I can't make the words stop coming from my mouth. She steps closer and closer, fire and ice, and my brain is screaming at me to stop while the pain keeps flooding out of me in a torrent of poisonous words. "Just who was the real object back there, Scully? Seems to me you were the one doing the objectifying." I wait until she's toe to toe with me before I deliver the kicker. "Was I just a means to an end, Scully? Were you just horny and decided to use me to get what you wanted?" Her hand flies up and connects with my cheek, hard. I can feel the imprint of her fingers against my skin. I can taste the copper of blood on my tongue. "Sex," she snaps. "That's all this ever was, and that's all this will ever be. We should be able to touch--to do this for each other and then go about our business. Why does it have to be anything else?" Oh, Jesus. God help me. My hands--the same hands that held her so tenderly only minutes ago--fly up and roughly grab her by the shoulders. My fingers dig deep into her flesh, scratch against the worn cotton of her t-shirt. I feel grim satisfaction at the pain and alarm telegraphed in her eyes. "You don't really believe that, do you? It wasn't just sex, Scully. It could never be just sex with us. Why can't you admit that to yourself?" She is silent; remarkably still under my hands. She ducks her head and refuses to look at me. No answer is forthcoming. My next words are intentionally bitter. Meant to wound her. After all, I am my father's son. And I have learned well. "Or maybe I'm the fool here. Maybe that's all you wanted from me. Maybe I should just be grateful and wait around until the next time you need to get off." I push her away and she stumbles back a step. "Should we start scheduling appointments, Scully? Want me to grab your date book so you can pencil me in?" "I can get off just fine by myself, thank you very much. I don't *need* you." And there it is in a nutshell, folks. The sorry truth. I can't face her anymore. I can't keep doing this. I turn my back and take a step away, my hands coming up to cover my face. I don't know what to do. I don't know what to say to her. I'm standing here in her room naked and bleeding in a hundred places from the razor-sharp edge of our words. This is all my fault. I sat in my room an hour ago and set about profiling Scully the way I would a serial killer. I cut through all the bullshit and narrowed everything down until I found her weakest, most vulnerable point. And then I attacked, intentionally and selfishly. But I forgot one very important thing when I drew my map: unlike the criminals I profile, Scully didn't set out to hurt anyone. She's more than just a set of facts and statistics. More than just the sum total of her fears and her dreams and her desires. I stormed the barriers she's erected over the years and didn't stop to consider that I might be destroying the very foundations she needs to survive. I reduced her to a goal. A game to be won. The victory, ultimately a hollow one. Congratulations, Mulder. You got what you wanted. Happy now? In the end, there is nothing left between us but the simple truth--hers and mine. Her words echo in my head: "I don't need you." Gathering the shards of my remaining courage, I turn to her and whisper my truth: "But I need you, Scully. Don't you know that?" Her eyes shoot level with mine and then skitter away. They move about the room, taking in everything, seeing nothing. And then her chin drops to her chest and she says wearily, "You don't need me, Mulder. You don't...." She backs away and stumbles over the long-discarded bedspread. Her knees hit the edge of the bed and she sinks down onto it as I ask myself who she's trying to convince. And then it comes to me with perfect clarity that she's afraid. I remember the look on her face right before she walked out of my room. It was terror--plain and simple. And I know exactly what scares her. Jesus Christ. I'm such a fool. Who wouldn't be afraid of loving a man like me? Obsessed, driven, demanding everything but so unwilling to give the same in return. I hold a part of myself away from Scully, just as she does with me. I expect my actions to say everything I haven't the courage to voice. No more. It's too late to go back to the comfortable, familiar, but ultimately unfulfilling dynamic of what we share and who we are together. There's nothing left to lose. Nothing at all. I cross to the bed and crouch down on my knees before her. She still won't meet my gaze, her eyes focusing on a spot on my chest instead. I have to make this count. I have to make her see the truth. "But I do need you, Scully. More than you'll ever know. And I thought you felt the same way." I take a ragged, labored breath. "Can you look me in the eye and tell me you don't? That it was about sex and pleasure and nothing else?" Her eyes lift to mine. They are moist with tears. Dark with pain and longing and fear. "It was about sex," she tells me. But then her eyes drop and she gracelessly falls back on the bed, curling up fetus-like, her knees pulled up to her chest. I don't believe it, Scully. And I don't think you do, either. How do I prove it to you? What more can I do? And now I realize it's not just about the truth. It's about choices: having them and keeping them. It's a matter of Scully deciding for herself what she has to do in order to live with what's happened tonight. She will have to weigh the pros and cons, come to her own conclusions. All I can do is point out the options. Help her to see what lies ahead--no matter what choice she makes. I take a deep, cleansing breath and step around the bed, settling myself down on the mattress next to her, my legs folded up in front of me. I don't try to touch her or talk to her. There will be time for that later. For now, I give her my stillness. And time. It's all I have left to give. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Doors (4/4) By Lydia Bower and Alanna Baker ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Anger has always been my most comfortable emotion. It requires nothing of me except adrenaline and elucidation. I can lose myself in its grip then emerge, refreshed, when the argument is over into the light of day. I am emerging. I hug my knees to my chest, spent from fury. All through this tirade, I have chanted a silent mantra to myself: "I can't." I can't do this, I can't feel this, I can't submit. I can't let him feel for me what I see written on his face, knitted into his words. But as I curl into myself, my chant fades. My anger is exhausted, replaced by fear and confusion. I am so aware of him. Even though my eyes remain shut against the dangers which face me when I open them, I see him as clearly as I ever have. I replay our conversation methodically in my mind. I turn over every nuance obsessively, sorting through the details for any hint of how I should approach this situation. The answers are there--somewhere in his words--but I don't know where to look. His last words echo through my mind: "I do need you--more than you'll ever know." The strange thing is that I believe him. I know I shouldn't let myself, but I do. No matter what Mulder might do or what his methods might be, he would never lie to me--not about something like this. What he is telling me is genuine. That doesn't mean that I have to accept it. I wish I weren't here. I wish I could go back to where I was an hour ago, sitting at my laptop with Mulder a mystery in the next room. If I had known then what would be the result, would I have stepped into his room, sat down next to him on his bed, reveled in his nakedness and helped him come? Would I have given myself over to him? I don't know. I honestly don't know. My automatic rational explanation fails me. I want it back. It makes me feel safe. Without it, I feel empty. Without him, I feel empty. I don't want this truth, which hurts with a hollow pain. But deep inside me, I know that somehow it will set me free. So I take my chances with opening my eyes. He is sitting inches away from me, his legs bent lotus-style. Peaceful. His body is peaceful. Mine looks peaceful but is filled with chaos. In his hands, Mulder holds the power to open my shell. I remain ensconced within. We look at each other for a very long moment, neither of us speaking. We are shell-shocked, like soldiers who have endured the worst of the battle only to come through battered but alive. The skin of his face is drawn tightly. He is holding back. A tiny part of me wants to draw it out of him, but instead I remain silent. Silence is easier than facing this problem. We can't remain in silence forever. His voice is pale, reedlike. "Scully, please. Just listen to me. Will you promise me that?" I slowly nod. I will listen, but I won't promise anything. "If you want this to be about sex, then I'll accept that." The artificial calmness of his voice worries me. "We seem to have two options here: the first one is that we could just pretend this never happened." The horror of returning to what we'd had before is worse than the fear of a relationship. My head tilts sharply toward him. He rises to my cue. "But you don't want that, do you?" "No." His face wears grim satisfaction. A flash of humor flits over my heart as I watch his hand lift toward my cheek then pull back swiftly. He wants to touch me, I can tell. I don't want to be touched. "And you don't want a relationship." I remain silent. "Okay, then.... If you want this to be just about sex, then we'll just have to let things be that way. I think we can manage this, don't you? We should probably set some ground rules for this, though. Like, say, we can only have sex when a case is over--like tonight--or in our apartments. We already have keys, right? As long as we let each other know beforehand and establish mutual consent, this should be okay." I can scarcely believe what I'm hearing. Trust Mulder to reduce everything which has happened to rational specifics, in an attempt to hold on to what little of me I'll allow him. "And I don't think we should kiss each other. I'm not sure I could just step back from that, Scully. So this will be just sex. No emotional involvement. Nothing which could create artificial feelings of attachment. Nothing which would threaten you." No.... "How does that sound?" He is silent for a moment, then continues talking in a smooth, leaden voice. "I mean, Scully, you're right. This sounds like the best possible solution for us. We can just fuck each other or do this--what is the word? Autoerotic. Whichever. We're both adults. We should be able to handle this." "No." The word breathes out of my mouth. His eyes widen slightly. "I'm sorry, Scully. What did you say?" "No." I repeat, a bit more loudly. My stomach begins to repel in a vague horror at what his proposal could mean. I realize that I can't just pretend none of this happened. Nor can I treat sex with Mulder as something I would schedule and execute methodically, like a doctor's appointment or dinner with an old friend. It would be so much more than that. It would be emotional and spiritual and loving. Am I ready for that? How can I deny it? I relax my body slightly and raise up on one elbow. Mulder is still looking at me, the milk and moss and ink of his eyes swimming in my gaze. Even through the detachment of his voice and demeanor, those beautiful eyes scream cries of love. The man who bears those eyes could never be "just an appointment," just someone I fuck and run. This man invades every single aspect of my life. How can I shut him out of my soul? My body? How can I have technique and not heart? Actions without emotions? How can I turn him away because I'm scared and weary and unready for this? Mulder reaches over and tentatively runs his fingertips down my arm, shoulder to wrist. His touch thrills me. It cries love in a way that his voice will not. I want to feel that touch every day for the rest of my life. "No." My voice is firm and confident. "I want more, Mulder." His eyes widen slightly. The corners of my mouth turn up in a soft half-smile. "I want you." I bend my arm at the elbow and hold his hand to my shoulder. His face blossoms into anticipation mixed with fear. "I want everything." After a long moment--excruciating in its tension--Mulder speaks in a low, strained voice. "Are you sure, Scully? Because if this happens, we can't go back." "Yes, I'm sure." He begins to laugh--a silent, shaking laugh of disbelief. I struggle to a sitting position, my knees resting against his. I reach over and take his hand and look up into his eyes. A tear glistens in one corner, only to be blinked back. He is strong, so very strong. His body, in the umber light of the bathroom lamp, is a fierce, steadfast redwood. He supports me. I carry him. And we are together. I want everything. I have everything. It is terrifying, but it's a sweet, cleansing fear. It courses through my veins, giving us life. I'm not sure what a life with him might mean, but it could mean so much. And for the first time in ages, I want to try. "Scully, I can't promise you anything. I can't promise that this will be easy or that I'll be any good at this, but I want us to try." Imagine that: he echoes my thoughts. "We won't do anything you don't want to do, okay? We'll take all this at your pace." I let my gaze roam over his body, naked and splayed open before me. I want to do so many things. I want them to mean something. But first, I fold my legs under me and lean forward slightly, then take one of his hands and then the other, twining our fingers together. "I want you to kiss me." My voice is a whisper. I meet him halfway. How fitting. His lips brush over mine, once. Then they stop. He pulls away and squeezes my hands slightly, so I open my eyes and look at him. Wonder has made him radiant. His voice is quiet but his face screams fits of joy and awe with shining eyes, a slight flush to his skin, and lips sanguine with ardor. How could I have spent so much fury on him when I could have been enjoying--loving--this? I am profoundly grateful for my foolishness, for without it, whatever we might have done would have been about him and me, and not about us. Together. I brush my lips against his, once. He tilts his chin up slightly and catches my upper lip on his full lower one. I feel the warmth of blood underneath the puckered skin, each crease an entry to his soul, which washes over me. Each moment is a revelation. I take the epiphany step by step. And mid-stride, I breathe an "Oh," echoing the moment in that interrogation room which eventually led to this. He pulls back again and looks at me steadily. Reading my face. I feel naked, even though I am still clothed. That must change. Before, when I lay on the bed, preparing to bare myself to him, I allowed him to take off my shirt, to allow him to control the situation so that I wouldn't be forced to feel anything. But now, I want to feel. I want to offer myself to him. My hands disentangle from his and move to the hem of my old t-shirt. I cross my arms over me and lift the shirt over my head, then toss it to the floor behind me. I take his hand in mine and place it on my chest, over my breastbone. I breathe into his hand and give my benediction. "Mulder, all this is yours." I don't need to say anything else. I don't need to apologize or make vows or prove myself to him. I just need to be here with him right now. He brings his other hand to my waist and begins to move his palms in lazy circles over my body. Each point of contact leaves trails of starry thrills on my skin. In my soul. I lift my lips to his again, but instead of brushing my own lips against his, I am consumed with hunger and the need to devour him. His mouth is a delicacy I can't pause to savor, but rather swallow whole into my body. He brings his hands up to my breasts and squeezes lightly. I moan into his mouth, hardly aware of anything but the sensation of it coursing over my tongue and his together. Something in him snaps, because suddenly we are on the bed, bodies pressed against each other from tip to top, on the edge of consumption. We devour each other, and it's a glorious feeling. Our doors are open wide. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ The End Author's notes: Lydia here. Looks like I've been elected to speak for the both of us. This was my first attempt at collaboration and I couldn't have asked for a more patient and kind-hearted writing partner. I really put Alanna through hell on this one, and I want to take this opportunity to thank her for everything. She is, in a word, perfect. Thanks, love! :-) To say that this story was a departure for both of us is a bit of an understatement. While the subject matter and the subsequent conflict was somewhat difficult to explore, it gave us a chance to look into the dark places that exist within our heroes. We'd both love to know your thoughts on whether we successfully did our jobs or not. In closing, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention the fact that without Alanna's nudging and constant enthusiasm, this piece probably would've remained unfinished on my hard drive forever. I began it as a solo project and soon ran smack into a wall I couldn't scale. It was with gratitude that I handed it over to Alanna--knowing it was in good hands. And then strangely (or not) she ran into the same problem I'd had. I offered to fill in some of the blanks for her and, well, the result is what you've just read. Funny how life works sometimes, isn't it? ~~~~~ Alanna Baker, ~~~~~ "Not mad, I pray not mad. But the sheer joy of contemplating it is hard to contain." --Peter Carey, _Oscar and Lucinda_ stories --