Adagio, AppassionatoTITLE: Adagio, Appassionato AUTHOR: Liz Owens E-MAIL ADDRESS: cantwaltz@aol.com FEEDBACK: Proudly hung on the refrigerator by cantwaltz@aol.com DISTRIBUTION: Anywhere, as long as my name and such remain attached and you tell me where it's going. SPOILER WARNING: None, but assume this takes place after Season 6. It may be helpful to read my story "Lux." RATING: NC-17 CLASSIFICATION: V, A KEYWORDS: M, S; MSR DISCLAIMER: No, these characters aren't mine, but I would have liked to received a morning-after phone call from one or both of them. They belong to CC, the fine folks at Fox, and 1013 Productions. "Never for money, always for love...." SUMMARY: The hallway scene fulfilled. AUTHOR'S NOTE: My favorite childhood memory is of my mother reading to me before I went to bed. When the story was over, we would turn out the lights and she would lay down next to me. Then I would make up a story about what happened the next day to these characters. (A 4-year- old fanfic writer. Go figure.) Anyway, the same story might produce different "next days." Here's one possibility of what happened the morning after my story "Lux." And this is for Patty and Sarah, who are the best readers a girl could have. For so many reasons. Adagio, Appassionato "What is the main thing in love? to know and to hide. To know about the one you love and to hide that you love. At times the hiding (shame) overpowers the knowing (passion). The passion for the hidden--the passion for the revealed." - Marina Tsvetaeva Saturday, 7:14 a.m. Hot. Heavy. My body is fluid, bones and muscles alike limp with relaxation. I am floating. There are hands here--not my hands. Long fingers at my collarbone, delicate in their callused touch, brushing my skin with paint of fire. There is breath here--not my breath. Warm on my arm, a whispering breeze tickling the tiny hairs so that I am suddenly aware of each one. There is a mouth here--not my mouth. Accompanying the breath, partnering with it to moisten my skin with feathery kisses. A wave rocks the boat Is this a boat? It must be. One wave, moving me so that those lips--maddening, thorough--replace the fingers on my collarbone. They learn the contours of my throat. The tongue laves the hollow at the base of my neck, the roughness causing me to shiver, although I am not cold. Warm, so warm. The hands are back, magically melting my clothes. They inch over my ribs, learning every bone, memorizing and mapping me with precision. They touch me as though I were made of porcelain, glowing china that would fracture at the slightest vibration. I sense strength, but it is used only in his strength of control. His. Him. Who? His hair tickles my chin and I inhale. I know his scent, recognize it as easily as lemon or roses. My own hands finally find the power of movement and I cup his face, tugging his mouth to mine. The mouth does not hesitate--it swoops. Smooth teeth, wily tongue, velvet lips. My hands knot in his short hair and I kiss him back with every bit of six years of stored passion. The stubble on his chin scratches my lips as I nibble at his jaw, but I do not mind. Not now, not in this dream. Later is the time for recrimination. Much, much later. His mouth has moved back over my throat, my shoulders, and finally--thank God--to my breasts. He sighs my name like a prayer before he sweeps those full lips over my swollen nipples. His clever fingers knead and plump, his mouth sucking greedily. My hips move uncontrollably, my legs falling open as I surrender the right for him to touch me. Anywhere. Everywhere. I moan. "Shh," he breathes. One hand cups my hipbone to still and steady me. "Shh." The boat pitches again as he slides one long leg between mine. Even the brush of the hair on his calf against my legs is too much. And not enough. I rock against his knee and gasp. Heat, so much heat. "Please," I hear myself say. "Please." The hand at my hip slides across my abdomen, one finger dipping into my navel for an instant before skimming lower, finding the moist heat at the top of my thighs. His thumb finds the hidden bud unerringly, his touch just hard enough, just gentle enough. When I think I can't take any more, one of those long, powerful fingers slips inside me. Then two, stroking and shifting, leaving me and then plunging inside as far as they can reach. I am breathless, yet panting. My body is no longer under my control, if it ever was. Muscles I had forgotten I had clench around those fingers. I feel the orgasm begin to envelop me, but at the last second, I find the keenest frustration I have ever known. The hands are suddenly gone, the mouth too. Only the breath remains, heavy and uneven. "Tell me. Tell me," he gasps. "Yes." With the deepest of sighs, he moves his long body between my legs. I think he whispers "forgive me," but I am already lost as his thickness probes me. There is a stretching, a moment of discomfort. Then we are one. Slowly, so slowly, he licks the tears from the corners of my eyes. "Shh," he says again. His lips settle on mine, but now they are different. So gentle, so tender. All that passion is now tightly leashed and transformed into caresses that equal words. All the sonnets, all the love songs in the universe are encoded in this kiss. Everything we could never say aloud we now say with our bodies. A moment ago I was floating. Now I fly. Before I drift back to earth, he spills himself into me, groaning my last name as though it held the stars in the sky. And for an instant, I see those same stars, although I have never opened my eyes. The magic reverses itself, as dreams do. He slips from inside me. The hands stroke me back into my clothes. The mouth brushes once more across mine. The breath whispers my name once more, then, "Sleep. Sleep." Of course I will sleep. I never stopped sleeping. * * * * * Saturday, 10:35 a.m. A car alarm beeping insistently outside my apartment wakes me. I groan. I am so sleepy, relaxed. But the numbers on the clock and the noise outside are more than enough to make me sit up. I am stiff. I suppose that is not surprising, considering how long I slept and the whole ordeal of yesterday, first with the oncologist and then Mulder's late visit. Mulder. I look around the room, and, aside from the dent in the pillow next to mine, there is no sign of his ever having been there. Except...except the dream. My whole body remembers. I feel it in the tightness of my thigh muscles as I swing my legs off the side of the bed. In the sudden fullness of my breasts. And in the unexpected tenderness between my legs. I shake off the feeling and walk into the bathroom, automatically reaching for the buttons of my pajamas so that I can take them off before getting in the shower. But my fingers find something strange. I look down. The buttons are mismatched. My head snaps up and I find a stranger's face in the mirror over the sink. Wild hair, pink cheeks. My lips are red, swollen and faintly rough. I flash back to the slightly stubbled chin in my dream. Before I realize what I've done, I hear the buttons from my pajama top hitting the tile floor. I clench the two sides in my hands and stare at my body in the mirror. I find patches of reddened skin. Two small scratches that weren't there the night before. And tiny marks on the side of my left breast and my right collarbone that could only be love bites. In the instant before the panic, I touch the small purple bruise on my shoulder and remember his touch, my kiss, our surrender. Even as my heart begins to thrash against my ribs, I am surprised by the feelings that the mark inspires. Pride. Anger. Shame, excitement, even power. Fear. And love, so much love. Frantically, my breath coming in gulps, I run into the living room. No one. The kitchen is empty, unchanged except for one glass in the sink that I don't remember leaving. The phone rings and I almost scream. I try to steady my breathing, but my pounding heart makes it difficult. I give myself two more rings to compose myself, then answer it. "Dana, honey, it's Mom." My knees almost buckle in relief. "Mom. Hi." She listens to my labored breathing and asks, "I'm sorry, did I catch you in the middle of something?" "Uh, no," I lie. "I was just going to get in the shower." "Oh. Are you still taking me to the airport?" "Airport?" Right. My mother was going to San Diego to visit Bill, Tara and Matthew for two weeks. "Sure, OK. I need to pick you up at three, right?" I take my cell phone from the table, weighing that lifeline in my hands and wondering if I should use it. Then I see the small piece of paper that had been tucked under the phone. My mother is still talking, but I cannot hear her over the blood rushing through my ears. Shakily I unfold the note. "Scully--Meet me tonight. We need to talk. You name the time and the place and I will be there. Please." No signature, but he didn't need one. I know that handwriting as well as my own. And that "please." It is my undoing. "Dana? Are you still there?" I reflexively crumple the paper into a ball. "Yes. Yes. Sorry, Mom, I was just thinking about something I need to do before I come over." "Oh. Well, I won't keep you. See you at three." "Yes, three." A minute later, I press a couple of buttons on my cell phone. He answers on the first ring. "Scully?" The ache in his voice is a third party on the line. Grasping the phone more tightly, I inhale deeply. "Yes, Mulder, it's me." He clears his throat. "How--how are you? Are you all right?" I ignore his question. "My mother's. 9:30 p.m." I press the "end" button and drop the phone onto the table. It rings almost immediately. I ignore it, sinking onto the sofa as I feel the first sob swell into my throat. The enormity, the consequence, the responsibility for what I've done overwhelm me. As soon as the ringing stops, it starts again. And again. And a fourth time. Almost angry now, I get up and press "send," but say nothing. There is nothing to say. "Scully? Talk to me, Scully. Please. Don't hang up on me. I need to know--" I swipe at my eyes with the back of my hand. "Tonight, Mulder. Tonight." I hang up and turn the phone off. I stare at it for a long time, until I can't see it any more through the tears. All the while my fingers stroke the tiny bruise on my collarbone. And I wonder.