TITLE: Between Midnight and Dawn
AUTHOR: bugs
EMAIL ADDRESS: bugs1231@my-deja.com	
URL: http://urw.simplenet.com/bugs
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Spookys 2000. I'll do Gossamer. 
Archivists, please let me know where to find my story. 
SPOILER WARNING: Through Season 7
RATING: NC-17
CLASSIFICATION: V, A
SUMMARY: It's a dark and stormy night. Answers are sought.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: Shawne, Branwell and Ambress all lent a hand,
but Kari...Kari went above and beyond, to a place where clammy palms 
reside. 
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story is written in Fic Noir style. It's a 
darker vision of the characters and situations. So, no misty-eyed 
decorating of the nursery in this one. 


*******************
Every word's so...
Every word's so fragile
Inside passion that feels like chasing rain
********************************************


"Where is he?" 

I've never noticed before how vibrantly green Krycek's eyes are
-- they glow like decaying nuclear waste -- then long, dark lashes 
drop to shield his deceit and plotting from me.

"Who?"

"Pick a man, Krycek."

"I don't know where Mulder is." He lets a sigh of regret pass 
through his pretty mouth. I want to slap his lips hard enough to 
make them bleed. 

"Okay. How about your boss?"

"Who?"

"God." I only say that to see if I can get a reaction.

His heavy eyelids snap up. He's been smoking pot. A gurgling 
giggle from the shadows of his couch sounds stoned too. 

I flick my gaze to her. She smiles at me slowly, all promise and 
invitation. 

The smell of sex mingles with the marijuana smoke in the dark 
room. I can't keep a low growl from escaping the back of my 
throat.

The pain of need and despair and longing and missing hits me all 
at once. Lazy decadence never has had much appeal to me -- more's 
the pity, Mulder would say -- but in some perverse way, Marita
and Krycek have each other now, and Mulder's gone. 

We've been at this for an hour and suddenly, I can't take it for 
another second. Harsh, I say, "I know the two of you like to fuck 
and fuck hard. But I'm not that kind of woman. Give me the 
answer."

The word 'fuck' finally wakes Krycek up. "You're sure?"

I press on, even as I wonder to which statement he is referring. 
"Where is the old man?"

His long finger traces circles on his dark pant leg. "He's dead."

"Are you sure?"

"I saw the body."

"Did you poke it with a stick?"

Another laugh from the shadows. "I like you," she drawls.

"My life is complete." I redirect my attention to him. "Are you 
sure?"

Doubt flickers on his face for the first time since I entered his 
apartment.

"How did he die?"

The lashes aren't quick enough to cover the sick laugh dancing 
across the plastic pupils. "He suffered a fall. Men of his age 
should be more careful."

I sink into the cushions of the chair. That damn exhaustion is 
back, with a touch of vertigo. The two of them lean forward, like 
vultures bending from their perch. I sense danger, sudden and 
bright in the dark room.

A pounding on the door sends them both leaping to their feet.

Bellowing comes through the door. "Open up!"

None of us get a chance. The doorframe splinters as the door 
swings open. Skinner, breathing hard, fills the doorway. I bet 
he'd love to do that every day of his FBI career.

I find enough energy to rise from the chair. "I must be going. My 
ride is here."

********

Skinner fumes, fists wrapped tight around the steering wheel, as 
the dark, rain-wet city ripples past the car windows. 

"Thank you for picking me up, Sir."

This time, I'm the one who's surprised. "I thought you were going 
to call me Walter from now on."

"All right."

He huffs out, "You shouldn't have gone with them." He's obviously 
been composing a lecture in his head for the last five miles. 

"I thought they would give me some information."

"Information they wouldn't give you at your apartment?"

I can't tell him I didn't want their stink polluting my home.
That sounds silly even to me. 

He interrupts my thoughts. "Did they tell you anything?"

I'm tired again. "No. Just some bullshit about the smoking man 
being dead."

"You don't believe them?"

He's giving me the $10 tour. We're passing the Jefferson
Monument, its gleaming ivory dome seeming an ironic parody of a 
maternal belly. 

I think a minute. "I believe Krycek believes it. I don't know if
I trust that woman."

"You trust Krycek?"

I turn to look at his face as I counter, "You seem to."

He licks his lips before answering, "When I think his interests 
are our interests."

I lean against the cold car window. "That sort of plotting takes 
too much energy. I just want to find him."

"Mulder or the smoking man?"

That's a good question. One path is to redemption. Another is to 
revenge. If one presents itself before the other, will I take it 
and forget the other?

********************************************
When the slowness of the day is gone
Leaving shadow-like feelings to depend upon
********************************************

After pushing a protesting Skinner out the door, I try Mom's 
house. She answers on the fourth ring. "Yes?" There's a fearful 
quiver in her voice. When did I do this to my mother? 

"Mom, it's me."

"Dana? What's wrong?"

What's the one answer to that question? I'm stumped.

"Dana?" She's insisting I respond. 

"I left a message earlier--"

She clears her throat and I can see her pushing herself up in
bed, arranging the pillows. "Yes. I got home late. I thought 
you'd be in bed--"

"I just got home myself--"

"Dana, what's wrong?"

I've pulled the objects out of my trench coat pockets, laying them 
on the desk, and have been toying with them. I click the lamp on 
to watch as my fingers dance over them. 

My badge. I slide a fingertip across the smooth plastic and then 
skip it over the barrel of my gun. I pick up a small, rubber 
figure shaped like an alien that glows iridescent purple in the 
dim light. I was going to give it to Mulder when he got back from 
Oregon. I twist the creature's arms behind its back.

"Dana," she prompts me, her tone heavy with a mother's patience. 
"Have they found Fox?"

I realize I've been chewing on my lower lip. The pain is sharp. 
"I--no, Mom." 

She releases a breath. "Oh. I'm sorry, Dana. I'm sure--"

"Mom, there's something more." My words begin to tumble out. 
"Something's happened. Something that wasn't supposed to ever be 
able to happen to me--"

"A baby?"

Damn. She's good. But I expected nothing less from my mother. I'd 
been avoiding her for days because I knew she'd guess. All it 
would take would be one long, slow body-length glance and my 
poorly acted response to 'How're things?' 

Even now I feel this incredible urge to slam the receiver down 
like a prank caller. 

Or talk and talk and talk...I'm suddenly tired of pretending I
can keep secrets from the men who lurk even in the shadows of my
mind. 

"Yeah, Mom. A baby."

********************

When I finally rest the hot, sweat-slick receiver in its cradle
an hour later, the exhaustion returns. I should try to sleep. The 
rain pounding against my windows has lulled my senses into a stupor. 

Listlessly, I rise from the chair and go to my bedroom. I catch 
sight of myself in the large mirror over the bureau as I open a 
drawer to find fresh pajamas.  

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I stare back at my crumpled 
figure. My black wool trench envelopes my body. A small white face 
peers out from under a limp orange screen of hair. My roots need 
to be touched up. My gaze twitches away but not fast enough to 
stop the memory from rushing back. 

I've decided that was the night we made our baby. 

"Scully, turn around. I want to watch you watch."

After a few grumbling protests, I'd repositioned myself. As he 
scoots to support himself on the headboard, I straddled him, my 
back to his heaving chest. With his sex-befuddled face resting on 
my shoulder, our eyes met in the mirror and dropped together. His 
erect penis rose from the curls under the swell of my lower
belly. I felt the urge to stroke him...and gave in to it.

He groaned. The sound passed through my body -- slow beats on a 
drum. 

I joined in -- feeling the heat rising from between my legs, the 
vibration in my pubic bone, our hips followed my strokes together 
-- it was my cock. 

Our eyes met again and we grinned at each other. 

"Yes," we whispered together. 

His hands rose from my waist to cradle my breasts. 

"Mine." I smiled at the pleasure in his voice...and then matched 
his groan as he traced the outline of my nipples.

Rising up on my knees, I sank down onto our cock. 

Moments ticked slowly by, his large hands under my breasts 
supporting my rise and fall. 

Usually my eyes are closed, letting the sensations of fullness and 
pressure overwhelm me. That time, I couldn't tear my gaze away 
from the place where my body swallowed what seemed to be an 
impossibly huge cock again and again. 

On top, pressing Mulder down to the pillows, I was powerful -- 
dominant. 

It was my turn. "Mine," I told him.

But I became disconnected to me as we became one body -- an
eight-limbed Shiva.

The swell of need rose but my orgasm was too far off. I wanted to 
feel my own nerves. I had to banish the image on the wall and be 
fucked. 

Reading the discontent in my low groans, he reached down to
stroke my clitoris. Our chests rose together, caught a breath 
-- a hitch...

No. 

Make them go away.

I'm a black-robed figure hunched on the edge of the bed, holding 
my eyes wide open to the point of tears, trying to block out the 
images. I have to remind myself: I'm alone -- alone -- alone. 

Squeezing my eyelids shut, I flop back on the bed. 

I can't stop the memories any more than I could stop my orgasm 
then. We fed back and forth, "Yes, yes, yes, yes," giving over to 
the hermaphroditic spell of mutual sensation.  

I went limp, held fast to his surging hips only by his tight grip 
on my ribcage. When he came, his semen was an exploding star: 
fragments of life and energy seeking a nursery to incubate a new 
planet. 

That was the moment I always felt a stab of anger; the moment
when I had to admit that wasn't going to happen.

I keep my eyes tightly closed, trapping that night -- that
moment. Fresh sweat forms between my breasts. My hands tentatively 
push up my sweater, graze across my stomach, and down under the 
waistband of my pants.  My skin chills. Nothing. I feel nothing. 
Neither desire nor the stir of a growing fetus. The slight swell 
low on my pelvis is as firm and still as touching a cold boulder. 

I've taken the word of doctors and tests, both of which have lied 
to me in the past. But I cannot imagine the depths of a despair 
that would come with finding my womb was as empty of life as the 
other side of my bed. 

The ringing phone startles me, jolting me upright. 

"Hello?"

Oil slides down the phone line. "Agent Scully, it's Alex Krycek."

"What?" 

"I've been thinking--" I bet he has. "I can tell you where 
Spender's body was. You can check for yourself."

"Why haven't you checked it out yourself?"

He chuckles. "I don't possess your curiosity." He affects 
indifference. "If you're no longer interested--"

"Where?"

****************************************
And the tease cries,
Weeping listless laughter,
Always thirsty like an attractive flower
****************************************

I've been directed to an apartment at the Watergate. I vaguely 
remember it being Fowley's home, but I don't question these 
people's odd dwelling choices. 

This is dangerous. More dangerous than going on a field trip with 
Krycek and Covarrubias. Mulder would kill me. Skin...Walter would 
too, if he caught me. I'm a bad girl. 

Well, it's too late to change that character flaw now. 

The lock opens after a few scrapings with a tool from Mulder's 
picking kit. I stand in the doorway for a bit, assessing the 
scene. The room smells like catacombs: dust and death. 

I try the light. Nothing. The old man must not have had automatic 
bill paying. 

I wait, and when my eyes have adjusted to the dimness, I move 
slowly through the rooms, finding no signs of life or a body. 

As I head to the front door, darkness descends, swathing the room. 
I must sink into a chair. Drowsiness settles on me like a thick, 
black cloth. 

Panicked, I try to fight, but to no avail. I remember this same 
sensation in the car as Spender serenely steered down the road 
into the night. 

"Hello, Dana. How good of you to come calling."

I force my head to turn. He's lying on the floor beside the
chair, in a tattered, gray robe, wrinkled hands crossed over 
his slightly distended belly.

He sighs. "No one comes. No one cares. You care, don't you,
Dana?"

I would spit but my mouth is completely dry. "No, I never will," 
falls like grains of sand from my cracked lips.

"Then why are you here?"

I force out, "I want to know why, old man. Why you did this to 
us."

He doesn't move from his prone position but his gaze slides over 
me to rest on my stomach. I realize I've been clutching my coat 
tight around me as armor. 

"I've always had your best interests at heart--"

"Did you do this to me, you bastard?" I yell, the words bouncing 
off the blank, shadowed walls. 

"You curse the man who you think gave you a gift?" He seems 
puzzled. 

Through tight lips, I ask one more time, "Did you do this to me?"

The effort of shaking his head seems to great, so it only wobbles 
slightly on his stem of a neck. "No, I fear not."

"Then who--what did?"

He cast his eyes to the ceiling. "The Lord giveth and the Lord 
taketh away," he says as he reaches up to touch the tracheotomy 
tube in his windpipe. 

I pause; a part of me horrified at his evocation of the Lord's 
name and another part rising in hope. 

He rambles on, "A power I was foolish enough to try to control. A 
power that maddened Fox. A power that caused the seas to bleed. 
The power that brought an old man to your side -- brings this old 
man to you now --"

"God?"

He can barely shrug. "Perhaps. Perhaps something you named God. 
All I know is I was foolish to cross that power."

From nowhere, a gale of hysterical laughter rises in me. He joins 
in, his chuckles weak and wheezing. 

"Are you real, Spender? Are you telling me the truth?" 

His smile would be described as loving on any other lips. "Do you 
believe, Dana Scully? Mulder's not here for you to impress. You 
can tell me the truth."

The laughter is wiped away and I feel sudden tears burning my 
eyes. I listen to see what my voice will say. 

"Yes. I believe."

He smiles again, with the light of a child. "Oh, good. We can go 
to sleep now."

He closes his heavy eyelids and mine have to follow. 

************************************************
When the danger in the touch is gone,
Changing delicate evenings to reflecting ones...
************************************************

"Scully? Scully?"

His warm fingers tap me awake. 

"Mulder?"

I struggle from the chair and blink in the cool light of dawn. I 
glance around the dusty room. No Mulder.

I call out anyway. "Mulder?"

There's no body on the floor. No trace of one. 

I hurry from room to room, knowing I'll find nothing. 

Frustration and rage whirl together, causing that damned vertigo 
to come back. When I lean against the wall for balance, I feel
his light touch again.

I whirl, crying out. "Mulder!"

There it is again...on my abdomen. 

My eyes widen, and my hands slide under my sweater to return the 
touch. It's coming from within. 

Our baby has awakened. 

I say the words again, loud and strong in the empty room. "Yes, I 
do believe." 

*******************************
You sleep like breathing,
You sleep like breath...gently
*******************************
The End
********

FURTHER AUTHOR'S NOTES: If I were Scully, I'd go look for the old 
man. I'm not, so I wrote a fic instead. 

The title is from a Film Noir. No, I couldn't come up with a 
better one on my own, so I had to steal it. Oh, the song is
Alison Moyet's 'Sleep Like Breathing' 

Pass a word my way: bugs1231@my-deja.com
More bugsfic at http://urw.simplenet.com/bugs
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