TITLE:    After Prayers Are Answered
AUTHOR:   MARTI MULDER
E-mail:   martimulder@yahoo.com 
Spoilers: Orison
Keywords: MSR, RST, and S&M
NC-17



Scully is quiet beside me as I drive toward Alexandria. It was
one hell of a night. My stained shirt can attest to that. I have
Pfaster's blood speckled across the front of me. Part of me is
still shocked that Scully would do it, would fire on an unarmed
man. But then, I can't actually define Pfaster as unarmed. He was
armed with the sort of mind that would make Satan consider giving
Hitler a furlough. I steal a glance at Scully as I steer us on to
the beltway. Eyes looking up toward the pink edge of the horizon,
she is quirking her eyebrow in thought.

"Hey, talk to me."

"Mulder, I know you aren't religious, but I'm wondering. How
could God let a man like Pfaster live? How could He allow those
women to be mutilated and killed so savagely? I guess maybe you
were right about God only looking at the scores. I dunno..." her
voice trails off resignedly.

"You know, we have free will according to most religions. How
else could we possess that agency without God stepping back and
letting people do what they do? It couldn't work any other way. I
don't know, I guess I try not to think about it."

"I think I'm angry at God tonight, and at myself. I know I should
feel guilty about what I've done. But the only thing I regret is
the fact that I've made you dishonest." she wipes her left eye,
and I know she must be close to tears.

"Hey, I was in a similar situation once. I shot a man, and you
identified that body as me because I asked you to lie. It all
came out for the best. Sometimes you have to do something wrong
for the right reasons. I know it feels bad now, but we have to
lie. There's no other acceptable option." I reach out and take
her hand. "So don't feel guilty. I don't."

Her hand is cold and unresponsive. I want to turn on the radio,
to do something to lighten her mood. With my luck, that damnable
"Don't Look Any Further" song would be playing again, so I exit
the freeway and ruminate. If there is a God, at least he didn't
use "Bits and Pieces" to indicate Pfaster's return. Or worse yet,
that Paul Young song "Every time you go away/You take a piece of
me with you..." At least he has a little more tact than that, in
spite of all the things we have against Him.

I pull up to my building and take Scully's overnight bag from the
backseat. Silently, she follows me inside. It's cold out tonight,
and the sky is clear enough to see the heavy blanket of stars
above us. She doesn't look up, but this is no surprise. As we
ride the elevator upstairs, I feel the need to comfort her
intensify.

I fumble with the key, and she takes her bag from my hand. Our
hands touch for a split second, and I look up at her. We stare
for a second, until she looks down and the spell is broken. I let
us in, and lock the door behind us. As she changes clothes in my
room, I check the answering machine. A detective had called,
informing me that the woman who was attacked by Pfaster said he
wanted a redhead. Does this mean anything to me?

Scully bolts from my room, her blue flannel nightshirt
unbuttoned, her jaw slack with shock. She doesn't notice her bra,
her skin revealed as she stares at the machine. Frozen, I am not
sure how I ought to react to this, but I go to her and put my
arms around her anyway. Slowly, her hands rise up the my back
until she is holding on to me. Trembling, she buries her face
against my chest. Softly, she cries, but only briefly. Her
breathing quickens, her knees shaking. I kiss the top of her
head, then her forehead, hoping the contact will bring her out of
her grief trance. She grips my back tighter.

"Do you want to lie down?" I whisper.

She nods into my chest. I lift her up and carry her to my bed,
setting her down on the floor to turn the sheets down. She crawls
in, shirt still unbuttoned, and covers up.

"You want to be alone?" I ask, expecting her to shoo me from the
room. That's her way, always wanting to spare me her emotional
responses. I wished, that moment, that she could sense my
feelings for her, my desire to help her through these difficult
times.

"No." she whispers. I sit on the side of the bed, and in the
darkness I reach out for her hand. She pulls the covers back.
"Stay."

I hesitate for a moment, confused. But soon, I lumber up an into
bed beside her, still sitting up. She rests her head on my chest
and her arms surround me. Realizing this must be an uncomfortable
position, I slide down beside her and maneuver her head against
me, her body close. I hold her, and think that of all the
circumstances that could have brought Scully into my bed, this is
possibly the worst case scenario

She is moving beside me, slight motions. Hands smooth my back,
her face nestles against my chest. I push away the guilt I feel
for the arousal I'm experiencing. I'd have to be, well, dead not
to feel it. I love this woman, but even her grief can't drive
away these feelings.

Suddenly, I realize that I'm still wearing the blood stained
shirt. The idea of his blood coming into contact with Scully's
skin sickens me, but I don't want to disturb her, this moment.
She is still, and I look down to see if she's asleep. Her eyes
meet mine, now adjusted to the dimness of the room. Time feels as
if it were slowed, and I just look at her. I brush the hair away
from her face, and my hand wants to linger there, on her soft
cheek, my fingers in her hair. She reaches up to touch me as
well, and I want to kiss her. I think she wants me to. I lean
down and kiss her cheek, testing. I feel her lips on my cheek as
I do, and I move my lips to hers. Her hand is on my neck, then in
my hair. Her breathing is more rapid. I go slowly, afraid that
I'm taking advantage of the situation. I allow myself one more
kiss, deep and wet, before pulling back an agonizing few inches.

"Are you sure you want me to stay?" I whisper.

"How did you know? If you didn't get the message from the
machine, how did you know to come to me?" she asks, her small
fingers on my neck, her thumb tracing my cheek.

"The song. Intuition. I just knew."

"Mulder..." she sighs, a sweet sheer sound, and the faintest hint
of a smile reddens her lips.

"I love you. I think, if there is a God, he knows that. If
anything ever happened to you..." her thumbs cover my lips,
silencing me. I close my eyes against the thought of a life
without her. I realize that I'm probably as upset as she is.
Maybe more. My chest feels tight, and my eyes are burning. I can
smell her scent, a subtle floral perfume. I don't know when she
became more important to me than my quest. I can't recall how I
felt before I cared for her so much, like looking into a past
life. And I'm glad she killed him. I only wish it had been me
that had fired. If I'd known that she'd intended to, I'd have
beaten her to the shot.

Pushing up on her elbow, she leans in and kisses me again. I have
to let her do this, initiate whatever will happen. I know how I
feel, but the thought of taking advantage of her in a weakened
state is not how I want this to start. I trust her, and if this
is what she wants...

I rid myself of the shirt, free of the thoughts and feelings that
don't directly relate to the feel of her hands on my shoulder and
my hip. Her lips trace a path from my own to my neck, nipping
lovingly until she begins to suck below my ear. I pull her to me,
hoping she'll forgive my lack of gentility. I need to taste her,
hear her voice and feel her pulse under my mouth. My hands pull
the flannel shirt from her arms, and her eyes blink at my
forcefulness. I hope I haven't shocked her, but I don't want to
let her go now. Slowly, I lean over and cup her head in my hands,
and I kiss her again.

I never trust men who brag about remembering every detail of
their sexual experiences. Sex ought to be a shamanistic event,
where consciousness is challenged and reality is surpassed.
Forgetting how we got naked, I can only stop the euphoric
pounding of my pulse by opening my eyes and looking at us. Bodies
twisted, grinding together. I fight the urge to obey and enter
her as she rubs herself against me. I want her to come first. I
want her to moan and breathe my name before I push inside of her.
I pin her to the bed and suck her neck, having to remind myself
not to draw blood as I taste her skin. Her nails dig into my back
as I lick her nipple, then suck it into my mouth. I can't
convince myself that she is here, that everything is going to be
all right; somehow the flavor of her isn't enough. Her cries
aren't enough. I need more, need to feel something that will
convince me.

I kiss my way down her stomach, rising and falling with her rapid
breathing. I push her legs apart and hold them hard as I lick her
clit and inhale. She grabs her legs behind her knees, and I bring
my right hand down and enter her with two fingers. Drawing her
between my lips, I lave rhythmically until her hips rock and
rotate. Her hands push at my head, and I know that she feels the
same way, desperate and frantic for sensations. Her fingernails
begin to scrape me, and I bring my left hand down and graze her
inner thigh. Almost growling, she wraps her legs around my
shoulders and I wish to myself that she had spurs on. Every
scrape, every hint of pain seems like heaven, and I'd worry if it
weren't apparent that she was feeling this, too.

Before I realize it, I am licking frantically and my nails are
digging into the silk of her hip. She moans and contracts around
my fingers, hands gripping handfuls of bedsheet. I rise and kiss
my way up her body, stopping to leave hickeys in a random path
along the way.

"Damn it, now..." she whispers authoritatively.

I obey eagerly, the love and lust and madness a singularity
focused at this second, on and in my body. I reach down and push
myself into her, just hard enough, and we both cry out. I have to
rely on her to stop me if I'm hurting her, I can't stop, can't
slow the pace. Pushing her into the mattress, I pound into her.
Her eyes are closed, her lips parted, her breath hissing through
her teeth. I lean down to kiss her, and she moans loudly into my
mouth as her lips cover mine, and those lovely nails dig into the
muscle of my back. She knows, and takes my lower lip between her
teeth, biting with just the right pressure to send shockwaves of
electric bliss through my nerves and into my groin. I grab one of
the posts on the bed, and she reaches up and holds my wrist,
bracing her body to absorb every thrust. She pulls my wrist off
the post, and suddenly rolls me over.

One hand on the wall, the other digging into my chest, she grinds
and hops above me. Red hair lashes my face as she moves, and I
grasp her waist firmly. I feel her contract around me, hard fast
contractions. All I see is red, and all I can feel is the sting
of her skin slapping mine, her nails undoubtedly leaving tracks
on my chest as I come into her. One, two, three, four, and I lose
count of the spasms, hearing our voices pitched in indecipherable
sounds.

She pauses to catch her breath before sliding down the wall and
laying on top of me. I don't think either of us knows what to say
after this. I want to ask her if she's OK, but guess by the way
she holds me and kisses my chest that she is fine. I can't let it
go, and decide to risk asking the question.

"You OK?"

She laughs, her hot breath tickling across my chest.

"If God is watching us, I hope he closed his eyes tonight." she
kisses me, and then relaxes again.

I smile to myself. We are fine. Every time, we emerge from the
several versions of Hell unscathed. And until that nightmare is
realized, I am grateful for her body here against mine. Grateful
for her devotion and her love. Convinced of her safety, of her
vitality as she presses herself against me, I know for one more
night that she is with me. I pull up the sheet and enclose us
under it, relishing the aches and the feel of her arms around me.
Before I drift off, I wait until I am sure she is asleep, and
doze to the sound I will never admit that I have prayed for.

~Finis~
Too kinky? Whip me at <martimulder@yahoo.com>