Category:  MSR
Rating:  NC-17 (for sexual situations)
Spoilers:  None
Disclaimer:  Don't own 'em.  CC does.
Archive:  Nowhere, thank you.
Feedback:  Well, what do YOU think?  Ship any comments or complaints
to cicilean@yahoo.com  <grin>

Summary:  One morning after.

Note:  I resolved to give my Screamer friends some angsty smut in the
New Year, hope this fills the bill.  Okay, Jen?  <g>

===========
BONES
by CiCi Lean, 1999
cicilean@yahoo.com
===========

The radiator sounds like a machine gun and I can't sleep a moment
longer.  The rat-ta-tat of boiling water and hot metal is playing like
a steel drum band that's lost its sheet music and has suddenly decided
to improvise. Its pounds and squeaks and groans are getting louder by
the minute, until I vaguely wonder if it will explode.  

This is enough to make me open my eyes.  I'd been feigning sleep for
the past twenty minutes anyway.  Convincing myself that I was dozing,
when in reality I was wide awake, eyes closed.  

But Mulder... I think he's still asleep.

He doesn't move when I bury myself into his back, my nose to his
spine.  He smells like clean sweat and stale aftershave; a more
enticing scent than any cologne you could buy.  I hear him grunt, feel
the comforter tugged up higher, away from me, and the cold air rudely
hits my ass.  

I yank it back, he pulls it away again and this time, I let him keep it.

Who says romance is dead?

The radiator quiets down, and he's snoring peacefully.  I'm still wide
awake, thinking now, remembering the night before.  Remembering how he
came into my apartment, his hands still cold from the winter air, but
his lips warm.  I helped him out of his jacket, sliding it over his
shoulders and hearing the clatter of its zipper hitting my wood
floors, kissing him all the while. 

Frantic, harsh kisses were followed by a painful tumble to the floor. 
I know it must have been painful, and even though I didn't feel it at
the time, I certainly feel it this morning.  There are bruises
everywhere.  Bruises on my spine and shoulder blades, on my lips where
he tore into them, on my knees when I knelt down and took him, on my
knees when he turned me over and took me, on my elbows when he hoisted
me up and...

There are bruises.  Everywhere.  

They ache beautifully.  

Inside, I ache with them, not quite as pleasantly.  What I feel this
morning is a much duller throb, one that makes my throat hurt.  I'm
torn, and my soul is groaning with the effort of remaining intact. 
Two women are fighting within me, tussling and cursing as they battle,
and I don't know whose side to take.

There's one woman who wants to get up, make him coffee and give him a
blowjob afterwards, just to show him that she cares.  

The other one wants to run far away, to a place where her heart will
feel safe.

Both of them are losing.

The chill is bothering me suddenly, and I feel an impulse to pull the
covers back ... all of them.  Yank all the pillows and sheets away,
burying myself underneath everything, never to return. Forcing Mulder
to wake up and feel the cold.  Force him to shiver.  To get angry.  To
leave.  

But, in the end, I don't move.

I just lie there and stare at the ceiling, naked ... chilled. 
Developing gooseflesh in all the places that he'd kissed so feverishly
the night before.  My breasts, my thighs, my arms ... all prickling
and alive with sensation as they were then.  But, like the bruises,
these feelings are nowhere near as pleasant.  I am cold and aching.

I am ... frightened.

I turn over and wrap my arms around myself.  I should get up, put on
my robe and casually start my day.  I can do what I do every morning. 
Make a single cup of tea, along with a solitary slice of toast. 
Measure out one perfect spoonful of jam and smear it left to right
with three clever swipes, never once letting it overlap the crust.  

Pick up the morning paper, and read it neatly, from front to back,
skipping over the horoscopes, scoffing at them, but in my heart
wondering if they might not be able to divine my future.  Take in the
mail, open it methodically, and file each piece as I go.  Gather my
laundry, do my dishes, and make an empty bed that no longer retains
his warmth.  

Because he'll be long gone.  

I hear a murmur, and all my thoughts are shaken away.  He's finally
waking up.  Or no, perhaps he's still dreaming.  Dreaming of things
past and talking to his phantoms, perhaps to the other women he's
known.  To those creatures who flit in and out of his subconscious,
those delicious wraiths grown softer with time. Sweet, boneless women,
saying all the words he wants to hear.  Doing all the things he wants
them to do.  

Every one of them blessedly disappearing long before he awakes.  

They are the lucky ones, for unlike them, I am hard reality.  A body
he must deal with, along with a mind and a voice that must be heard. 
I am bone and flesh and tomorrow, we will work together, or apart,
yelling across chasms ... running through fires, burnt and gasping for
air.  

During those times, I will most certainly hurt him and I know he will
eventually return the favor. Our hours of warmth in this bed will be
farthest thing from our minds as we struggle past the flames of a much
crueler, colder fire.  We will no longer be lovers, but partners.	

Partners who, occasionally, will not be able to stand the sight of one
another.

He murmurs again and turns over.  I feel his chest against my back and
it warms me, but doesn't comfort.  An arm is slung around my waist,
and I feel a hardness against my thigh, sending the fire through me
once more.

Vaguely, I wonder if my body is playing a cruel trick on me, some
nervous sleight of hand, trading ordinary urges for an emotion that
doesn't exist.  But no, there is a different warmth filling me as I
feel a tickle of his breath at my neckline.  It's not a whisper of
passion, but a gentle, buzzing snore.  Its lovely sound, sweeter than
poetry, and it makes my soul sing.

It says: your lover is real, he is human and you do love him.

He is fashioned from bones and skin and breath, just as yourself.  His
myths are your own creation, and what you see might just be what you
get.  And what you see is wonderful, is it not?  

He's an interesting man, an infuriating man, but could you have any
other?  

The chill slowly dissipates and the warmth returns, even without the
covers.  Strong waves of good fire creep through me, silencing the
doubts.  I shift within his embrace and he responds with a sleepy
kiss. It turns into a harsh kiss, followed by another, then another as
his hands smooth the last of my composure away without a single word.  

He grows rough, greedy, not trying to appeal to my mind as some other
men have, with gentle, thoughtful tweaks in all the right places.  As
always, he wanders and explores carelessly.  Thoughtlessly.  Some men
have tried to -interest- me with their technique, their care and
consideration, but not Mulder.  He takes my clit between his fingers,
my mouth beneath his own, and I can say that's more than interesting
enough for me.

It doesn't take long, no, not long at all before the heat nearly
overwhelms me.  I can feel him there, beside me, atop me ... inside of
me and I no longer know what I want.  To take, to give, to live, die
... all this and more.  

Later, I might reflect on what we must have looked like while together
like this.  I'm almost sure it's not anywhere near as neat and pretty
a picture as one might imagine, but from my vantage point, with
Mulder's flushed face and taut, beautiful arms enveloping me, there is
no more beautiful sight on earth.  

I arch against him and squeeze him hard, laughing at the surprised
gasp that escapes him.  I do it again, and again, until I lose the
self-control necessary for such focused activity.  He responds in
kind, measuring his thrusts with a sardonic grin, until he too is
lost.  We are no longer in competition, no longer two ambitious people
playing an endless game of one upmanship, we merely -are-.  Together. 
One. 

I feel the burn of sweat in my eyes, so I close them, and listen
instead to the harsh sound of his breath against my neck.  I am very
close, and he is as well.  I pray that he doesn't slow down, doesn't
shift or grow tired, because I am so close, so greedily and
wonderfully close.  My breath is coming out in hissing gasps, and
there are no words between us, no screaming each other's name, no
sweet little nothings of love sounding out between each thrust.  

He's going to come, I'm going to come, so there's no time for any of
that.

It happens almost before I know what's hit me, those wonderful waves
of boneless motion, nearly taking me into darkness.  I know he's
fallen with me.  I can tell by the trembling of his eyelids and the
wet warmth that's sliding down my thighs.  I can tell by the flash,
that sudden inkling of wonder that fills his eyes, and then scurries
away, as if he's been caught thinking something far too innocent for
such a moment.

Far too soft for the flesh and blood woman he's just made love to.

But that look is soon replaced by a sleepy one, and I allow him to
succumb without complaint or demands.  There are all sorts of medical
and scientific reasons why men fall asleep right after sex, and
besides, he's put me in a very forgiving sort of mood.  

With a smile, I allow myself the same luxury, letting myself fall
asleep, curled up against him savoring the peace.  But it's not long
before I awake to a gentle shake, the comforter tucked in tightly
around me and me alone.

I see Mulder, awake and already dressed, sitting on the edge of the
bed, his trepidation plain.  I blink, then struggle into a more
upright position, and give him a questioning glance.

"I checked the office answering machine.   A contact left a message
and wants to meet," he says slowly.  Carefully.  Gauging my reaction.

We were supposed to spend the day together, in bed, perhaps have
lunch, but nothing was definite except that today was supposed to be a
day without work.  I feel a quick stab of annoyance, maybe something
even greater, but I stop myself and think first.

It's only a moment before I make my decision.  "All right,"  I reply
slowly.  "Do you want me to join you?"

He blinks, then looks startled.  "No," he says, and then backpedals
quickly.  "I mean, if you want to, you're welcome to.  But I think I
can handle this on my own.  But if you..."

I shake my head.  "No, Mulder.  I'd rather have my day off."  I look
at him closely and nearly laugh at the relief and the confusion that
are fighting for dominance in his eyes.  For some reason I'm sure this
wasn't the response he was expecting.  Maybe not even from his dream
women. 

He nods.  His smile is a grateful one.  "You won't be mad at me then?"
he asks, but he knows the answer.

"Probably.  Someday," I reply with yawn, as I sink back down
underneath the covers.  "But not for this.  I'm sure you have much
better tricks up your sleeve waiting for me. So don't start feeling
too safe," I warn with a growl.

His grin is infectious and I fight not to catch it.  "I won't."  He
leans in and kisses me lightly.  "Go back to sleep," he whispers and
before I can blink, he's gone.

Gone like dreams or wraiths, leaving behind that empty bed I so
feared.  But he doesn't leave it cold.  No, for even though I'm, at
that moment, alone, I know that I have enough blood and flesh and skin
to warm it for both of us.

And enough bone to rise from it whole.

=========
end

cicilean@yahoo.com