Illumination 
by Leyla Harrison 

Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully are the property of Chris Carter and 1013
Productions.

Classification: VA, MSR

Rating: NC-17

Spoilers: a small one for Fight the Future.

Summary: Scully receives a visitor in the night.

Timeline: sometime in mid-sixth season.

****

In the dark, he comes to me.

It is always dark, always well into the early morning hours when he
slides his key into the lock of my front door, turns the handle and
slips inside.

I am always waiting for him.

I always hear the light tread of his footsteps as he crosses the floor,
avoiding the creaky floorboards, trying not to wake me.

Such foolishness. He should have figured out by now that I'm already
awake. Already waiting for him.

He enters my bedroom silently, like an intruder, shedding his clothes
quickly and effortlessly, letting them fall where they may on the floor.
He climbs into bed with me, sliding under the sheets and pressing up
against my body.

Tonight is like every other night. I am naked and waiting for him. I
have moved to one side of the bed so that he can have the other side.

The heat of his body presses up against mine.

Sometimes he smells of alcohol, sometimes of sweat.

Mulder can't sleep at night. His demons keep him awake. Sometimes he
runs until his lungs are ready to explode, or he drinks until he
realizes that he never meant to get drunk in the first place. But by
that time it's too late.

This is not like Mulder. Mulder runs for health, for pleasure, for
release. Mulder rarely drinks.

Those things are of the past. Now, Mulder does whatever he can to
escape. And when those things aren't enough, he comes to me.

Tonight I can smell the salty tang of his sweat on his skin, skin that
is so close to mine that I can feel the two surfaces melting into one,
our bodies fusing together like hot wax. I open my arms to him, sighing,
pulling him closer. I brush my lips over his ear so that he knows that I
am awake. That I am there for him.

His nocturnal visits have always been unannounced and are never spoken
of in the light of day.

Even the first time, which came months and months after our return from
Antarctica, he never spoke to me, not before, not during, not after. It
surprised me; I had expected us to finish the kiss we had started soon
after our return. But it was not meant to be, not those times. We
haven't ever spoken about it, never resolved it with words.

That first night, he simply stole into my apartment late one night,
slipped into bed and undressed me. He made love to me with a passion I
did not expect. He surprised me that night, entering me so easily,
finding his release and then helping me to find mine, and then he was
gone, with no words, no explanation, no goodbye.

He surprised me that night, but since then I haven't been surprised.

Tonight he wants my release -- I can feel it as sure as I can feel the
pulse in his thumb as it beats against the edge of my nipple, which has
been hard since I heard the key in the door. He toys with it as if it
was a smooth round marble, rubbing back and forth as I shift restlessly
on the bed, rumpling the sheets.

Mulder creates such a fire in me, such a need, that I cannot question it
or deny it. There is no pretending here, no wonder, only a desperate
desire for an overtaking that only he can give.

Usually our coupling is a sad aching, an intense longing for something
we cannot provide for each other. My longing is for him to take me. I
wonder sometimes if he knows that. I wonder if he knows how I ache for
his touch, how I focus on his strength.

Mulder thinks of himself as a small child, a lost little boy who has
thrown a baseball through a window and is wearing a constant look of
apology. Even in the dark, I can see his apology on his face as clearly
if we were again in the whiteness of the Antarctic.

After that first time, when he first started coming here at night, it
was for his own release. His own needs. And I understood that. I
respected it. I gave to him what he so desperately needed.

Things have changed now. Now, he needs me. He needs to give me what I
have given him.

I can feel his erection pressing into me. His hands slide over my skin,
his fingers trailing along my ribcage. He rests his hands on my hips and
I arch my lower body up for him, trying to tell him without words what I
want, what I need.

But I don't have to show him. He already knows.

One hand parts my legs and I gasp as he shifts on the bed, moving so
that he is lying between them. He has never done this to me before, and
I have not expected it. Then again, I have expected nothing from him. I
have been willing to accept only what he is able to give.

His breath is hot on my inner thigh, and I breathe carefully, trying to
keep from jumping as I feel his teeth nip at the sensitive skin there.
He laps delicately at the skin that he has just bitten, and then without
any further warning, plunges his head deep between my legs, his tongue
searching and finding the source of my need.

There is nothing gentle about his assault. Passionate, yes, but gentle,
no. His tongue pushes its way into me almost harshly and I moan aloud.
He removes his tongue and uses two fingers to take its place. He eases
them inside me slowly, from the tip all the way to the knuckle. My lower
body rises from the bed into his touch, and his mouth finds me once again.

Using his lips to suckle at me, Mulder slowly begins to slide his
fingers in and out of me in a smooth rhythm. I rock against his hand, my
body meeting his thrusts. For a moment I am reminded of the first time
he entered me, hard and hot, so deep that I thought I would cry. He
would not meet my eyes that night, and he has not done so on any of the
other nights he has been here. That night I clutched at his shoulders
and moaned, whispering his name as I smothered my groans of pleasure
into his shoulder.

Tonight I am clutching at the sheets, grabbing large handfuls of the
material and pulling, doing anything to try to hold out against the
assault he has waged against my body.

I can hear his fingers making tiny smacking noises as they push in and
then out again. I clench my inner muscles instinctively and I suddenly
hear him moan, a sound I have rarely heard from him before. I tighten
the muscles again, and am again rewarded with the same sound.

I file this information away in my mind.

Mulder's tongue is laving over my clitoris now, back and forth like a
cat would lap milk from a bowl, and I can feel the roughness of his
tongue against the softness of my flesh. He is determined. He has a goal
in mind.

The goal comes faster than I expect. The arousal washes over me in
waves, and I feel the orgasm come up from nowhere, building and peaking
in a matter of seconds.

I can't help it; I cry out his name, sobbing, and his fingers and his
mouth stay with me until the tremors have slowed. Then he eases his
fingers from my still shaking body. He kisses me gently, right up
against my clit, and I moan from the exquisite tenderness of pain and
pleasure.

And then I feel the bed shift, and Mulder gets up. I hear him pulling
his clothes on even through the haze of the aftermath of the orgasm.

I can't help it. I have to speak.

"Mulder?"

The rustling of clothing stops abruptly. The word is loud, harsh, and
echoes off the walls of my bedroom.

I don't know what I want to say. I don't know what he needs to hear.

After a long silence and no response, I hear him finishing up the task
of getting dressed. He moves to leave the room.

"Mulder, wait," I murmur, and he stops.

I want to turn on the light. I want to illuminate the room. I want to
let him see me, my face flushed with pleasure. I want to see him. I want
to know what expression he is wearing.

"Please don't go," I finally whisper.

He waits for a few long moments. Then I hear his response, soft and
almost tearful.

"I can't, Scully."

"Mulder --"

"I can't," he repeats, and leaves my room.

I lie in bed, still as a statue, and listen to him cross the living room
to the front door and quietly let himself out of my apartment. And I am
left alone. Alone with my trembling legs and hands, alone with my still
somewhat uneven breathing.

END