NEW: BREACH OF TRUST 1/1 TITLE: BREACH OF TRUST AUTHOR: CindyET E-MAIL ADDRESS: cindyet@tdstelme.net DISTRIBUTION: Anywhere is fine -- I write 'em for you to read 'em. SPOILER WARNING: En Ami RATING: NC-17 (Language, Violence, Graphic Sexual Content) CLASSIFICATION: V, MSR, Post-Ep, Smut SUMMARY: Post-Ep for En Ami. Dark, dark, dark. Smutty, smutty, smutty. Need I say more? "To lose myself...and Scully. I hate what I've become." -- Fox Mulder in One Breath Disclaimer: Do these characters really all belong to Chris Carter, FOX and 1013 Productions? If so, no copyright infringement intended. Entertainment, yes. Profit, no. Author's notes: This is a story about anger, unbound and out of control. Not a pretty picture. This is NOT a rape story; all parties are willful participants. Absolutely no kiddos allowed, however. Inspired by mimic117's story "False Assumptions," this nasty seed takes Mulder's (and Scully's) rage a few steps further. Without apology, I'm blaming this on you, MB. BREACH OF TRUST (1/1) By CindyET "You may be right, Mulder, but for a moment, I saw something else in him. A longing for something more than power. Maybe for something he could never have." Scully's refusal to see the truth chafes at Mulder. "Let me repeat, Scully, he did it for himself. His sincerity was a mask. Cancer Man's motives never change." Rancor oozes from Mulder's lips, pillorying the smoking man. Fox Mulder is not immune to hate. He almost drowned in it while Scully was missing. "He used you." CGB Spender's offices stand vacant. Stale Morleys paint the barren walls and despite efforts to eradicate all trace of villainy, shadows of evil still linger in the stink of the devil's cigarettes. "Let's get out of here." Mulder turns from the rooms as if from Hell, his shoulders hunched against the fire of his own anger. "Where are you going, Mulder?" "Anywhere but here." Resentment blisters the air in his wake. He jogs down the stairs, never looking back for Scully. She's left staring after him, bitten twice by her trust: first by Cancer Man, who promised her a cure, and then again by Mulder, who promised her espousal. Or had he? She is his constant, but is he hers? How far does "I've got your back" go? After so many years, she assumed their partnership was unconditional. He apparently has other ideas. "Mulder!" she calls after him. Her voice rattles in her chest as she descends the stairs, rushing to keep up. Her haste is unnecessary; she finds him holding the door at the street -- a feeble remnant of his civility. She hasn't been honest with him and now he's balanced atop an edge, walking a thread between reverence and contempt, while hiding his high-wire act behind good manners. "Mulder, I don't think Spender was lying. Not completely," she insists, ducking beneath his arm. Bright afternoon sun jabs her eyes. She squints up at Mulder's disenchanted face. Now she feels anger rising in her gullet, too. He questions her instincts and because she has come to trust his so implicitly, she can no longer trust her own. He's right and she's wrong or she's right and he's wrong -- both things can't be true. "A partial lie is still a lie, Scully. He duped you." The accusation infuriates her. "And he's never fooled you?" "I didn't say that." "Then what's the difference?" "This is about *you*." He grunts the words through gritted teeth. Why can't she understand? He is nothing; she is everything. She could have been killed. He doesn't think he's capable of living without her. Not anymore. "Let me drive you home," he spits before his fury overtakes him right there on the sidewalk. They ride in compromised silence. His knuckles are white on the wheel. Her lips press into a thin line. The trip seems to take an eternity although the distance is short. It scares the hell out of her to see she's lived this close to the smoking man all these years. It frightens her even more to stew in the heat of Mulder's seething temper. Their indignation escalates with every mile. The car is still rolling when Scully unlatches the door to step out. Mulder tugs on the parking brake and yanks the keys from the ignition. He plans to trail her to her front door. Due to habit or due to her recent disappearance, he can't bring himself to let her out of his sight. Not yet. Still, he feels extraneous. Impotent. She betrayed his trust by hiding the truth from him. She didn't want or need him. He staggers in her wake. Let him follow, she thinks. Do whatever he damn wants. Her anger doesn't permit her to care. She never imagined she could be so infuriated by him. He never believed he could love her so much he'd want to strangle her over an indiscretion. Careless! So goddamn careless! Her deceit, her imprudence, they promise to undo him. Her keys jangle as she stabs at the lock. Her fingers are unfeeling, singed by her pique, and she drops the ring of keys on the stoop. *Commemorating Apollo Eleven and the mission to the moon, July 1969.* Mulder's hand swoops in and snags the keys. Without a word, he unlocks the door, swings it open. She is forced to walk beneath the bridge of his outstretched arm once again. She tries to ignore the way he herds her into her apartment. He looms over her, his size increased by his ire. He blasts her like an over-stoked furnace. The drive has done nothing to cool him. His agitation is too much for her. "What are you doing here, Mulder?" Her question locks his legs. He's not sure why he's come. Is she throwing him out? With smooth purpose, she removes her jacket, takes it to the closet. This is her place, not his. She belongs here. Does he? "Go home, Mulder." Her dismissal cracks his patience. Pacing away from her, he rips his coat from his arms and hurls it across the room. It lands on the floor several feet beyond the couch. He spins to face her, hands on his hips, lower lip caught between his teeth. He bites so hard he draws blood. Pupils shrinking to pinpricks, he aims his anger at her. Scully has never been afraid of this man. Never. Until now. His control is so fragile, she expects him to shatter. To protect herself from the shards of his impending outburst, she retreats one tiny step. Her miserable withdrawal launches his fury. He sweeps her mantel clean with the swipe of one arm. Candlesticks and photos thunder to the floor. A spray of glass erupts from a framed picture of the two of them together, dressed in matching FBI jackets, hair flailed by the wind. In the picture, arms pressed from elbow to shoulder, he leans over her and tells her a secret she can no longer recall. She blinks at the spoiled photo and her eyes swamp with tears. He overlooks her regret. Temper unappeased, he heads for her desk, intending to upend the entire thing, spew its contents across the floor. He flings the desk's chair out of his way, causing it to somersault over the sofa. "Stop it, Mulder!" she shouts, alarmed by his intensity. He can no more stop his outpouring than he can stop loving her. She could have died! She could have died! She could have DIED! And he can *not* lose her! The desk wheels into the air, scattering papers and pens, laptop and letters across the hardwood floor. The clatter and crash rings through the apartment like gunshots. The noise shocks Scully more than Peyton Ritter's lethal bullet. She grabs her abdomen at the memory and Mulder catches her gesture. He, too, is reminded of Peyton Ritter, of Scully's near-death experience, of his own absence. She is too vulnerable and he is unable to protect her. The realization blazes through him, knocking the breath from his lungs and razing his heart. He lunges for a table lamp, intending to smash it to bits against a wall. Scully is furious. She grabs his sleeve with her left hand, stilling his arm. With her right she slaps his face hard. The blow burns her palm while raising a red print on his cheek. She holds her breath. Surprise hisses from his lungs. To restrain a punch of his own, he locks his arms around her waist and plows her to the wall. Pinning her there, his anger has nowhere to go. "I didn't know where you were, Scully," he hollers and flattens her body beneath his. To him, her subterfuge is a breach of trust -- the one thing he can't abide, especially from her. She lied to him. She *lied*. "I didn't do anything you haven't done." She balls her fists against his chest and shoves with all her strength. She's unable to dislodge him. He leans more heavily, pumps his chest, his hips against her and she considers kneeing him in the groin to loosen his hold, get him off her. Feeling her leg rise, he blocks her by sliding his knees between her thighs. "Let go," she demands, meaning more than his hold on her. "You can't be with me all the time, Mulder." This is a truth he doesn't want to hear. If he had his way, he'd guard her every minute. He buries his nose into her hair, presses his lips against her ear. He steams her with a growl. "It's my job to watch your back." "You aren't responsible for me. Jesus, Mulder, you're hurting my ribs!" She's not pleading; she's locking horns. She intends to make this man understand she is strong and capable, able to take care of herself. The fact that he bullies her with his size, proving his point, irritates the hell out of her. Ducking away from his lips, she glowers at him. "Fuck you, Mulder." A flush creeps up his cheeks. Resentment sputters his eyes. The situation is intolerable. He is so certain she needs his guardianship he can't release her or the idea that he is her protector. Arrogance twitches his nostrils, heaves his lungs. He raises her off her feet, knowing his manhandling is what she least desires. She will fight him and he will win. With his physical advantage, he'll make her see he's right on this. Adrenaline surges through him, keeping logic at bay. He hauls her down the hall. "Stop it, Mulder! Stop!" She thrashes in his arms, swings her fists at his head. He lets her strike him. He doesn't care when she clips his nose and draws blood. Dropping her onto her bed, he waits while she boxes his neck and ears. When she tries to scramble off the mattress, he latches onto her leg and drags her back. He leans over her, anchors his fingers to the bed and traps her between his arms. She stares up at him. She doesn't move. They are at a standoff. "What now, Mulder?" Her voice is steady. A drop of blood dribbles from his nose and plummets downward, staining her blouse. A pinpoint of crimson. Marking her heart. His jaws clamp shut and his lips tighten. The mattress heaves when he crawls onto the bed, maneuvering himself over her. Jostled by his petulance, they ride a tidal wave of his unfounded fears. He straddles her hips, locks her beneath him and bellows at the top of his lungs, "You lied to me! I couldn't find you!" "Which of the two bothers you the most?" How could she ask that? How could she-- "I didn't think I'd ever see you alive again!" Sweat streaks his face but he shivers. As a doctor, she knows he's experiencing a physiological response to an imagined threat: her betrayal...her disappearance...her death. His body's reaction is automatic. Involuntary. His hypothalamus releases norepinephrine causing his adrenal glands to produce adrenaline. His heart rate, pulse, respiration are soaring. Pupils are dilated, awareness intensified, impulses quickening. Blood sugar, lactic acid, cortisol are readying his body to fight or run. He is a victim of his feelings of dread, fear, impending doom. The longer his stress continues, the more panicky he'll become. His system will bypass his rational mind, move him into an "attack" mode. He will perceive almost everything as a threat, everyone as an enemy. Yet knowing all this does little to make her sympathetic. The pressure of the last few days has stressed her every bit as much as it has him. Unrelenting tension has fueled her body's fight or flight response, too. She is stubborn and has no intention of running from his assault. He's treated her as if she is made of glass and she doesn't need his goddamn coddling. She plans to show him she's not as fragile as he seems to think. Clutching the fabric of his sweater, she shakes him. "I'm still alive, Mulder. I'm right here. I didn't get killed." She grabs his hand and presses it to her chest, concealing the drop of blood on her shirt. "See? My heart still beats!" The heat of his palm brands her breast. Her nipple hardens beneath his scorching caress. He doesn't miss the transformation. All of his anger, all of his goddamn-awful anger zigzags through the muscles of his arms and legs. He dips his head until he is brushing her lips with his words. "He...used...you...Scully!" "So go ahead and use me too, Mulder. Do it! Fuck me." "I..." She can smell his desire, his passion, thick and heady and tempting. But he doesn't move. Afraid to act on his terrible exigency, he stops short of fucking her. "Do it," she goads. "Scully..." "Do it!" To provoke the act, she reaches between them and drives the heel of her hand into his erection. He's hard beneath the denim of his jeans. He's been hard ever since he lifted her off her feet in the livingroom. "Mulder, you know you want to do it." He does. More than anything, he wants to plunge into her. With all of his frantic energy, he wants to pinion her to the bed and fuck the bejesus out of her. Not like the other times they've made love. Not like love at all. This act has little to do with love, except in the most distorted sense. This is about marking territory, domination, possession. At this singular moment, he wants to own her, bend her to his will. Following a convoluted and addled line of reasoning, he wants to assure himself she is alive and safe and his. The relief of knowing she is beneath him, around him, would feel so...God...damn...good. Seizing her breast, he addles her, too, by the press of his fingers, by the lust in his eyes, by the rigidity of his cock against her palm. She squeezes his hard-on and leaches a whimper from his throat. His eyes close, his face turns ceiling-ward and she exults in his loss of control. "Do it, Mulder." Her power over him causes a jolt of pleasure to shimmer between her legs. She craves to hold him inside her. "Mulder..." She will make him do this thing. Releasing her hold on his cock, she fumbles for the hem of her blouse. Mulder's gaze returns from the ceiling, follows her trembling fingers. When her turtleneck refuses to pull free from the waistband of her pants, he becomes overly impatient and grasps the soft fabric in both hands. He yanks the shirt upward, baring her belly, her satiny bra, the creamy mounds of her breasts. The slope of her cleavage invites the tip of his finger. His tongue. His nose. He exhales into the valley of her breasts. With a moan, he sinks his teeth into the plump heat of her skin. She jerks beneath his bite. Pain barks from her throat. A flush of warmth expands across her chest, singes her heart and plummets downward through her body, melting her resentment and spilling hotly inside her panties. Mulder prods between her breasts for the clasp of her bra. His quaking fingers break the fragile clasp, tear the delicate fabric. Shoving the satin out of his way, he exposes her. His thumbs message her nipples, forcing them rise, harden. He pinches them. He sucks one nipple into his mouth, fire beneath his lips, flesh pressed between his flexing tongue and the sensitive curve at the roof of his mouth. His tongue circles, trying to satisfy an instinctive craving. She aches as he draws on her empty breast. She longs to give him so much more. Digging her nails into his back, she tries to spread her thighs, but his knees still trap her legs. She tugs at his belt, unfastens the buckle. Sliding the button through the hole at the top of his fly, she loosens his waistband. She claws at his zipper until his pants open. He groans against her breast when she grasps him through the fabric of his underwear. Abandoning her breast, he pounces on her mouth, plunges his tongue between her teeth. He swirls to the back of her throat, filling her, panting. His fingers dive into her hair, fasten her head to the blankets. Her scalp throbs from the wrench of his grasp. His tongue plugs her mouth and she can't breathe. He is so terribly hungry for her. Finishing his kiss, he allows her one breath of air, then laps her, gnaws at her lips, nips at her chin, her cheeks. "I want you, Scully." He pumps his groin against her palm, grapples for the top button of her slacks. He can't get the tiny button through its tinier hole. His arms shake with furious want. He deserts the button and yanks at her waistband until he hears the fabric tear away. Backing out of her grip on his cock, he drags her pants from her hips, his nails scraping a row of flushed welts down each ivory thigh. Her boots stall him. Leaving her pants crumpled at her ankles, he unzips each boot, pulls one at a time from her feet and hurls them somewhere behind him. He jerks her pants from her legs and then tears off each sock. She waits on the bed, shirt bunched around her armpits, breasts exposed. He is mesmerized by her beauty. Her white skin vibrates his bones. Her vulnerability threatens to buckle his knees. Holding his breath, he traces a desperate line with his index finger from her neck to the elastic band of her panties. Goosebumps stipple her flesh beneath his passing hand. He cradles her pubic bone. Careful at first. Then savage fingers dig into the cleft between her legs. Her wetness dampens his palm, even through the fabric. He can smell her need for him. "Take them off." She thinks at first she has made the demand -- the thought is so clear in her head. But it's his voice that echoes through the room. He stands at her feet, watching. His tongue travels across his lower lip. His hands clench at his hips. She focuses her eyes on the open vee of his jeans and skates the panties from her hips. When the silky garment reaches her knees, he takes over, skims them from her calves, her ankles, her feet. He brings the underwear to his nose and inhales her passion. With purposeful indolence, she parts her knees and spreads her legs, opening herself for full view. She trails one perfectly manicured nail through the curls of her mons until she strokes her clitoris. "What now, Mulder?" she repeats her earlier question, but her voice has lost its storm. Air stutters from his lungs. "I guess...I fuck you, Scully." "I guess so." With one graceful stretch, he hauls his sweater and T-shirt together up over his head. While his face is masked behind his shirt, she inventories the muscles of his chest. Pectoralis major, latissimus dorsi, obliquus externus, and, perhaps her favorite, the linea alba, dividing his torso from breastbone to pubic bone, splitting him into two perfect halves. She studies the rippling contractions beneath his golden skin and waits to feel the press of him on her. Mulder drops the shirt inside out on the floor. Toes off his shoes. Tugs off each sock. He shoves his pants and boxers down his legs. Stepping from his clothes, he closes his fist around his swollen erection. His thumb travels across its tip, spreading the drop of lubricant that glistens there. "Ready?" he asks. "Does it matter?" "Yes, it matters." Slitting her eyes, she reaches between her thighs and dips one finger between her folds. Mulder tightens his hand around his cock. Waits. She withdraws her finger and holds it up for him to inspect. He steps closer. Leans over her. Takes her finger into his mouth and cleans it with his tongue. His cock twitches in his hand, impatient to push into her. Her perfume overwhelms his sinuses, his lungs, his heart. This, this is the woman he loves. This is the woman he wants to protect at all costs. This is the woman he manages to hurt time and again. Like now, he thinks. Releasing her finger and himself, his anger disintegrates. Although he climbs onto the bed, knees between her splayed thighs, she reads defeat in his expression. Brow furrowing, he supposes his earlier actions are unpardonable. He surrenders his resentment and waits for her to forgive him. "Mulder, what do you want me to say?" He wants nothing from her. Not now. He's already taken more than his share. Shaking his head, he can't speak. "Do you want me to apologize? Say I'm sorry I trusted Cancer Man and didn't trust you? Well, I am sorry." Her admission gives him no pleasure. "But under the same circumstances, I'd do it again." Tears shimmer on his lower lashes. His voice has vanished and she has to read his lips to understand what he tries to say. "I didn't know where you were." Drawing him down until he collapses onto her, she wraps her arms around him, listens to his heartbeat, soaks in his desolation. She is strong. Strong enough to withstand their combined disenchantment. She has always buoyed him, saved him from drowning himself with recrimination. "Sculleee," he breathes her name into her neck. "He...he said I'd die for you, Mulder, but that I don't allow myself to love you." "Who? Cancer Man?" Mulder lifts his head. "He doesn't know the first thing about you...about us." "He may know more than you might think." "What are you talking about?" "He said I'm attracted to powerful men." "Meaning...?" "You. Maybe him." The specter of the smoking man drifts between them, dividing them as they cling to one another. His ghost is a rift between their hearts. A fissure that splits their trust. "Did he touch you?" Mulder's fury threatens to return. He searches her eyes, clutches her arms. "*Did*...*he*...*touch*...*you*?" "I don't know." She remembers waking up in Spender's cabin, dressed in her nightclothes. "Yes, I think." She pets Mulder's back. Fiery. Muscular. Safe. Tries to sooth his returning rage. He trembles in her embrace, from anger, from fear, from hate. "Spender was wrong about one thing, Mulder." She kisses the jittery muscle dancing along his jaw. "I do allow myself to love you." Her words mend him, repair his broken trust. Her admission fills the gap between her heart and his hope. "I'm so sorry, Mulder." "For what?" "For lying to you. For breaking your trust." "I'm the one who should be apologizing, Scully, not you." "I don't expect you to be my knight in shining armor." He plucks at her hair. Twists a spiraling tornado into her red locks. "Settle for rusty armor?" "I'm not a damsel in distress." "You're vulnerable, Scully." He releases her hair and strokes her cheek instead. "Whether you want to admit it or not. Demons like Old Smokey, they don't lose." "Stop looking for the devil, Mulder. Cancer Man is just a man." She traces the edge of his lips with one finger. He bends to kiss her. She murmurs against his mouth. "What now, Mulder?" she asks for the third time. "I make love to you." THE END Author's notes: This was a tough one to write. Can't tell you how often I wanted to return our heroes to a gentler sea. But they're adults. They live in a stressful universe. Tempers are bound to flair on occasion. Doesn't mean they don't love each other. And no permanent damage was done. I wrote "Breach of Trust" to stretch my writer's wings. I don't necessarily subscribe to violence or angry sex. If you prefer LoveSmut, "Acquitted" and "Encore" were written for you. If you enjoy BawdySmut, take a peek at "The Case of the Exuberant G- Man." Feedback, good or bad, is welcome on this or any of my stories. Send comments to cindyet@tdstelme.net. Visit my other fanfic at http://www.crosswinds.net/~bluefroggie/cindyet.html, maintained by the stupendous bluefroggie. "Mulder, you're not suggesting that he is himself a devil, are you?" "I'm not suggesting anything. I think the facts speak for themselves." -- Mulder and Scully in Terms of Endearment "People think the devil has horns and a tail, Scully. They're not used to looking for some kindly man who tells you what you want to hear." "He's just a man, Mulder." -- Mulder and Scully in Signs and Wonders 10