TITLE:   Cherish
SPOILER STATEMENT:  Milagro.  Very small one for Alpha.
RATING:  NC-17
CONTENT STATEMENT:  M/S married.  Smut.
CLASSIFICATION:  VRA
SUMMARY:   Post-Milagro.  A continuation of the "Making It Personal"
storyline. Conflict, catharsis, cleansing ... and consummation.
THANKS:  To Brynna, Paulette, Robbie, Shannon & Sharon.  The usual.  ;)
 
 

Cherish

by Brandon D. Ray
 

Maybe I should just have my feet amputated, Scully.  It would certainly
make it easier to get them into my mouth.

"Well, let's just say it ends with you doing the naked pretzel with the
Stranger on a bed in an unfurnished fourth floor apartment.  I'm
assuming that's *a priori*, too?"

Yes, that was indeed my voice saying those words.  Much as I'd prefer
that it wasn't so, there really isn't any way to deny it -- just as
there's no way to deny the shock and hurt that flickered through your
eyes when you realized what accusation your husband had just leveled at
you.

For the barest instant I thought you were actually going to cry, but
then you just gave an agonized little laugh and said, "I think you know
me better than that, Mulder."  Then you simply stood there, and I could
almost hear your voice asking for reassurance.  But somehow I couldn't
give it to you, and after a moment I handed you the manuscript,
suggested that you read it, and turned and walked away.

Damn me, anyway.

I told myself I just wanted you to read the manuscript so you would see
I was right -- that I *am* right, and that Padgett really is responsible
for those killings.  But the truth of the matter is I wanted to hurt you
a little, Scully.  The truth is I was shocked and angered by what I read
in his book, and I was dealing with it in my accustomed manner by
lashing out at someone I love instead of at the person who was really
responsible.

Even as I was throwing the "naked pretzel" in your face, Scully, I knew
I was being irrational.  I knew that whatever Padgett wrote in his book,
it was just the product of his own sick imagination -- the same
imagination which conjured up the image of a man literally ripping the
heart out of another human being.  It's not your fault that this guy
became obsessed with you, after all.

Even when I burst into Padgett's apartment and found you, my wife,
sitting on his bed, I didn't have any *real* doubts.  You wouldn't do
that to me, Scully; not after all we've been through, especially these
last few weeks.  The similarity between the scene I interrupted and the
one in Padgett's book was just a coincidence -- or at least, that's what
I keep telling myself.  I really *do* know you better than that after all.

Don't I?

It's that tiny, niggling shadow of a doubt that has me so upset, of
course.  And which in turn made me rub salt in the wound with that
asinine comment a few minutes ago.  Because Scully, even though I know
that you would never betray the fragile trust we've been trying to
rebuild since El Rico, I can't seem to stop seeing the images which
Padgett conjured up.  The images of you and him, together.

Damn, damn, damn.

Now you're sitting all by yourself in a deserted conference room,
reading some stranger's sexual fantasies about you.  Just like I asked
you to.  I can't imagine how that must be making you feel, Scully.  You
already felt violated just by the things he told you when he met you at
the church, that much was obvious. And reading this manuscript is
probably making it at least a thousand times worse.

And it's all my fault.

Good job, Agent Mulder.

#          #          #

I wish you would stop hovering, Mulder.  It's bad enough I have to read
this crap without you walking by in the hallway every few minutes.

I wonder if you think I don't know you're out there?  I've been able to
recognize you by your footsteps for a very long time, Mulder, until now
it's almost an instinct.  You step into the room -- or in this case pace
by in the hall -- and I *know* it's you.  It's almost enough to make me
believe in auras, or maybe telepathy.

But not quite.

I release a soft sigh and try to concentrate on the manuscript, but it's
not easy.  Not only is the prose dense and almost unreadable, but the
subject matter, quite frankly, makes my skin crawl.

It's not the murders that are upsetting me, Mulder.  Grisly and cruel
though these killings are, they're still just words on paper -- and in
any case, I've seen far worse at crime scenes and in autopsy suites.  I
long ago ceased being shocked at the brutality that humans choose to
visit on one another.  Appalled and saddened, yes.  But not shocked. 
Not anymore.

What *is* bothering me is the way Padgett has depicted me.  The things
he said in the church and in his apartment were bad enough; what he
wrote about me in his book -- well, the only word that comes to mind is
"lurid".

I can't imagine how you must have felt as you read these words, Mulder. 
When you confronted me about this in the hallway a short time ago I was
angry -- angry and hurt that you would question my fidelity like that. 
We may not have consummated our marriage as yet, but I still take those
vows seriously.  I am totally and completely committed to this marriage,
Mulder, and to you -- my husband.  And I was distressed that you would
even think otherwise of me.

Let alone say those awful words.

Now I think I understand your reaction a little better.  The sex scene
Padgett wrote between himself and me -- I refuse to think of it as
"making love" -- there's an eerie similarity between that scene and the
encounter Padgett and I had in his apartment.  To you those similarities
must have seemed even more pronounced and disturbing, since you saw only
a few seconds of it, and of course had no way of knowing what was in my
mind and in my heart.

And in truth, I don't entirely understand my own behavior this
afternoon.  Most especially, I don't understand why I entered Padgett's
apartment in the first place.  My only intention when I knocked on his
door was to return the milagro he left for me, and make it clear to him
that his attentions were not welcome.  But then he engaged me in
conversation, and the next thing I knew I was sitting on his bed with a
cup of coffee, just -- talking.

That's all we were doing:  talking.  And Mulder, even if you had not
intervened, I have to believe that's *all* that would have happened.  I
am not the helpless heroine of Padgett's book, nor do I find him
particularly interesting as a man.  The only man whose touch I crave is
yours; the only lips I long to taste are yours.  And the only man who
can finally and completely fill me and fulfill me -- the only man I love
and trust -- is you, Mulder.

Just you.

Only you.

This was not my fault, and in my heart I know it.  Nothing happened, and
nothing was going to happen.  But still I pray to God that I haven't
ruined everything.

#          #          #

It's over.

The police are gone now, Scully, and so are the paramedics.  You can
relax now.  You're safe.

Most importantly, Padgett's gone.  He almost ruined everything for us. 
Everything we've worked for, everything we've built.  He almost ruined
*you*, Scully.  Almost.

I'd like to find some way to apologize for my blundering, to apologize
for once again allowing my own arrogant blindness to put you at risk. 
You're my partner; you're my *wife*.  But I let that fucking madman get
under my skin and provoke me to the point where my own anger and
stupidity almost got you killed.

Again, Scully.  Once again, I almost got you killed.

I don't know if you can understand how I felt when I stepped through the
doorway and saw you lying there, covered with blood.  I thought I'd lost
you.  After all we've been through and after all we've overcome, I
thought I'd finally lost you.  And in that eternal moment I felt as if
my own heart was being ripped from my chest

You're sitting on the end of my sofa, now, so stiff and still.  If it
weren't for the slow, steady movement of your chest, and the very
occasional flicker of your eyelids, I could almost believe you were
dead.  Again.

You seem so small and vulnerable tonight.  You never seem small and
vulnerable; you're the strongest, most courageous person I have ever
known.  It makes me feel so safe, and even proud, to know that you're by
my side and watching my back.  I would never have anyone but you in that
role.

Do you know that, Scully?  Do you understand it?  Do you realize how
much I need you with me?

Have I ever told you?

Tonight, though, I think perhaps *you* need *me*.  And maybe, just
maybe, tonight you'll permit me to be there for you.  Will you let me do
that for you?  Just this once, just for tonight, will you allow me to be
the strong one?

I sit down next to you on the sofa, and I slowly, carefully put my arms
around you.  I feel your body stiffen slightly at my touch before you
relax into my embrace.  You lay your head on my shoulder, and though I
can no longer see your face, somehow I know that you have closed your eyes.

This is all I've ever wanted from you, Scully.  This is all I've ever
needed.  To be allowed to hold you and care for you when you're
hurting.  The Consortium, the quest for the truth, even the search for
Samantha -- all these things remain important, but none of them has any
meaning without you.  Not anymore.  Not for a long time.

I turn slightly on the sofa and lift you up and onto my lap.  You come
willingly into my arms, resting one hand at the base of my neck and
tucking the other in against my chest.  You are so warm and alive and
vital, and as I lean down to kiss you lightly on the brow, you murmur,
so very softly, "I need to be clean."

I can do that for you.  I swear I can do that.

I rise slowly and carefully to my feet.  Your muscles tense slightly
once again, but then you relax as you seem to realize what I'm doing. 
Your hand slides further around my neck and your grip tightens.  It's
unnecessary, because I won't drop you Scully -- I promise.  But you can
hold me as tightly as you need to.

My bathroom is small and cramped, but somehow I manage to maneuver us
into it -- and then, for just a moment, I have to set you down so I can
draw the water for your bath.

I wish I had some of your nice soaps and shampoos.  I especially wish I
had some of the bubble bath which I don't think you know I found out
about.  I've been intending to stock some of your favorite toiletries,
for the nights we stay over here, but somehow I never quite got around
to it.  It seemed like an intrusion, I guess, if that makes any sense at
all.  Now I wish I had, because I know how much those things would
comfort you.

I know I should feel awkward undressing you for the very first time, but
I don't.  Perhaps it's your own acceptance of the situation, or maybe
it's my own deep certainty that what I'm doing is utterly necessary and
completely welcome and right.  But whatever the reason, I'm grateful for
it.

I quickly dispose of your blood-soaked blouse and bra, dropping them
into the waste basket without a second thought.  Your slacks I treat
more respectfully, folding them neatly and hanging them over the towel
rack before turning back to face you.

For a moment I pause, briefly taken aback at the enormity of what I'm
about to do.  It's really such a prosaic thing to have such
significance; nonetheless, I'm suddenly breathless as I recognize the
line we are about to cross.

Abruptly I feel awkward and uncomfortable.  Trying desperately to keep
my gaze focused only on your face, I question you with my eyes:  Is this
okay?  Is this what you want?  And your eyes answer back:  No.  This is
not what I want.  This is what I need.  And so, eyes averted, I slide my
thumbs inside the elastic band, and slowly, and gently, I lower your
panties down your legs.

The tub is full now, and I bend to turn off the tap.  For a moment I
wonder if I'm supposed to lift you into the bath, but for the first time
since I found you lying in my doorway a smile flickers across your lips,
and you step unassisted into the warm, welcoming water.

I kneel by the bathtub for a moment, finally allowing my gaze to touch
your body.  You're beautiful, Scully.  Even covered in blood, you're
beautiful.  So beautiful it makes my heart ache and my throat
constrict.  Before we were married I never allowed myself to look at 
you so openly, even fully clothed, and now that I have, I don't ever
want to stop.  I don't even know if I could.

You catch my eye, and I see question marks in your gaze.  This is me,
Scully.  Not Padgett, just me.  Mulder.  Your partner and husband.  I
don't really think that's what you're asking, but I feel the need to
reassure you, and perhaps myself as well.  As I lean forward to kiss you
lightly on the mouth, I feel your lips curving upwards against mine. 
And then I take a washcloth and begin to clean you.

The blood comes off easily; more easily than I had expected.  After only
a moment or two of firm but gentle ministrations with the damp, soapy
washcloth, your skin is clean.  Completely clean and unstained, as if
the blood had never been there at all.  Pristine.

Still I continue washing you.  This is not just about the blood, and we
both know that.  This is not just about wiping off the blood, or even
the sweat and grime of the day.  It's a cleansing; a ritual.  And so I
continue washing you, as softly and gently as I can:  Your shoulders. 
Your breasts.  Your ribs and belly.  Your hips and the outsides of your
thighs.

Slowly and thoroughly I traverse your body, taking away as best I can
the darkness and horror.  I know I can't banish it completely, though I
would give anything if I could.  But I do what I can, Scully.  I always
do what I can, no matter how pitifully inadequate my best efforts may be.

Finally I reach your inner thighs, and one last time I pause.  I'm not
sure if I should do this.  I mean, I know I *should*, but I'm not sure
if I can.  I'm not sure if *we* can.  I raise my gaze to yours once
again, and once again I speak to you with my eyes:  This is a
cleansing.  A ritual.  May I do this?  And again your eyes answer back: 
Yes.  Please do this.  Please complete the ritual.  I trust you.

With a suddenly shaky hand I slide the washcloth upwards, until finally
it glides across your core.  I hear a stifled gasp and I glance up once
more at your face, but you smile and nod your head, and I know that it's
okay.

And I know, somehow, that we're going to be okay, no matter what the
future holds.

#          #          #

We'll be okay, Mulder.  No matter what happens.  I know this; I feel it;
I believe it.  Can you feel it too?

For once, I want to believe.

We're lying in your bed now, curled up beneath a heavy down comforter. 
After you finished bathing me you lifted me from the tub and toweled me
dry, and then you carried me in here to tuck me into bed.  You didn't
bother with finding something for me to wear. We don't need clothes
tonight. You took just seconds to slip out of your own before you
followed me under the covers, pulling me close and wrapping your arms
around me.

I've never been cared for like this Mulder.  I've never *allowed* myself
to be cared for like this.  I don't know why I'm allowing it to happen
now, but much as it frightens me to release this much control, for once
my need to be held and comforted has overcome my need to be
self-contained and isolated.

My need to be held and comforted by *you* Mulder.  No one else; never
anyone else.  Only you.  I haven't yet managed to say those words aloud
-- I have not yet even managed to say the words, "I love you."  You're
braver than I am, in that respect at least.  But I'm working on it,
Mulder, and one day soon I will say them, I swear.  Until then, I hope
you can hear them in other ways.

One day very soon.

I snuggle back a little closer, silently reveling in the feel of your
bare skin against mine.  You're spooned around behind me, almost
completely enveloping me with your body, keeping me warm and safe and
cocooned.  I know this can't last; I know that soon, in a matter of
hours at most, we'll have to climb from this bed and face the world
again.  But for now, for tonight, we have this.

We have each other.

At last.

I've been thinking, Mulder -- thinking about something I said to Padgett
yesterday, when I went to his apartment.  Something important, although
I hadn't really thought it through when first I said it.

I'd gone there to return the milagro charm he left for me.  It was a
spur of the moment thing; I was walking by his apartment on my way to
yours and I heard the typewriter going, and it occurred to me that I
could simply return the charm and be done with it.  And so I knocked on
his door.

The thing is, he wouldn't let me just return the charm and be done with
it.  Somehow -- I still don't understand how -- he managed to engage me,
with only a few simple sentences.  Prosaic words about his apartment and
its lack of furniture, and about his writing.  Simple words -- words
which may have been significant to him, but which for me were devoid of
meaning.  But still I couldn't leave.  I felt transfixed.  Compelled.

Finally he came to the point -- the point which I now realize he'd been
working towards ever since we met at the church.  He told me he was
lonely, and suggested that I was lonely, too.  That perhaps we had this
in common.

I told him he was wrong, of course.  Not in so many words, but the
implication was clear:  "Loneliness is a choice," is what I said.  A
choice which he had made, and I had not.  He had chosen to be lonely,
while I had chosen simply to be alone.

I could see that he didn't believe me; it was written on his face and
echoed in his voice.  He didn't believe me because he didn't really
understand me, although he thought he did.  He thought I was in denial,
and that with a little coaxing I could be made to see that he and I were
meant for each other -- or at least that we could ease each other's pain.

But Padgett was wrong.  I'm not lonely, and I never could be.  Not with
you by my side.  I've been alone, yes, but that's different.  And just
as loneliness was a choice for Padgett, aloneness was a choice for me. 
A choice I made long ago, and one which I can change whenever it suits
me.  And now it suits me.

I choose not to be alone anymore, Mulder.

I stir slightly in your arms, to let you know I'm still awake and about
to move.  I feel you tighten your embrace, ever so slightly, as if you
don't want me to escape, but I'm not trying to escape, and I'm not
trying to push you away.  We're done with that, Mulder; I'll never run
from you again.

I turn over in bed and allow you to draw me closer.  The touch of your
skin against mine, the heat of your body, your scent ... all these
things surround me and infuse me and intoxicate me.  Already I feel the
arousal building within me.  Already I feel the desire spreading outward
from my center.

This is not like the night in our office, Mulder.  That night, the night
we got back from the Berquist case, I was aroused, but for all the wrong
reasons.  I felt threatened and possessive, and I wanted to own you, and
so I responded in that way.  I tried to take you and make you mine.  I
tried to overwhelm you.  I tried to dominate you and make my feelings be
yours.

Tonight is different, though.  Tonight, again, I want you physically --
I want you so much it makes me ache inside.  But it's a clean want,
Mulder; a pure want.  Unlike that other time, tonight I long only for
what you can give, and no matter how much or how little that may be, I
know that it will be enough.  Because this time it's right.  This time
it will be for love.

I press my body against yours and slide my arms around your shoulders. 
I can feel you responding, Mulder; I can feel your body fitting itself
against mine.  Your arms are still around me, your hands caressing my
back from my shoulders to my waist, sending urgent signals throughout my
system wherever they linger.  I inhale again, deeply, allowing your
scent to fill my lungs, but even that is no longer enough; I want more. 
And so at last I touch my lips to yours.

I feel an electric shock racing through my body, as if a circuit has
finally been completed.  My lips part with a groan and our tongues meet
-- and dear God, Mulder.  I never knew a simple kiss could be like
this.  Your lips are burning on mine; your tongue is thrusting deeply
into my mouth, tasting, exploring; and your hands -- your hands are
everywhere, touching me, feeling me, holding me.  And still it's not
enough.

I can't hold still, Mulder; I physically cannot hold still.  I find
myself rubbing my body against yours, exulting in the feel of your flesh
sliding against mine.  Everywhere our bodies touch I feel pleasure and
contentment; everywhere they part I feel bereft.  There isn't enough of
you, Mulder; there will never be enough of you to cover me completely.

But I'll make do with what I can get, because even that is more than
I've ever had before.

At last our lips separate, and for a moment we cling to one another,
gasping for breath.  I look up into your eyes, and I see a question
there.  You start to speak, and I shake my head.  No words, Mulder.  Not
tonight.  Words have gotten us into so much trouble in the past.  So no
words tonight.  As strange as it may sound, coming from me of all
people, tonight I only want to feel.

I slide one hand behind your head, tangling my fingers in your hair, and
again I draw your face to mine.  Our lips meet, softly, briefly, and
then I'm peppering your face with kisses.  Your stubble is rough and
abrasive against my lips and cheeks, and I know I'll have whisker burns
come morning, but I just don't care.  All I care about is tasting as
much of your skin as possible, as quickly as I can.  All that matters is
the passion I feel building between us.

You have not been idle or passive, of course.  Your hands continue to
roam across my back, touching and stroking and caressing, and setting me
on fire in the process.  Now your head drops, and I have just an instant
to prepare myself before your mouth closes over my left nipple --

Oh God --

Mulder ... oh God, Mulder ... oh God.  Don't stop.  Please don't stop. 
Your lips, your tongue, oh sweet Jesus, even your teeth.  How are you
*doing* this?  My arms are wrapped around your head, holding it in
place, and I just can't get enough.  Please don't stop --

You lift your mouth away from my breast, but before I can draw in my
breath to protest, you descend upon the other one, and for a moment all
I can do is close my eyes and gasp.  Oh God ... this is so good.  So
very, very good ....

And so very, very inadequate.  I can't remember when I've been this
aroused, Mulder, and I just can't wait any longer.  I've been waiting so
long for this, and I'm so ready.  I need this so much.  I need *you* so
much.  I need you, Mulder.  Now.

I roll onto my back, pulling you down on top of me, and I wrap my legs
around your waist.  Your mouth comes free of my breast, and you capture
my lips with yours and kiss me so sweetly and tenderly it almost makes
me cry.  Your tongue slips into my mouth again in a premonition of
intercourse, and my head is spinning, my senses on overload.

I'm clinging to you for dear life now, Mulder.  You're my life raft in a
sea of sensation.  You're my rock.  You're my stability.  Nothing
exists, except for you.  Nothing is real, except for you.  Your warmth. 
Your weight.  Your touch.  Your scent.  Your taste.

Your love.

And now you're entering me.  At long, long last, you're entering me. 
Filling me as only you can, Mulder.  Fulfilling me as only you could.

Making me whole.

For a timeless moment you pause, and I wait in an exquisite agony of
anticipation.  With each passing second my desire and need for you grow
stronger, yet still you do not move.  God, Mulder.  Oh God.  Please
move.  Please move.  I need you to move.  I try to shift my hips, I try
to create some friction on my own, to somehow ease the ache I feel
inside, but you're too heavy, you're pinning me to the mattress with
your weight.  I hear a whimper of frustration coming from deep inside my
throat, and I force my eyes to open.

You're hovering over me, staring down at me, and yet again there are
questions in your eyes.  Oh, Mulder, do you really still have doubts? 
Have I truly been so hard on you?  Have I  been so distant and walled
off and unapproachable that even now, even as you're already buried as
deep inside my body as it's possible for you to be, you still have
uncertainties?

Can you possibly believe that I don't want this?

Yes, Mulder, I reassure you with my eyes.  Yes, I want this.  Yes, I
need this.  Yes, I crave this.  If I could hold you any closer I would. 
If I could touch any more of your skin, I would.  If I could kiss you
any deeper, I would.  Kiss me again, Mulder.  Hold me tighter, Mulder. 
Make love to me, Mulder.  Please.  Now.

And at last your hips begin to move, and I am lost.

For a moment I am transfixed, in shock.  This is so much better, this is
so much more intense, this is so much deeper and more profound than
anything has ever been before.  I've been in love before, Mulder, and
I've made love before.  I've been with men I cared about and to whom I
tried to be committed, as difficult as that's always been for me.  But
it's never been like this.  It's never been so nearly perfect.

Your movements now are smooth and steady, your heat and hardness
penetrating my body in the age-old way of man and woman.  I didn't think
it was possible to hold you any closer but I feel my arms and legs
tightening around you further, drawing you ever deeper into me in a
desperate attempt to fill my aching need.

My own hips have begun to move, reflexively and involuntarily, and that
just makes it better.  I match your rhythm effortlessly, without
thought, and now we two are becoming one as we move together in perfect
synchrony.  This is sharing, Mulder; this is partnership.  We are no
longer seeking my orgasm; we are no longer pursuing your release.  This
is not about you, and it's not about me.  This is about us.  This is ours.

Abruptly I feel the first waves rippling through me and over me and
around me.  I'm drowning in a tide of feeling, tossed about on foamy
whitecaps of emotion.  I've never cried while making love before, but
tonight my cheeks are wet with tears.  You've filled all my empty
places, Mulder; you've filled me in ways I didn't know were possible,
and in places I didn't know I had.

My body cramps and shakes and arches against yours, meeting you and
loving you and finally, at long, long last merging with you.  I feel
your silent answer, and our climax sweeps across us, buoying us up and
carrying us away, far, far, far out to sea, together.

A story can have only one true ending, but in every ending there lies a
new beginning.

"I love you, Mulder."
 
 

Fini