Title: Breaking the Silence Author: Corey cheimke@mindspring.com Rating: NC-17 Classification: MSR Posting date: Jan. 25, 1998 Archive and distribution: Wherever you want, as long as the story remains intact with my name, e-mail, and disclaimer. Summary: A backrub turns into much more. UST and angst, a little more UST and angst, then finally MSR. Spoilers: Nothing crucial Timeline: fifth season, no mention of cancer Disclaimer: The characters depicted in this story do not belong to me. They belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Productions, and are used without permission. However, I'm sure they are much happier as a result. Author's notes: This is my first posting, in fact the first piece of fictional material I've written, though I wrote plenty of non-fiction in graduate school. I've just recently discovered X-Files fanfic and am amazed at the talent of some of the authors. I can't believe there are others out there as obsessed about this kind of stuff as I am! So anyway, I hope you like this, and I hope this posts alright. Please send feedback to my e-mail address above. I am craving it....... Breaking the Silence (NC-17) by Corey I start a bit at the knock on my door, its sound echoing through my lonely apartment. For a second, I pause to consider how quiet it has become in the rooms, causing the knocking to sound almost like gunshots in the silence. I am hit by a twinge of sadness as I realize what a prominent position the silence has found in my life over the past few years, but my reflection is rudely interrupted by the pounding again on the door. Slowly rising from the floor where I've been sitting, I inwardly balk at having to open the door, for as starved for human contact as I sometimes get, it is difficult to constantly monitor how close I am allowing myself to come to people. Nevertheless, I reach up to look out the peephole, and a sigh of relief courses through my body when I see that it is Mulder banging incessantly at the door. Reluctantly, I allow myself to grin a bit as I open it to him, knowing that with that action I am opening myself up as well. He mumbles something about needing to go over some files with me and I nod. Even though he actually has the paperwork in his hand, I somehow know that it is only a pretense, that he has really come over just to be with me, to try and abate some of his own loneliness by sharing the evening with me. As contradictory as it would seem given the nature of our jobs, we have too much silence in our lives. Mulder is able to open himself up and let me see this when he needs to, but we both know that I constantly struggle with it. I'm closer to him than to anyone, yet I still can not let him see my vulnerable side without feeling completely exposed. But, I can at least relax with him, and right now, I welcome the opportunity to spend some time away from the stillness. "Sit down, Mulder," I offer, "I'll make us some tea." As I walk into the kitchen, I can feel his quiet eyes on me, following me through my motions. I know that Mulder feels something for me, and I can even admit that I reciprocate those feelings, but right now, I can't let myself explore the thought any further, its implications both exciting and terrifying me to the core. Instead I simply let myself enjoy his admiration of me. It is comforting to feel his gaze, and it secretly makes my heart rate quicken to know he finds me attractive. I even go so far as to gently push my hair behind my ear and slowly lick my lips as I pour the hot water, somehow knowing that those actions will affect him. As I walk back toward the couch, Mulder's eyes quickly drop back to the files he still holds in his fist. He is in a serious mood tonight, or maybe he is just tired, but I don't mind, since it matches my own sullenness so well. It's funny, or perhaps more fateful, how even our emotions seem to mesh lately. The longer our lives coincide, the more in tune to each other we become. I'm frightened by such a deep connection, but I also have to admit that it gives me a small thrill to feel that close to a man, even if it a man I know I probably should not allow myself to become any closer to. My breath catches as I suddenly feel Mulder's fingers brush against my cheek, "Hey Scully, are you with me?" I can feel the heat rising throughout my face in embarrassment of my daydreaming. I know the flush is also a result of the soft caress on my skin, but I quickly quench the thought. "Sorry, just thinking. So, what are we working on?" I ask, turning towards my tea, hoping he hasn't seen my pink cheeks. "I was wondering if you could look these over." I reach for the papers and again catch my breath as Mulder's fingers touch mine in the transfer. A slight shiver runs through my body as I can feel his eyes on me, trying to gauge my reaction to the touch. I attempt to calm myself, knowing that he is trying to pull me down to mingle with his own weaknesses. Just get to work and don't let this get too complicated, I tell myself. My practical, although sometimes practical inner voice, pulls me from the sinking hole his eyes are burning into my cheek and returns me to my serious mood as I feign looking over Mulder's reports. Without realizing I'm doing it though, I unconsciously watch him from the corner of my eye. As much as I don't want to even notice such things, I am aware of how handsome, even sexy, he looks. As he leans back against the sofa, his V-neck sweater drapes over his broad chest, almost molding itself to his muscular contours. The material of his jeans stretches tightly over his thighs, and for a second, I can picture myself reaching my hand across the few millimeters that separates our knees and lightly caressing the denim-clad flesh. Even his mood is getting to me tonight. Though I usually enjoy the humor and the bantering we share, this silent watchfulness of his is almost sensual in its intensity. It excites me to think that this man could be mine if I only would say the word, and I even entertain that possibility for a moment, before again focusing on the situation at hand. I feel his eyes wandering over my body, leaving a trail of honey wherever they touch, and I glance down to see what I'm wearing, allowing myself to hope that it is something at least a little feminine. I inwardly smile when I remember slipping on leggings and my black V-neck cardigan, a very flattering outfit, I must say. The shirt clings to my curves in all the right places. I've even wondered, when I've worn it in the past, if it is a little too revealing. Maybe I was right to wonder, I think, as I see that the black lace of my bra is visible at the bottom of the "V". My heart suddenly races to think that Mulder's eyes have been on that lace, and on the soft flesh underneath the lace, and I almost let myself look over to see if that's where he's gazing this second. Fortunately, my practical side once again gains control. I sadly relinquish the fantasy and quickly adjust the shirt, admonishing myself for even letting my thoughts wander down that path. But my ears are not lost to the small sigh emitted from Mulder's lips as I smooth my small hands over the fabric of the sweater. This is getting too hard, I moan to myself as I lean to rest my elbows on my knees and pretend to shuffle through the papers. We're both so lonely; why can't I let him in when he so obviously is ready to take that next step? But I know in my mind that it's too dangerous for me to make that ultimate connection, even though my heart is practically aching for his comfort. I'm coaxed out of my reverie as Mulder leans to the floor to retrieve a dropped pencil. I realize that the room has developed a deafening silence as we've both been left to our own thoughts, and though it feels as if we've been holding a conversation simply with our movements and presence, the closeness of this scares me. I struggle for some lightening words to break the spell. As if his thoughts have merged with my own, be suddenly forges though the stillness with a low moan of pain as he reaches under the couch for his pencil. "Mulder, what is it?" I try to hide the worry that I know has emerged with my words. Funny how I find myself more concerned about his health than my own lately. Another painful sound as he straightens back up. "Mulder...?" I question again, searching out his eyes, knowing that if I can just make that connection, I will know what is going on. He winces as he attempts to find a comfortable position, then quietly groans, "My back. I really wrenched it during that last case, and now I think I just pulled it again." I breath a sigh of relief that it's not more serious, but my brow furrows as I see how much pain he seems to be in. Looking back to the paperwork, I attempt to ignore the pull in my stomach, the pull that urges me to reach out and comfort him, to massage his injured muscles. I notice that surprisingly, Mulder isn't being overly obvious in his pain. He instead appears to be trying to hide his discomfort, seeming to understand the need I have to let this sit for a few minutes. I struggle with myself, knowing I should be strong enough to be able to offer this comfort to him, but at the same time worrying how my attempt at a "friendly" back rub may be construed. The very prospect of touching his body is suddenly making the entire surface of my skin erupt in a warm tingle, and I realize now that my real strength is not going to be in being able to him comfort, but in myself from offering him comfort. Another muffled grimace from Mulder and I resignedly (or is it willingly?) give in. I turn back to face him, knowing already that his eyes will be on me, hold my breath, and tentatively reach out my hands, anticipating...what? The repercussions from a completely platonic back rub will be minor, I tell myself. But I know this is a lie, and I can't help feeling guilty for giving in to my weakness, because racing though my head are scenarios which would have plenty of repercussions. But these thoughts have now become inconsequential, for my hands have already taken the leap and are resting on either of Mulder's broad shoulders. He tenses for just a second, acknowledging my intentions, then murmurs, "Scully, you don't have to..." "Mulder, you're in pain," I plead. Please don't give me the option of backing out of this, Mulder. I've already struggled to make the decision as it is. But then, feeling the moment, the silence, become too intense, I add, "I got sick of watching you grimace and writhe over here!" I find it easier to superficially joke with him than to admit to the heat that has risen on my neck and the faint trembling beneath my skin. The innocent touch of my hands on his shoulders has sent a jolt of electricity through me, beginning in my fingertips and traveling rapidly throughout my body, finally settling in my heart, which is beating so wildly I hold my breath in hopes that Mulder can't hear it. My parted lips tremble and my eyes silently plead with him to turn around and let me proceed. Holding my gaze for a moment longer, Mulder finally complies and shifts his body so that his back is to me. I close my eyes and mentally shake myself until I can calmly come back to reality; the pounding of my heart momentarily subsides as I begin kneading the taut muscles. I am timid with my touch at first, my fingers moving gingerly over his back, partly in fear of hurting him further and partly in fear of what a stronger touch would be committing myself to. But I can feel him beginning to relax under my ministrations, and that seems to give me the permission need to relax. I tentatively increase the pressure of my caresses, working on the tendons between his shoulders and his neck. His head slowly drops forward and his shoulders slump in relaxation. I can feel the weight of his torso as he allows himself to lean into my movements. He sighs softly, and the sound catches me in the pit of my stomach, creating a soothing warmth that spreads through my body. The idea that my touch could affect him like this, as normal as his reactions are, terrifies, but completely electrifies, me. I begin focusing on his body, on the feel of his hard muscles under the thin sweater. He is now completely limp, and I revel in how I can mold him, how he lets me raise his shoulders with my kneading, how his body rocks as I push my fingers against him. I concentrate on the area around his neck, reading from his reactions that this is where he hurts the most. I stroke and massage the muscles, and he suddenly interrupts the sounds of our breathing with a low moan. I first think it is a cry of pain, but realize as he emits another moan that it is a sound of pleasure, God, I think, as my breath quickens and I imagine hearing that same moan in an even more intimate context. What is happening here? Why am I letting this happen? But I surprise myself by pushing the doubting voice down, and focusing again on what exactly happening. My fingers have traveled on their own volition up to his neck. I delight in the sensation as they pass from the rough texture of his sweater to the smooth heat of his skin. I shudder when I hear his breath catch, and my own breath turns more ragged as I continue my exploration of his neck. The skin is so soft, I have to fight not to lean forward and rub my cheek against it. He rolls his head slightly back and to the side, and I know that he is following the sensation of my light caresses. I can see that his eyes are closed and his mouth slightly open. allowing for the gasping breaths that have begun to seep from his lips. One of my hands begins to stray across his beck to brush the stubble of his cheek, and he gasps at the light touch, turning his face into the palm of my hand. Continuing to stroke his neck with my other hand, I realize he has shifted even more so that the tips of my fingers are now resting against his full lower lip. I still for a moment, listening to our breathing, which is becoming increasingly more labored each second. I can feel the air brushing across my fingers and I suddenly long to feel those breaths on other parts of my body. I realize abruptly that I feel very far away from him with both of my feet still resting on the floor. I desperately need more contact, to feel his body against mine, and I reposition myself so that my legs are now wrapped around his waist, my feet alongside his knees. God, I've never imagined it could feel so good to touch him, to feel the weight and heat of his body so close to my own. I moan softly and let my head fall to rest my cheek against his back, my fingers regretfully leaving the softness of his lips, but finding new territory as they travel back across his shoulders, down his arms, molding and kneading and engulfing the flesh. Whimpering slightly at the loss of my light caress on his face, Mulder's pain is immediately dismissed as I press my entire body against his back, slowly rubbing my breasts against him in time to the languid rhythm of my massage. Mulder fairly growls in response, and I throw my head back, almost laughing in ecstasy at the feeling of my hardened nipples brushing against his back, our layers of clothing doing little to diminish the sensation. But instead a slow sigh emerges, and I collapse back against his body, letting my weight press against him as I continue to massage his forearms. Until this point, Mulder has not touched me, though I know he wants to. His breath is coming in hard gasps and he is rocking his body against mine fervently. I am momentarily in paradise. Just the knowledge that I am doing this to him causes a fire to flow through my body that I haven't felt in years, arousing me beyond belief in anticipation of his touch. Seeming to read my mind, or perhaps going out of mind with lust, he finally relents and grasps the only part of my body he can reach. His hands feverishly smooth over my legs, kneading and massaging and caressing my inner thighs, and as much as I am aching for the touch, I suddenly freeze, realizing what is happening. Sensing my hesitation, Mulder opens his eyes and slows his fingers, waiting for the inevitable bomb to drop. "Oh my god, Mulder, what are we doing, what am doing?" I barely whisper as I withdraw my legs from beneath his hands and fold them in front of my chest. By forehead drops to my knees and my hair falls forward, creating a barrier between us. I try to tell myself that this barrier is exactly what we need, but I know it is what we both want the least. I begin rocking, back and forth, back and forth, a silent battle waging in my mind. His delicate touch jolted me to the core, and I saw for a brief moment the deep connection that lays waiting, if only I can allow myself to accept it. I want it desperately, but leaving the comfortable cocoon I have woven seems impossible. I know, though, that this is no way to live. Years of distancing myself from others has created a world full of silence, silence from emotions, silence from connection, and silence from fulfillment. Now, as I sit mere inches away from that fulfillment, I realize I have found a reason to break free, and I fight for a way out.