Night Whispers II By XFBandit drambo@sonic.net Rating: PG Classification: MSR,V Rating: PG-13 Spoilers: Feedback: Sure. Archive: Anywhere, as long as my name and addy stay attached. Disclaimer: Not mine, never were, never will be. No money changed hands, and no characters were hurt in the creation of this fanfic. NOTE: This is not a sequel nor a continuation of my vignette "Night Whispers." This is...another take on a similar situation. Van Nuys, California 3:45am How many times? I wonder. How many nights like this? I sit in my bed, flat on my back, head elevated by a pile of limp, thin motel pillows. At times like these I idly wonder how many other heads have rested against these pillows. It is at once an intriguing and disgusting thought. The television is on. I can't see the image from where I sit; my eyes are tired. It's unfocused, fuzzy, almost painful to watch. I glance at the watch on my wrist. Almost four. Time to sleep, finally. I turn the TV off and close my eyes, willing sleep to take me, to rescue me, praying that there are no dreams tonight, no dreams of my sister...or of...her. Scully. For when I dream of Scully, those dreams take on the air of desperate fantasy, dreams of things that I can never have and yet continue to wish for with every ounce of my being, every single fiber of my soul. Hyperbole? Not me. Never. I distantly hope for a visit, but they're so rare, so... isolated that I've stopped, for the most part, wishing for them. When they come, I accept them. I've never gone to her. She's only come to me. Six times. Six times in five years. Never on my birthday, thank God, or I would assume something pathetic and sad. Sleep takes me. <><> I feel her weight settle on me. I open my eyes in the darkness; it's a full moon tonight (this morning?) and the muted light from the window glistens against her skin. She's naked. My hands itch to touch her, to reach up and glide over her, all over her. I don't move. She is shadow and nothing more, moving against me, a low, keening sound coming from somewhere deep inside her. If I'd been asked to bet, I would have put serious money on her visiting me tonight. She'd looked at me that day...earlier, in the interrogation room. She'd looked at me the way I'd come to recognize as the precursor to such visits. She was magnificent today. The suspect, an evil little troll with not an ounce of compassion in his body, smiled at my partner the way a mongoose smiles at a cobra. Unflinching, Scully stared him down, using her mind and her soul to obtain the confession we needed. Arms folded across her chest, she regarded this...insect...a hawk circling high above a field, a mouse in the periphery of her vision. Only a matter of time. And just as the mouse looks around and senses no danger a moment before the hawk swoops down from the sky, razor-sharp talons flashing an instant before a muffled squeak signifies another meal for its natural predator, the suspect never saw it coming. Protesting his innocence one moment, in her clutches the next. He went without the squeak, but he went. And it cost her. After they'd led him off to the holding cell, I saw her shoulders slump, the long exhalation of breath. She looked at me then, gauging me, measuring me for... This. Without a word we finished the local police's paperwork, filing the requests and the transfers and the reports. Four hours later we signed out, obtained our weapons from the desk sergeant and returned to the motel for a fast dinner. And now... She has come to me. Come asking for redemption, I think. For me to give her comfort. Love. Her hands find the waistband of my sweats and lower them to my knees. Hard, hot and ready, I slap against her stomach. Without a word she aligns me and lowers herself, surrounding me with herself. Her hands land on my shoulders, nails digging into the skin as she takes me entirely. Slowly at first, she moves, raising and lowering, withdrawing me and then filling herself. Once, the second time, I rolled her over and tried to add to her passion. At first, the clutch of her around me felt divine, passionate. Only after a moment did I realize it was fear that was clutching me, not her. Unless she is control -- I stopped immediately on that long-ago night. We pulled apart and she returned to her room. I felt her heavy steps on the carpet through the bedsprings. "I'm sorry," I remember whispering. "I thought you'd know," she replied. "I do now," I answered. And nodded. And returned to the bed. From then on, I have done nothing. The remaining four times, plus this time -- I do only as she asks, only as her body demands. I cannot think of my pleasure, because her pleasure _is_ my pleasure. She finishes, and a moment later I join her. For the first time, she settles against me, stretching out, her body languid and warm and wet. "I'm sorry," she whispers. I don't know why. I'm not. I say nothing, waiting, letting the silence speak for me. I'll listen to whatever she has to tell me, but in these moments it is her control that I need, lest I get lost inside her, lost inside this act we share so rarely. "Next time," she promises with a whisper and a ghost-kiss against my chest. "Next time, you..." I bite my lip, afraid to ask if she means what I think she means. If she does, I won't know what to do. To feel her clutch me in fear -- I can imagine no greater horror. "I want to make you happy," she whispers again, directly against my ear. She's so afraid of being caught, of being recorded on some clandestine device secreted away in a ceiling, in a desk, under a chair. So afraid that someday a tape, a recording, evidence will surface linking her to me in this most private way; afraid of having to defend the smallest joy that we can find with each other when the monsters knock at the door and growl evil, dire threats in our ears. Afraid that she will hurt me...us. I only hurt when she doesn't come to me. <><> FINI Feedback is always appreciated.