Truce
Chapter Twelve


Disclaimer, etc., in Headers


The windshield, slick from the humidity, refused to
clear with the swipe of her fingers.  She flipped
the defroster on high, then quickly cut it down a
notch, the stifling feeling of heat making her skin
clammy.  It wasn't enough the weather refused to
cooperate; she was so furious she felt like steam
rose from her body, contributing to her frustration.

How dare he?  They'd made progress, *good* progress
on the investigation today, not to mention enjoyed
a bit of a break in the tension between them.  For
a minute there, she'd actually considered taking
him up on his offer to stay.  God knew it wouldn't
have been the most sane decision of her life, but
the Mulder today was the man she'd missed for years
now.  Since way before his abduction, really.  Upon
his return from the abyss of near-death, he hadn't
been the same.  The quips were hard-edged, his
kisses desperate, his attitude relentless.

This Mulder was the man she'd fallen in love with
so long ago.  Still keen on the quest, still sharp
and in focus, but so gentle and carefree when let
loose to do what he loved most.  He genuinely cared
about people, wanted to fight the good fight.

And most of all, he wanted her.  Teased and
respected in the same breath, looked at her like
she was goddess and sex kitten combined, treated
her as friend and lover.  Valued her judgment above
all others...

Except where Robert was concerned.  Damn him for
acting like a jealous fool.


**********


After the second whiskey, he decided to do it.

Whether by some foolish notion she'd return or by a
vague sense of regaining his own identity, he
grabbed the whiskey decanter, avoiding Marvin's
silent admonishments as his friend picked up the
uneaten dinner he'd served to Mulder a half hour
ago.  Without a word to Marvin, he trudged up the
stairs, false courage in hand, and began a holy
mission to find the man he used to be.


**********


Robert wasn't what Mulder thought he was, despite
his arrogance.  She wasn't certain of her
conclusion, but if she looked at it in an
analytical fashion, then there was little doubt. 
Robert came with Skinner's trust and reliance; if
nothing else, she knew Skinner had good judgment. 
Robert *was* ex-intelligence, so he was bound to
play it close to the vest.  If Robert was working
against them, then why were they getting so close
to the truth?  And they were close, she could feel
it.  It was just a matter of putting the pieces
together.  If Robert was put in their path to
thwart them, he'd surely have done so by now.

Of course, every analytical equation started out
with a hypothesis.  Hers began on the assumption
Robert was ultimately trustworthy.  Mulder's
didn't.  And Mulder's relied on variables only he
put any weight into - a conversation laced with
macho preening, the lack of information on Robert's
career with the military, and her use of a car
belonging to the man, which could amount to no more
than a favor.  She trusted Mulder's instincts, but
speculation and imagination only went so far, in
her opinion.

"Let's just say Mulder's right," she said aloud to
herself in the car.  "What then?"

For the first time, she allowed herself to see
Mulder's side of things.  Didn't mean she was
willing to accept his blind conclusion, but for
argument's sake...


**********


"Fox?  Are you all right in there?"

"So this is where my clothes live," Mulder mused
softly, standing before the open closet in the
master bedroom.  Marvin always laid them out, or,
on the days Mulder camped out in the study, brought
them to him.  He heard the door open, and he faced
a worried Marvin, a humorless grin on his face, the
suits and expensive sweaters he'd flung to the
floor in a pile at his feet.  "You sort them
according to color and fabric?  Do you put starch
in my shorts, too?"

"As I'm not the laundress, I can't answer that
question."  Marvin walked into the room, his nose
so high in the air it looked red from cold.  Or
maybe that was the way it looked through bloodshot
eyes, Mulder thought.  "And if I *were* the lucky
woman, I wouldn't bother with starch... though I
might be tempted to line them with poison ivy."

Marvin had huffed around him since Scully left,
wanting so badly to rant and rave at him that
Mulder heard his dismay in every short word, saw it
in every stilted gesture.  "All right, let's have
it," he bit out, bringing his glass up.

"What you did was very foolish, Fox.  I'm very
disappointed in you."

"Yeah well, you're not the only one." He turned
back to the closet, avoiding Marvin's piercing
stare.  "And I don't think you have to worry about
me bugging out on you again."

"She... Miss Scully... is she coming back?"

His silence gave Marvin all the answer he needed;
he felt his friend's deflating attitude from where
he stood, and hurried to forestall any show of
sympathy.  He'd much rather anger than pity. 
"Where the hell are my old sweats?"

"Do you really think you should be drinking so
much, my good man?"

Mulder half-turned, his glass raised in a toast. 
"Yes, I should," he said with a twist of his lips. 
"Now, my old sweats, my little man."  He downed the
whiskey and poured another finger, ignoring
Marvin's instant rush of hot color.

Marvin sniffed, straightening to his full height of
five foot something.  "You have no 'old sweats',
Fox."

Ignoring Marvin's displeased frown, Mulder dropped
to his knees, swaying a bit.  He hadn't drunk all
that much, really, he thought.  However, he *was*
flirting with exhaustion, a malady he was near to
succumbing to at this point.  But he was determined
to complete the evening on the right track, Marvin
be damned.

"I know I have some in here somewhere - ha!" His
fingers closed around something soft and warm. 
With a broad smile, he pulled them out.  The pants
were dark grey and woefully old; an itch of
remembrance tugged at his brain.  One of staggering
on a dock in Gulf Shores, liquor making him think of
nothing more than seeking the oblivion of the cold
ocean water below.  His smile faded into a sober
drop of his chin.

It was fitting he donned his old armor once again. 
But first...

He rose up unsteadily, brushing aside Marvin's
hushed statement of concern.

"What's wrong, Fox?"

"What's wrong?" he chuckled derisively, bringing
his glass to his lips.  He drained it in one gulp
before heading for the bathroom.  "Nothing a little
grooming can't cure."


**********


'What then' turned out to be bad news.  Very bad
news, if Mulder was correct in his assumptions.

Robert was in a perfect position to watch her every
move, and what's more, to keep tabs on a hunted
Mulder who had the means and the geography to
virtually isolate himself from possible harm while
he aided and abetted her cause.  Robert wouldn't
have to step in and subdue, just report to the
powers above. *If* he even worked for Strughold. 
The old Consortium crony had yet to show his face
in New Orleans, despite the rumors that flew fast
and furious of his arrival.

What if, like the proverbial bait, Strughold's name
had been used to lure her away from Washington?  To
lure Mulder out of hiding?  Skinner swore by
Robert's friendship and assured her of his
integrity, but even Skinner could be fooled by an
old friend turned bad.  It was mighty convenient to
have Robert live so close, to have Strughold's
presence leaked to Kersh; moves designed to shake
Scully from her ennui and tempt her with the return
of her child to her empty arms.  More so, it just
so happened Mulder lived around the very city
destined to soon become a beehive of lies and
subterfuge.

Coincidence?


**********


"Just sit still," Marvin commanded, "and no more
whiskey for you." He took the decanter from
Mulder's hand amidst his grunt.

"I can shave myself, Marv."  Mulder slumped on the
toilet seat, his voice muffled as Marvin pulled his
wet sweater over his head.  "I can do a lot for
myself.  I'm good at doing things alone."

Morosely, he stared at the elaborate tile on the
bathroom floor, wondering how the hell he'd come to
this.  Half-drunk, half-alive.  He picked up the
sweatpants from his lap and clutched them to his
chest, absurdly warmed by the familiar soft feel. 
It wasn't a fraction of *her* warmth, but it made
him feel better.

"Look up."  

Mulder did so, his eyes narrowing on his reflection
in Marvin's glasses.  He really did look ridiculous
with that frivolous beard.  No wonder Luquet knew
who he was right off the bat; it didn't hide much
of his face.  Scully was right... it did look like
a -

"Hold still."  Marvin lathered Mulder's face, then
rinsed his hands before reaching for the razor. 
"Are you sure you want to do this, Fox?"

Razor poised above his cheek, Mulder nodded.  "She
doesn't like it."

"It's not a matter of what Miss Scully likes, Fox."

"It is."

"She won't..." Breaking off, Marvin began to shave
away Mulder's new identity.

But Mulder knew what his friend had been about to
say.  She wouldn't care what he looked like.  She
wouldn't care if he was John Robie or Fox Mulder.
She wouldn't come back, anyway.

"I know she won't," Mulder muttered, closing his
eyes as Marvin worked quickly and efficiently. 
"Just take it off."


**********


The rain, slacking a few moments ago, picked up. 
Pounding against the car as if fighting against her
will to get back to the safety of New Orleans.  She
noted this absently, her thoughts a-whirl with
methods, modes and madness.

She sighed, reaching into her pocket for the cell
phone she'd cut off hours ago.  She had to talk to
someone; maybe Skinner could shed some light on
Mulder's misgivings about Robert.  Naturally, she'd
have to whitewash them in Scully tact - Skinner
would almost certainly disapprove if he knew Mulder
was anywhere near her, much less sniffing about the
investigation.  Disapprove?  She snorted as she hit
the 'Power' button... go up in flames was more like
it.

A subtle beep alerted her to voice mail.  Several
of them, in fact.  All from Robert.

Shoving second-hand information aside for the
moment, she decided to go straight to the source. 
Robert picked up after the first ring, his voice
vehement.

"Where the fuck have you been?"

Startled by his use of profanity, Scully bit back,
"I thought I'd let you know I'm on my way back. 
Goodbye, Robert."

"Wait - Dana?"

Seething at his attitude, she almost hung up on
him.  But his instant retreat, combined with his
furious question of moments ago, aroused her
curiosity.  "Yes?"

"Change in plans."

"What change in plans?"  She'd thought her
association with Robert basically over, thought
she'd only have to see him if she needed him.  And
first thing in the morning, she was handing back
the car *and* the hotel room.  If she had to spend
the rest of her time in the local homeless shelter,
she would.  He might prove trustworthy, but she'd
had enough of his omniscient, overbearing eye.

"I caught wind of a party Thursday night, one I
think you'd want to attend.  As my guest, of
course."

"I thought we were through with the parties for
now," she said softly, more suspicious with every
passing second.

"Someone will be there... someone I think you
should meet."

Strughold?  But Robert didn't even know who she'd
come to New Orleans to find... or did he?

"Who?"

"An old friend of mine.  The hostess, actually. 
She's had business with Balfour and Dupont in the
past; maybe she can offer you some useful
information."

A woman?  "She's a friend of yours?"

"We go way back.  I think you'll find you have a
lot in common with her."

Something in his voice... that slow, confident
drawl... layered his words with more meaning than
the usual.  A shiver of awareness raced up her
spine; she forced a calm to her voice, when all she
really wanted to do was accuse him of duplicity.

<She reminds me of Diana.>

"Call me tomorrow afternoon, Robert.  I'll let you
know then."

"Any word on what you've gathered so far?"

He was deceptively casual, and she gave back the
same.  "Not yet.  I'll sleep in tomorrow and catch
a few of the sights... you know, kill a bit of
time.  Maybe I'll have more by the time I talk to
you tomorrow."

"Sure.  Sleep well, Dana." Before she could hang
up, he added, "And I'm sorry for getting so angry. 
I was worried."

"I'm fine, Robert.  Good night."

She was reading more into a simple offer of help
than was necessary, she told herself.  Robert was
doing what Skinner had asked him to - offer
assistance, when and where he could.  That's all it
was.

She craned her neck to and fro, trying to ease the
tension there.  She thumbed the radio on and then
immediately off, hating the sudden blare of noise. 
She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel,
watching the traffic grow as she got closer to New
Orleans.  She made note of the sign telling her the
I-310 entrance was a mile away; she'd be in New
Orleans and in her bed before long, thank goodness.

<I'm not the one running this time... for whatever
reason.>

She pulled into the next driveway she saw and put
the car in reverse.


**********


"Here." A short, stubby arm, complete with fisted
toothbrush, thrust into the shower around the folds
of the curtain.  The thick toothpaste wrapped round
the bristles turned Mulder's stomach.

"I'm not getting laid, Marv," he growled, grabbing
it with one hand while he steadied himself with the
other.

"Your breath smells like a distillery.  It
offends."

Mulder, toothbrush in his mouth, sneered at Marvin,
mocking his words with a caustic mutter. "'It
offends' - what a tight-ass."

"I heard that."

Marvin's verbal slap came from the bedroom; Mulder
could just picture him cleaning up.  Quickly, he
rinsed off, then stepped out of the shower.  As he
toweled off, he yelled, "Don't touch anything!" 
Pulling on the sweatpants, he grimaced at the way
they sagged low, wondering if Marvin had destroyed
the elastic on purpose.  He flung wide the open
bathroom door, piercing Marvin with an angry glare. 
"What the hell did you do to my sweats?"

Pausing in the act of re-hanging Mulder's clothes,
Marvin narrowed his gaze, his haughtiness reaching
for the clouds.  "*I* didn't do anything to that
awful excuse for a pair of pants. *You* don't eat
enough, apparently."

Pinching the waistband together in an effort at
modesty, Mulder clenched his jaw, swooping down on
Marvin.  "Get out."  He pulled the crumpled, two-
hundred-dollar shirt from Marvin's hands and threw
it on top of the pile on the floor before searching
down his whiskey.

"Fox -"

"I don't want to hear it, Marvin.  I said, get
out."

Chastised, Marvin straightened his vest and nodded. 
He walked stiffly to the bedroom door before
turning.

"This won't do any good, you know."

Mulder knew it wouldn't.  He knew his loneliness
and guilt couldn't be drowned in a glass of
whiskey.  He stared at the drink he'd poured
himself before taking a small sip.  It was vile,
and he didn't know why he chose that particular
bottle downstairs.  Probably because it was the
first he'd touched in his fury.  It was his
father's - Bill Mulder's - poison of choice, and it
tasted like shit.  Everything was shit.  Now, with
Marvin's censure and his own fatigue, he was tired
of battling the truth.

Nothing he could do would bring her back.

"I just want to sleep," he said softly, gripping
his glass like a lifeline.  "Can I just sleep?"

"Your bed is ready, Fox."  Marvin killed the
bedroom light, then walked to the bathroom door,
where he slowly closed it until the soft glow
coming from the crack beneath acted as a night
light.  Mulder, once again reminded just how much
Marvin cared about him, dropped his chin.

"Marvin?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks."

"You're welcome, Fox.  Sleep well." He left,
closing the bedroom door softly behind him.

In the almost non-existent light from the bathroom,
Mulder could barely see the huge four-poster
waiting on the other side of the room, the covers
turned down.  He stood still, looking at the bed
across the wide expanse of carpet with no small
amount of dread.  He'd slept in it maybe a handful
of times in the past months, finally giving up on
its promise of comfort to seek out the more
familiar oblivion the couch offered.

It was very similar to the bed he and Scully had
shared that first time in New Orleans, the dark
wood intricately designed and crafted, the mattress
high and so stuffed that to fall upon it was like
sinking into a cloud.  Even now, he wondered if he
could possibly lie in it and not think of her, of
how she looked in similar depths, all pale and
wounded, yet begging for his touch.  He really
should haul his sorry ass to the couch once again,
and leave all the memories behind.  To torture
himself by inviting the dreams the bed summoned was
foolish and threatened to obliterate what little
sanity he still possessed.

Fuck it, he thought, tossing back the last of the
liquor before climbing between the sheets.


**********


Did she really look all that bad?  Marvin stared at
her like she'd grown another head.  Hastily patting
down her frizzy hair, she gave him a small smile.

"I... the weather is awful.  Do you mind if I -?"

"Certainly!  Do come in, dear lady!" Marvin, roused
from his stupor, flashed a smile so reminiscent of
his brother's easy, yet bashful grin she almost
cried right then and there.  Swinging the door open
wide, he took her bag from her icy fingers and
ushered her in.  "Absolutely dreadful weather, I
agree.  These roads at night are no place for a
lady traveling alone."

"I'm perfectly capable of driving a car, Marvin,"
she murmured in a last grasp at her dignity. 
Admitting she was wrong, that she possibly needed a
warm presence, had never been her forte, and she
suddenly felt uneasy about returning.

He guided her into the foyer.  "Of course you are. 
But please permit me a moment of concern, would
you?  I'm from the old school."

She had to chuckle at that.  "You most certainly
are." She shook the raindrops off her jacket,
flashing Marvin an apologetic look.  "Is Mulder
still up?"  She didn't feel like facing him just
yet, but sooner or later he was bound to realize
she'd returned, and now was as good a time as any
to eat her words about Robert.

And admit that Robert wasn't the catalyst behind
her departure.  Or her return.

"Already asleep, my dear," Marvin answered, his
words sadly quiet.  "I fear he imbibed a bit too
much after you left."

Mulder had never been a big drinker; was Marvin
saying he had a drinking problem?  She paused, the
question on her face apparent.

"No, Miss Scully," he said softly, "he was just a
bit down after you left, that's all.  I'm so glad
you've returned."

"Oh." Suddenly embarrassed in the face of Marvin's
beaming pleasure, she took her bag from him and
shrugged its weight to her left hand as she stepped
back from Marvin's probing gaze.  "Is there
anywhere I can shower and sleep, then?  I won't
disturb you any further."

"Are you sure you wouldn't like a late supper? 
There's some shrimp gumbo in the refrigerator."

It was already approaching midnight, and though she
was hungry, she was more tired.  Besides, beneath
Marvin's smile was a definite shadow of fatigue,
and she hesitated to put him to any more trouble. 
His worry over Mulder's vanishing act today was
bound to have made him weary.

"No, thank you.  Just point the way.  I'll be
fine."

Marvin stepped back from her, pausing in speech. 
In the dim part of the hallway by the staircase,
she couldn't see his features clearly.  But after
only a second's delay, she heard him reply, "Up the
stairs, the door at the end.  It's the only bed
with linens, I'm afraid.  Besides mine, of course -
I sleep downstairs.  If you'd like, you can have
the use of mine... but my pillows aren't nearly as
comfortable as those in the master suite.  Made of
goose down, you know.  Bad for my allergies."

"Of course," she interrupted absently, wondering
why the hell Marvin was rambling so.  Seemed her
sudden intrusion had thrown him off-balance
somewhat; it was understandable, given the type of
perfectionist rule he maintained over the
household.  "I'll take the bed upstairs, Marvin.
That'll be fine."

"I sincerely hope you find it acceptable."  He
quickly moved past her to lock the front door; she
heard him set the alarm as she eyed the study door.

Remembering her sleep the night before on Mulder's
couch, she assumed he was in the study, out cold
beneath the navy blanket.  It didn't take a genius
to see he still disdained a bed.

Giving the study door one last, wistful glance, she
headed for the stairs.  "Thank you, Marvin."

"Good night, Miss Scully.  Pleasant dreams."

The good humor in his voice trailed up the stairs,
but it didn't serve to buoy her weary steps.
Thankfully, Marvin left the upper hall lights on as
she made her way to the last room.  If not, she
surely would have stumbled and alerted Mulder to
her return with a clumsy fall.  After the
treacherous ride back - Marvin was right, the
winding road along the river was not a safe place
to drive in a midnight rainstorm - her body was
stiff with tension.  A hot shower would feel damned
good, and she hurried the last few steps to the
door, pushing it open with a sigh.

The room was immense and mostly dark except for the
trickle of light that bled from under a door at the
opposite end.  The bathroom, she assumed, letting
her bag fall from limp fingers.  It beckoned like a
siren, and she walked to it in a daze, not
bothering to turn on the overhead light as she
began to shed her topclothes.

Everything in the bathroom smelled of him.  The
soap, the shampoo, even the warm, clear water that
sluiced down her body.  A flood of tears clogged
her throat; she'd been masquerading for so long as
someone she hated, especially with him.  She was
tired of being strong, tired of disagreeing and
refusing to admit she needed him in her life.

Tomorrow, that would change.  She vowed it as if it
were a bedtime prayer, silently asking the heavens
above for strength.  For if she took that step
towards him, there was no going back.  Successful
in the investigation or not, she knew she'd never
leave his side again.

Renewed in spirit but still weary in body, she left
the warmth of the shower and dried off.  Naked, she
doused the bathroom light, seeking blessed darkness
for her slumber.  A few moments of adjustment, and
she saw the posts of the bed beyond illuminated in
the flash of lightning from the sheer-curtained
windows.  There laid blissful oblivion, for the
hours ahead, anyway.  She slowly walked forward,
feeling her way in the dark.

A rustle of fabric caught her toes; bending down,
she picked up the garment.  At once, his scent
assaulted her senses.  The tears, safely lost in
the spray of the shower, threatened to re-emerge. 
But she wouldn't give them life, instead rejoicing
in the fact that this time, the owner of the shirt
was within her grasp.  For now, she wrapped herself
in its comforting embrace and sought the haven of
sleep.

Approaching the stately, huge bed, she cursed
softly as she stubbed a toe on one of his shoes. 
As she rubbed the smarting flesh, a heavy breath
floated from the depths ahead.  She stilled,
raising her head with a breathy, "Mulder?"

"Mmm." She knew that rumbled sigh.  And the snore
that followed it.

Marvin.  She was going to kill him.

In the morning, of course.  Right now, that pillow
Marvin was allergic to was calling her name.  That
wonderful, sexy, obviously dead-to-the-world
pillow.

  
**********


Ah, this time it was a good dream.  He knew it even
as he dreamt on, smiled as he heard her voice and
smelled the freshness of her skin.

Scully?

"Sleep," she whispered.

Her head fit into the hollow of his shoulder like
it always had, her knee slid between his, and her
hand settled on his chest.

No leaving him this time.  A good dream, indeed.


**********


She woke to the distant sound of thunder.  Soft,
tapping rain complimented the drifting departure of
the storm, nipping against the windows like small
pebbles.  She shifted under the comforter, all warm
from sleep.

And from the body moving over her, slowly wrapping
itself around her small form like an extra-warm
blanket.

She didn't open her eyes, didn't jerk away.  Dull
from lingering exhaustion, her mind refused to
connect to the pride she'd stashed away hours ago. 
This wasn't what she'd returned for... but God, she
couldn't resist his touch.  Limp with need, her
traitorous body reacted as it always had, clinging
to him and the sure joy he sought to bring.

The heavier beat of his heart drowned out the rain,
his deepening, liquor-laced breaths mingling with
the rustle of fabric and friction.  His mouth moved
over the pulse in her neck, and she bit her lip
over her cry of pleasure, not wanting to shatter
the moment with words or sounds.  Though she knew
his mind muddled somewhat with spirits and sleep,
she couldn't deny his easy encroachment.  She knew
who it was, knew what he wanted, and words wouldn't
make a difference.  Their communion needed no
sounds of seduction or urging, silent in
simplicity, truthful in equal desire.

Alert now, she allowed one moment of hesitation...
should she disturb the fragile bubble that held
them together to ask about protection?  They were
taking a big risk, one which had already resulted
in a son lost to them.  She hadn't expected
pregnancy back then, and really, she still didn't
know exactly how it had happened.  But it had,
without warning but certainly received with joy. 
The happiness she felt now overruled her doubts,
and she let them slide away with the pressure of
his fingers and lips, opening her arms to pull him
close.

Legs falling open as well, she received him like
the lover he was, feeling the insistence of his
clothed erection push against her inner thighs. 
Slowly, so slowly, he insinuated his bare chest
through the unbuttoned folds of her shirt, circling
his hips as if already joined with her.  A soft
grunt of frustration tickled her ear; she answered
the plea by trailing her hands down his lower back,
taking the thick cotton with her.  His sigh of
pleasure accompanied the release of his straining
flesh, and she felt it seek her softness at once,
hot and heavy with the need to couple.

He didn't seem to be fully aware, as he kept up the
slow rhythm of mock lovemaking, his hands not
moving to make them one.  It was almost as if, in
his dream-like state, he feared the moment of
joining.

Before, eons ago, his lovemaking was like his
genius - confident and calculated, or rapid-fire
and probing, the goal certain.  Her pleasure, then
his.  He lingered only when she needed it, rushed
when she demanded.  Now, with dreams of abandonment
gentling his every move, he brought tears to her
eyes with his slow touch.  He was afraid she'd fly.

Though she wasn't nearly ready to accommodate him,
she felt certain any hesitation on her part would
ruin the moment.  The tense line of his back, the
way he evaded her attempts to kiss him, all spoke
of his fear he'd break the tenuous thread holding
them together.  He would make no move she didn't
want, offer no caress she would possibly disdain,
say no word to upset the silence.

So it was in silence she drew him into her.  He
moaned softly at the entrance of his body into
hers; she drew her lips together at the slight
pinch, then released them in a soft sigh.  The full
pressure slid in by slow increments, stretching her
flesh until he settled with a heavy, trembling
exhale.  His hands mirrored his inner emotion,
shaking as they slipped under her, one holding her
close at the nape, the other adjusting her lower
back in a comforting shift of her hips.

After a moment of quiet, he began to withdraw and
return, still so slowly she caught her breath at
the reverence in his movements.  She lifted her
legs, one curling around his thigh, the other
anchoring him high about his flexing hips.  She
wasn't letting him go anywhere, she told him
silently, as her arms joined in the confinement,
stealing up his back.

There was no way she was going to reach orgasm.  In
the instant she recognized that fact, she discarded
the thought.  This wasn't an act of mutual joy, not
in the tradition sense.  It was a plea for
forgiveness, a cry for the return to a love thought
lost in guilt and anger.  On both sides, she
realized with wonder, as she felt the hot slide of
her tears disappear into her damp hair.  He might
believe his body's vow to prolong her pleasure, but
she held no such belief.  She accepted it, reveled
in her power, but threw it away like her anger.

Resolute in her desire to give him what he denied
himself, she raked her nails along his back,
feeling him shiver.  Her lips and teeth nipped at
his shoulder, her hips lifted to match his
downstroke, and her walls tightened around his cock
with subtle invitation.

Give to me, she said with her body.  Give me all
that you are, all that I want.

He did, the sudden jerk of his body's reaction to
her lure obviously taking him by surprise.  His
hands dug into her skin and his breath hitched as
he tensed above her... she held on, feeling his
hips falter, then grind into hers with the sudden
rush of hot liquid into her depths.  Shuddering, he
made no sound, though his mouth opened over her
collarbone with frantic suction; she felt her blood
rush to the site in response and knew the bruise
there tomorrow would be noticeable.

But she didn't care.  Crying silently but profusely
now, she held him through the last throes of
orgasm, her breath soft upon him in an effort to
calm and protect.  He sagged at last, and she knew
it was over.  He really was too heavy, but she made
no attempt to move him, too happy to disrupt their
embrace.  But with a long, slow inhale, he shifted
to his side, relieving her of his weight, though he
dragged her limp body along.  Face to face in the
dark, she hooked her leg over his, feeling the slow
trickle of semen paint her thighs.  She smiled,
listening to him breathe, feeling his chest expand
and release beside her.

He was asleep.  She didn't have to see to know it,
or understand.  Though it was too dark to see, her
aim was perfect.  Lifting her chin, she kissed his
lax lips, her fingers sliding across his cheek.

Though she thought them all done, she broke away to
let loose a sob as fresh tears burst forth.  Not
for the feel of his mouth under hers at last, nor
for the pleasant soreness of a body well-loved...
not even for the rebirth of a partnership, a
*relationship* thought long gone.

He had shaved.



End Chapter Twelve