Three Times I - Overture

Overture

It's been three days since I last saw her, almost 48 hours since she told Skinner that she couldn't speak to me.

Fine's just a word and not one that I can imagine applying to her leaving home with the Smoking Man. If she'd been fine, she would have had time to talk to me.

Since then, I've had plenty of time to think. Easily enough time to lock onto a single idea. Hours to convince myself, beyond reasonable doubt, that her hurry to get off Skinner's phone line indicated that there was a gun to her head, certainly metaphorically, and perhaps literally.

It's strange. I hadn't realized how many people had died until I went looking for allies. Which sounds dumb, now I think about it, but I guess just shows how much this weird little world is Scully's and mine alone, and how somehow that had seemed to be enough. I refuse to think that my life might narrow even further.

There were others. Deep Throat came and went in a matter of months. X has been dead for four years. The English man died in his own limousine; the others were torched on an abandoned airfield. Dad was shot; Mom killed herself.

Skinner has no names in his address book. Krycek's nanites have made him persona non grata even for his old contacts, those friends of a friend of the conspiracy.

Which leaves the Cigarette Smoker, Krycek and me.

When will we three meet again?

The last person Scully spoke to at the FBI was the assistant she asked to identify a phone number. Marion tied it to a building somewhere in DC. Trouble is, when we went hunting, the computer record of the search no longer existed. And helpful as Marion is, her memory stopped at the fact of the check, even that having stuck in her mind only because of the rarity of Scully calling rather than me. The search had yielded some place that sounded like a government office or something, somewhere off the Beltway. Maybe. Or was that a different search?

A straight kidnap scarcely seemed to be CGB's style, but then I never imagined that "going quietly" was Scully's.

Frohike's voice buzzes in my ear, sounding more like an angry wasp nest every time he tries to get my attention. "Mulder."

"Hmm?"

"Get some rest."

Very funny, Melvin. I salute him with the can of pleasingly cold iced tea, take another sip and return it to rest against my temple again. It's not really the ideal breakfast, but is it really breakfast if I haven't been to bed?

Impotence scares me into wanting vengeance and if I could find any suitable target they'd be full of holes by now. I'm ashamed to see that Frohike actually squirms when I look back his way, as if he can read my thoughts, or, at least, my expression.

In my more optimistic moments, I can imagine the phone ringing. I can imagine an anonymous email or a single sheet of paper slipped under my door. I can imagine the Smoker's ransom demand.

And then I can't. Because I've got nothing to trade. Sure, I'd sell my soul, but how much is that worth? There was a time when it might have attracted a few bidders, but there's no one left.

The phone sings to life and I try to prepare myself for someone trying to sell me windows or, better still, a home security system. Because, if I let myself think it's "the" call, I could rip the line out in my anxiety to pick it up.

"Mulder."

"It's me."

"Where are you?"

"I'm on my way home."

She sounds so calm, so normal, and I'm already digging frantically into years of FBI training to try and make sense of the situation. "How? Where are you? Are you alone? Did you escape? Do you need a team?"

"Escape? No. I've got my own car. I don't need any help. I... I'll explain it all when I get back. I'm fine."

Well, I'm not. And a sickening realization hits. "You went with him, didn't you?"

"He offered me something, something incredible." A moment's hesitation, and I recognize the odd edge to her voice, I hear the way her quiet, professional calm is spiked with breathless excitement. "I've got the disk." She pauses again, waiting for my reply, but I haven't got one. So she tries a new tack. "Can you get the Gunmen to meet me?"

"They're already here."

"I'm about two hours away."

I ought to ask her what the hell she's talking about. An incredible disk? But somehow I doubt that there's anything as incredible on the disk as the revelation that not only did she go quietly, she went deliberately. "Two hours," I repeat to her. And the disconnection seems so wrong that I know that I ought to call her back, but I just can't think of anything to say.

The three men stare up at me, expectant, hopeful. "She's on her way here. She needs your help, with some sort of disk."

"How is she?"

And I can't offer more than a shrug. She's fine. Whatever that means.

Frohike's reading my mind again. I can tell he is, he looks shocked by what he sees. By me? I think so.

Melvin doesn't insist I read his mind, instead he states the obvious. "But she's safe, that's the important thing."

Yeah, I guess. "I'm going to take a shower."

"Good idea," growls Byers, and I can't help but smile a little at the earnest "straighten up and fly right" expression he's directing my way.

Ah, John - if only you knew. If only you knew how close I am to exploding, trashing the place, hitting the nearest bar and knocking back a bottle of liquid courage before I even think about looking at her.

She's safe and that's the important thing.

So, that's all fine then.

Two hours to suck it up and deal with it. Easy.

It's actually more like three hours before she arrives.

And that's fine, too. A leisurely shower, a shave, a ten minute power nap, a taste of bile in my throat and no saltwater in my eyes, and I'm ready for business. All I've got to do is keep my mouth shut.

Frohike looks suspicious, and I don't blame him.

They've been busy, animated hand gestures as they tell me far more than I ever wanted to know about all the formats and encryptions that they're ready to handle. If Scully's got the disk, they've got the technology.

"I trust you." I remind them.

Not that they need the reminder. They've spent most of the last two days on my Scully snipe hunt.

We never did find out who Cobra was. Is? Whatever.

We never did find out whose cell phone Scully used to call Skinner. Not that it mattered, it was switched off by the time I started to chase it. We didn't find the Bureau fleet car Scully was driving the night she left town.

Doubtless, Scully can fill me in on the details.

I recognize her knock on the door and have to unclench my fist before I can work the latch.

I still don't have a clue what to say, so I'm turning away before she takes her first step across the threshold. I think I'll go and make some coffee.

Scully follows me into the kitchen. I guess I should have anticipated that.

"Mulder."

She waves a mini disk at me like it's a crucifix and I'm the vampire. I wonder if she's expecting me to burst into flames. "What's on it?"

"It could be a cure for cancer. More. He used it to cure that boy. He..."

"Is Cobra dead?"

She flinches. Good. I'd hate to think I'd lost the ability to surprise her. "Cobra?"

"The Gunmen traced your replies to his emails."

"Not my replies."

Well, at least that's one thing she hasn't been hiding from me. "No. But Cobra didn't know that."

Her voice sounds very small, like I'm only hearing the echo from a long way off. "Someone shot him."

"But let you keep the disk?"

She stares at me, her mouth drifts open.

I can't even look at her now. I give the coffeemaker more attention than it deserves. Which works, because by the time I turn around, Scully has vanished into the living room and is listening to the Gunmen explain that just because they couldn't read it the first time, it doesn't necessarily mean that there's nothing there.

The presence of the Lone Gunmen is more than mere technical necessity - they've slipped without comment into the task of emotional buffer zone. Chaperones, perhaps, I wonder if they fully appreciate their roles. Probably.

After all, they were with me for most of the time she was missing, trying to simultaneously track Scully's Bureau-issued car and her credit cards, and go cyber-hunting for Cobra. More significantly, they got to witness the embarrassingly stagnant phase when I kept myself busy by trying to sell my soul to the highest bidder, only to find out how short my list of contacts has become.

Scully flits in and out of the huddle around the computers. Three different models in case of obscure compatibility issues, they point out.

Stepping out of the circle again, her eyes flick in my direction. The doorway's a good place for hovering, and stretching, and pressing, I should have gone for a run, burned off the excess energy before she arrived.

"Third's a charm," suggests Byers. They've abandoned the drive in the second machine as incompatible. "Software re-configurable heads on this one. Even if the data's not on the standard tracks we'll know it's there, and then it's just a matter of homing in."

Langly swallows, I guess he's unconvinced by Byers' display of optimism. Frohike urges him on.

None of them want to admit failure. None of them want to give in. In the end, Frohike breaks ranks to tell her that there's nothing there. The others swiftly back him up.

Scully argues that it's impossible, and queries their methodology. Frohike looks at me for advice. All I have to do is blink and the Gunmen take that as permission to leave. I admire their political skills as they politely close their conversation with Scully by offering to find more hardware.

Logically, she probably recognizes that they are lying, or at least prevaricating. Nonetheless, she nods, as if she believes that there's still a chance.

As soon as we are on our own, she begins the formal debriefing for my benefit. My Road Trip with CGB Spender by Dana Scully.

She tells me all about it, how she saw the prize and decided to gamble. When she'd lied about her plans, her motives had been pure. Of course.

Scully was going to save the world, starting with the Smoking Man.

I can't listen to any more of this. I don't want to hear her tell me again about the spark she'd seen in his eyes. I try a crude change of subject. "Have you eaten?"

Too crude a change of subject, she shakes her head. "I don't want... Maybe, some juice?"

"Sure."

As I turn away from searching the refrigerator, she's waiting in the doorway. Arms folded, I lean back, letting the counter support me, and I wait for her to speak.

"There's his office. We could try."

"His office?"

"He gave me a phone number, I traced the address."

Of course, the phone number that led to some place, somewhere off the Beltway.

Fine. Let's go. Let's go see if they let us past security. Let's go see whether his office is as empty as his disk.

Her eyes are begging me, whether for words of encouragement, or absolution, I don't know. She tries to tempt me with a question. "You don't think we're going to find anything, do you?"

"Do you?"

She bites her lip.

The office is empty. Surprise.

As empty as the disk. As empty as the Smoker's promises.

She's still resistant to that. She looked into his eyes, saw a glimmer of humanity.

What the hell does she expect me to say?

Her car's at my place, she opts to collect it tonight rather than let me drop her off at her own apartment and deal with it tomorrow.

"I knew the risks, but I had to try. You understand?"

And I find myself nodding, because truly, I do understand. About hope. What I don't understand is why she can't let it go. Why she can't accept that I'm not the only pawn in these games, that the Smoking Man used her to catch and kill Cobra, and maybe, if he didn't already own them, the files on Cobra's disk.

"You weren't there. You didn't see him, hear him."

"Judge him by his actions."

"But, he seemed..."

And now it's too much, and the words boil over. "That's how con men work."

She slumps into silence, and I get the briefest glimpse of misty, unfocused eyes before she shifts them to stare out of the car's window.

The drive takes too long for comfort but not long enough for either of us to feel obliged to speak again.

When we finally arrive home, Scully starts to open her door, but I can't move. Good detective that she is, she spots the anomaly, and settles back in her seat. "Mulder?"

"Why?"

"I told you."

I'm having trouble breathing, I have to let my eyes drift shut to get my focus back, "Yeah. Because it was worth it." It takes conscious effort before I can release my death grip on the wheel. I slide my fingers over the door handle and that's unreasonably hard too, as if my next move might twist the key to heaven or hell.

Inevitably, I go for the high-risk strategy. "Do you want to come in?"

Inevitably, so does she.

I try to play it cool, wishing I was a cat, graceful and unconcerned, wishing I could act like I'm oblivious to her presence. Even though I swear I can hear every beat of her heart, feel the air current created by every breath she takes.

She follows me inside, suggesting we order food. I guess it's been a while since she ate. It's been a while for me, too.

The apartment's lit only by the glow of the aquarium. It suits my mood. Scully seems to sense it, nodding and backing slowly away from the light switch. She looks a little nervous, a lot nervous actually. As if she's not quite sure what she's agreeing to.

I finally get that coffee that I wanted hours ago, chasing it down with fruit juice and water. My headache's pounding. All I need - dehydration.

The pizza arrives, and I supply cold beer as a side order. Scully accepts it a little too gratefully for my liking. I guess we're both chasing the normal a little too hard.

We eat without conversation. I'm not sure if can taste it, but I guess it's food, so I eat it anyway. We retreat to opposite ends of the couch, leaving The Simpsons free to engage in animated argument.

My one-track mind gets stuck in the same old groove and somehow the words escape from my lips, against my will.

"I don't understand why you're alive." I keep my eyes on the TV screen. I don't dare look at her. "You told Skinner you couldn't talk to me." I shouldn't even be trying to tell her this. "I thought...." And my voice fades out because I really can't go any further.

"That he'd taken me," she completes the statement on my behalf.

I push my plate away.

And she follows my lead, and I notice that she's scarcely touched her half. I guess he kept her fed, and probably on better fare than this. She tries to understand what she missed while she was away. "Skinner didn't agree?"

"He said there was nothing he could do. Nothing I could do, either." And I can't help but snort out a laugh at that. "He was right."

"You said you understood."

"That if you'd been killed it would have been worth it?"

"Mulder?"

"And that I wouldn't need to know why you'd died?"

She hesitates, and there's righteous indignation in her reply. "If he'd offered the deal to you, you'd have gone. It made sense."

"Hustles always do."

"But he seemed....."

"He told you something you want to hear, and looked in your eyes as he did it. The perfect con."

"I knew that he might be lying."

"But you wanted to believe him, so you did."

I don't want to talk about it. It's not as if she doesn't know how con tricks work. She's seen victims before. She's seen me get fooled before. Why should she be immune?

If she starts another reply with the word but, I swear I'll throw her out of here. I just don't want to talk about it anymore. I don't want to hear about it.

"But you'd have taken those odds. If there had been any chance."

"Then why wasn't that the message on my machine?"

"I thought you might try and find me."

"And if you said there was a 'family emergency' I wouldn't?" She looks away from me, and for some reason that just encourages me to attack. "I called your mom." I can hear the air leaving her lungs. "Don't worry, I called her again this afternoon to say you were on your way home."

Oh, look at that, I think I've actually drawn blood.

I didn't mean to hurt her, just get her attention. Why am I lying? Of course I meant to hurt her, punch a neat little puncture in that bubble of certainty that she wears.

Her shoulders slump and she's deflating even faster than I'd expected. When did I get this fucking callous?

"Scully." I slide down to my knees, on the floor in front of where she's sitting on the couch. And it's not the most comfortable position but it seems appropriate somehow. "It's OK. You came back. You made it back."

I can barely hear her through the hiccups in her breathing, but she says something about Cobra not being so lucky.

"Not your fault," I tell her. Well, it's not. We make choices all the time. Life and death decisions, for ourselves, for other people. The bad guy is still the bad guy even if the good guy makes the wrong call.

And she pulls me closer and I murmur vague reassurances, whether to her or to myself I'm not quite sure.

"I looked into his eyes."

No, not again. I can't listen to that again.

And I guess she must feel me squirming away from her because she holds me tighter, her fingers locking vice-like around my biceps.

"He told me something fantastic. And I wanted to believe."

There's more to her words this time, not just denial. It sounds almost as if she's trying to confess something. It may just be that she's embarrassed about getting duped, but I don't think so. There's more to it than that. I think it's got something to do with the way she's crushing me against her chest, something to do with me.

I'm not sure if I want to know, but I guess I don't have a choice. It's who I am, I always go too far, I always have to look over the cliff edge. OK, one little push should do it. "If he'd been for real, he wouldn't have needed to stop you from talking to me."

And I can almost feel her fall before her fingers find the strength to clamp tighter on my skin. "He said you were mule-headed, that you thought you could overthrow the system."

Is that all? I almost laugh in relief. I guess she really thinks I don't know her, and perhaps I don't. But I know her well enough to realize that with those words, he only confirmed her suspicions. He told her what she wants to believe. After all she's seen, she still wants to believe that the men with the power have their hearts in the right place, and that I'm just too blind to see. I should put her out of her misery. "He's right about that."

The irony's not lost on me. I tell her fantastic stories all the time, and ask her to believe. I looked her in the eye and asked her to believe that I rescued her from a spacecraft in the Antarctic. Strapped down in a hospital bed, I gazed up at her, and told her about a monster that could hide in the light.

The moisture that blurs my vision, mats my lashes and my throat tightens, and it's at moments like this that I wish my memory wasn't quite so efficient in feeding me images that I'd sooner forget.

Imagine that, there was once a time when I looked into her eyes and told her the most fantastic story of them all. Something that I hoped she might want to believe. I told her I loved her. "Oh, brother," indeed.

Maybe my mistake was telling her the truth; maybe she prefers fantastic lies. Maybe she read the dilation in my eyes as drug induced. Or maybe I'm right, and she simply didn't want what I was offering.

It's OK, I can live with that. I do live with that.

It's just hard to live with it when I can feel her breath against my ear, her breasts alive against my body, her hands stroking their way along my arms and up and over my shoulders, her fingers curling in my hair as if....

She looks into my eyes; I could drown in those blue depths of hers.

"He said - that I'm drawn to powerful men."

Well that explains a lot. After spending a couple of days reminding myself just how powerless I am, it explains rather too much, and I'd rather not hear about that right now. "Anything he said, he said to divide us, to drive a wedge between us. We can't let him do that."

She looks as if she's about to say more and something Neanderthal overrides my brain and decides to shut her up.

I've done this before, too. Let my lips move against hers, my mouth search out her heat. And she responds like she's done before, by acknowledging me.

But when I ease back, to my surprise, she doesn't slap my face, nor move to pull away. Which makes the experience like nothing that's gone before.

Don't tease me, Scully. I don't think I can handle it. Either get your hands off me, or let me kiss you properly.

She doesn't move away, just lets her fingers play in the hair above my collar.

I can't help it, my head shifts against her fingers, rubbing up against her touch, removing any pretense of the incidental from the contact. And she still doesn't pull away, so I turn my head further and press my mouth against her wrist.

I flick my tongue out to taste her, and she gasps.

"Beautiful." The word escapes from my throat.

Her fingers pull away from me, and I'm trying not to scream at the injustice, and then I feel the light touch of her thumb against my lips. I don't mean to bite, but how can I not?

And she chuckles, brief and beautiful. The sound's pale and uncertain and gone in a flash, but I heard it. I know I did.

I release her fingers, and trace my way along her arm using my nose and lips as a guide because she might be the doctor but I know enough anatomy to know that this route will lead me to her mouth.

Bare skin tells me that I'm getting closer and my lips relish the smoothness of her neck.

"Oh, God."

Thank you, Scully. I needed that. I'm feeling my way here.

Now I'm the one laughing, bad puns are my downfall, even if I don't say them out loud.

Almost there, cheek to cheek, my lips bounce over hers in a glancing blow and she gasps. And I slide my tongue across her cheekbone and she sighs. Forehead kisses have become a running joke - I love your mind.

And I must have said that out loud because she gives the briefest gasp of surprise as my chin tracks lightly against her eyebrows.

She tries to change the angle, directing me back to her mouth and I oblige, another whisper of contact before I wander off to check out her earlobe.

The noise she makes sounds remarkably like a growl.

"Mulder?"

And that sounds remarkably like an order, so I respond.

Another kiss. Innocent, gentle, insistent. A kiss that needs more than mere acknowledgement. This time I need a reply. My mouth persuades hers to open, and I let my tongue play with her upper lip, light and slow, then firmer and faster, until she finally groans and bites down on me.

I turn the kiss over to her and she takes it, her mouth humming with need and triggering sympathetic vibrations in my own.

I think I've got my answer, so I ask a new question. I slide my hands into her hair and let my fingertips outline her ears.

She gasps a breathless response into my mouth and I take that as a sign that I can risk pulling away from her for a moment, just to look at her. I let my lips bounce off hers a couple of times more before I actually move back.

After seven years, it's hard to believe that this is real. It's hard to look at those blue eyes and not see the pain that hides there. I slide a fingernail across the underside of her lashes and it emerges, glittering with her tears.

"I'm fine." She says.

And it's almost too much. I don't know whether to laugh or cry.

"Come here," she adds.

And I nod at the inevitability. Love you, Scully.

And it's too late for me to analyze the reasons or the implications and Mr Neanderthal has punched out my conscience and is screaming at me to mark her as mine.

It's time for me join her on the couch and she takes the hint, making space for me, as I start to crawl off my knees.

A look that might easily be mistaken for ecstasy passes over her, despite the fact that I haven't even really touched her yet. I move to maneuver her body so that she's prone and available, and she complies.

The closed eyes and the out-of-it look on her face probably ought to clue me in to something, but right now I don't care about cause and effect. Except insofar as it applies to her growls.

She growls as I bury her fully clothed nipple in my mouth. She growls as I slide my hand inside her pants.

And I guess I'm too slow because she growls with impatience and insists on stripping off her clothes and demands that I do the same with mine. She growls with frustration when she realizes that the couch isn't really wide enough for what's surely coming next.

The bedroom is a better prospect and I'm not clear on who leads who to the bed. I guess that kind of synergy comes with seven years working together, we don't need many clues.

She pushes me onto my back and this is playing out like a fantasy of mine. So much so that I find I'm staring at our images in the mirror on the dressing table rather than looking directly at her.

I reach out a hand to touch her breast, but she shakes her head, so I redirect my fingers south and she shakes her head again. "Not now," she says, and I guess she's trying to reassure me, that there is a later to look forward to as well. And I wish that Mr Neanderthal would keep his eye on the game, because I really don't want to think about what I'm doing or why it's happening tonight.

And suddenly she's hovering over me and if I'd doubted the urgency of her arousal then I've no doubts now because she guides my cock in a slip slide of a journey over her folds and it's hot and wet and it takes my breath away.

"Oh, God," we murmur in unison. Well, will you look at that - simultaneous profanity. And I laugh, but Scully doesn't, even though she must feel the rumble of my amusement flutter right through my body.

Where are you, Scully?

Psychology loses out to physiology as she slides over me again, and again, and again. My hands fly up to touch her breasts but she rests back on her heels, holding herself just out of my reach, so I have to be content to let my fingers count her ribs.

Her skin's smooth and soft, and it glows in the pale light flitting through the window.

She shifts above me and I watch her breasts sway, and I'm envious of the light that caresses her. Ashamed by my paralysis, my hands drop to stroke her hips and she groans.

"Scully."

She seems to think that's an instruction and her hand slips down between our bodies and her touch makes me hiss. She responds by lifting her hips and guiding me gently inside, lowering herself onto me, infinitely slowly, one lazy inch at a time.

This has got to be an out of body experience because I ought to be a participant but I feel like I'm an observer.

"Oh," she says, and the sensation's close to Neanderthal pride as I hear her sigh.

I just wish I was doing something to deserve it.

I guess my conscience is waking up. Sure, it's been a while since I've done this, but not so long that I've forgotten what's required and even if she wouldn't let me play before, surely she'll let me play now.

But her body's at right angles to mine, her lips are a million miles away. She's up on her knees and the only way to describe it is that she's fucking herself with me. Her ass dances on my thighs, her breasts bounce tantalizingly far away from my hands. My participation in the event is scarcely necessary.

For years, I've had this vague, guilty fantasy that if we ever made love we'd merge. That our bodies would tangle, and our souls would somehow catch alight and meld, and our minds would know the truth.

As it turns out, my erection's on fire and my heart's as cold as ice. How the fuck did that happen?

She pushes my fingers away from her clit and replaces them with her own, so now I've got nothing to do except look at her as she focuses on release. She looks so beautiful as she writhes above me that I don' t know why I've got to spoil things. What's wrong with me that I can't let her have this? Why can't I just bask in the sensations and relish the way her muscles are squeezing my cock?

So, she's attracted to powerful men is she? Did he remind her of her father? Does he remind me of my father? Best not follow that line of thought, I might lose the one thing that Scully seems interested in, spoil the only part of my anatomy that's in contact with her.

What's she trying to prove? That she doesn't need me?

Consider the point made, Agent Scully.

Powerful men? I don't think I can handle being powerless anymore. And I understand why people talk about knowing they'll hate themselves in the morning, because actually I know I'll be hating myself any moment now - but I don't see I've got a choice.

I twist my hips up into hers and she screams, but there's not enough pain in the sound to make me stop. I grab her arms and use them to haul her down to meet me, face to face at last.

Her lips form a slack O as I greet her mouth again, she's breathless and suddenly almost limp with exhaustion, after all, she has been doing all the work.

I flip her onto her back and a gorilla would probably beat his chest now, but instead my hands are molding themselves to her breasts. She whimpers, and I welcome the sound.

Impossible not to revel in this and I do, pushing deeper inside, pressing my tongue past her lips, sliding my fingers through her hair. Her tongue wrestles with mine, then backs away and I tug her top lip into my mouth. So many points of contact that it just makes me want more, and I forget etiquette and let my whole body bear down on hers for a moment.

But only for a moment, not just because I'm crushing her, but because I need to lever myself up to get a better angle to stroke into her. The trouble is, now we've stopped kissing, I can see her face. "Scully?" I try to get her attention, but I guess I'm probably saying it too quietly.

Her eyes remain firmly closed, as they have since we arrived on this bed. Who's she seeing? Who's she feeling?

"Scully?"

"Ahhh," she says.

Which is good enough for me.

So I pull away, just far enough to find her feet and bend her body neatly in two, and she gasps in surprise. And her toes tremble against my shoulders as I push back inside, and she groans, beautifully.

The feeling's so good, so impossibly right, that I think I could stay this way forever, just pounding away, just watching her flesh give way to mine, just listening to her breathing go harsh and erratic. Her head rolls from side to side on the pillow, her fingers clench white-knuckled in the sheets. Her mouth drifts open and my fingers slide past her lips, and they melt as I feel the heat.

But there's something else I ought to do, something I can do now that it's so definitely my rhythm that's driving hers. I can let her body find release. "Touch yourself."

"Ah," she says.

And I stare, fascinated, as her fingers spin over her clit, at first lightly, then harder, then at last they are pounding, swirling and pushing, and she's so much rougher and harsher on herself than I would have ever dared be.

"Ah," she says, and the tremors chase over her body, and the contractions pulse through the walls of her vagina. And for a moment, she's the maelstrom, and I'm the calm eye at its center. And it's such a beautiful place to be.

Then her hand falls still, and the tidal wave recedes, and my cock informs my brain that it's ready to explode when I am.

But I'm not ready, not nearly ready. I want to lose myself in her, forget myself. Forget the last three days. Forget CGB. Forget the attraction of power. Forget that when it really matters, I'm powerless. Forget why the fact I'm not wearing a condom doesn't matter at all.

And it's going to take a lot more than this to make me forget.

I should have gone for that run, I should have burned off the excess energy. I should have flushed the useless adrenaline out of my system, replaced it with a cuddly haze of endorphins and with muscles too tired to make mistakes like the one I'm making here.

Scully's breathing again, I let her move her legs to a more comfortable position, and she relaxes in floppy exhaustion under my hips. I'm not a complete monster, even here, even now. Which is disappointing in a way.

The rhythm's all mine now, no pretence that any of this is about her any more, or even about us. Which I guess means I've managed to turn the tables. She's just as redundant as I was, lying under me, passive and unnecessary.

And I'm not enough of a bastard to follow it through.

So, I have to ask her, "What do you want me to do?"

And hearing her murmured words, is like trying to pick out the tune in the whispering of the wind, because it's almost as if she said, "Let me love you."

It's enough and almost too much. And I'm coming, and the tears and the contractions hit at the same moment and I bite my hand to stop from sobbing her name.

And if she's still here in the morning, I'll ask her what she said.

And if she isn't, I'll pretend I didn't hear.

Go on to read Scully's version in Overture Mirrored