ECLIPSE
Chapter Three
+++++
Scully's Apartment
Washington, D.C.
January 28, 2000
The embryos are gone forever, explanted and lost.
There are times in one's life when words simply refuse to do justice to
emotion. He holds her tightly as they stand together in her apartment,
muscles so tense that his quadriceps scream in pain. Mulder has not spoken
since he told her not to give up hope for a miracle. He scripts
conversations in his head, but none can force themselves through his lips,
which still rest on the crown of Scully's hair.
Her fingernails begin to trace the length of his spine. He shivers. She
pulls away from him, her gaze a stone skittering over the surface of a pond.
It moves from his chest to rest at his lips and remain there. He doesn't
know whether she is sussing him out or letting her eyes ask what words do
not.
He wants to kiss her. He does not.
Instead, he curves his hand around from between her shoulder blades, tracing
the outline of her bra, then down the concave curve of her side to where he
meets the new outline of her waistband. She is all lines and borders.
Although he has seen her flesh before, he fancies that if he were to peel
away her shirt he would find the faint dotted lines of a grid delineating
her into a graph of soft peach flesh.
His hand moves to the front of her belly as her eyes still stare at his
lips. Cupping his hand over the soft, barely there mound of her lower
abdomen is difficult, given their position, but his life's work is
adaptation. He presses on it and she gasps.
Mulder should be touching her like this in six months, his hand resting on
firm skin covering a child within. Instead, her flesh is elastic and gives
under the weight of his hand, too ordinary in the common female biological
trappings of spongy tissue and just the slightest bit of water gain.
Estrogen's natural cycles compensate for the child that should be slowly
growing in her uterus, if the fates had allowed.
They stand together, just so, for a long moment. His tired muscles threaten
to give way under the strain of standing for too long, or perhaps his
weakness comes from the intimacy of the position. His hand on her belly,
her gaze on his mouth. Humans are designed to eat, drink and procreate.
Somewhere along the line, the latter has become lost to them.
They will sleep together tonight. He knows this now.
He fears this, for all the right -- and wrong -- reasons.
Her muted but warm sexuality scares him. He could so easily lose himself in
her body. She wants him, has wanted him for so long. He has always known
this, but sublimated it out of some ridiculous need for nobility and
self-denial. Loving her is easy; having her is not.
They still have two chances left. If they are to become parents -- or at
least try to be -- then this gives him license to let roving hands go, yes?
He couches his rationalization in expediency; after all, their potential
child cannot exist solely because of science. But her beloved scientific
process cannot apply to this situation. It is much more simple than the
path from hypothesis to conclusion.
He wants her.
He wants to taste every inch of her, more than gods or monsters can ever
know.
Perhaps this is the miracle they should be seeking. It is a sure thing. It
can only bring them happiness, or at least as much as they will ever allow
themselves.
Just as he completes the task of working up the nerve to kiss her, Scully's
arms clench him close and her nails press half-moons into his back as she
pulls him down to a kiss.
Kiss her.
Kisssssss...oh. Preliminaries evaporate as their tongues quickly meet. He
maps each of her taste buds, coloring sweet and bitter and sour and salty
shades of Valentine red. The tip of her tongue is candy-apple crimson,
sweetened by a twinge of the lipstick she licked away as she moved in for
the kiss. Though she has always kept her outward appearance austere, he
sees the full spectrum of color in her mouth.
So this is what an out-of-body experience feels like, Scully, he tells her,
but she is too busy kissing away his lucidity to hear his telepathy.
They break away to breathe, then are back together, their lips parted and
touching. Carbon dioxide is harmful to inhale, but hers is sweet, tasting
of pheromones and starlight, with a pinch of sadness.
Then, as if a door has slipped off its hinges, the mood abruptly shifts.
Kisses become bites and touches become white-knuckled grasps. She clenches
his arms and pulls him, half-stumbling, toward her bedroom. As he turns his
head to stare at her, his gaze catches on the overhead light, its electric
glow searing his retinas and making phosphorescent sparks fly over her face.
Their energy is no longer muted; he imagines the sleeves of his shirt are
the only thing keeping her hands from giving him static shocks.
His prophecy is soon fulfilled as they move to the chill of her bedroom and
she strips bare. He stares at her, in awe of the flush of her skin, so
different from her pallor in the clinic ten days ago. As she moves, the
muscles of her stomach and legs flex into the lightning bolts he had only
sensed from her earlier. Mulder swiftly steps over and pushes her onto the
bed, crushing her body beneath his. They kiss again, and she polishes his
back, the sweater abrasive through the barrier of his cotton t-shirt. She
frames his face with her hands and the electric shock bleaches her red hair
white.
Blood racing, he alights from the bed and strips his own body bare, his
clothes discarded on top of her own. When he returns to lie on top of her,
he feels smaller somehow, his body boneless with lust atop her compact
power.
Although he may be in the dominant position, she is the convection engine
driving them forward. He lets her roll them over until she straddles his
hips, her body rising above his like a mermaid on the bow of a ship. Her
breasts sway and her shoulders hunch forward, fingernails digging into the
crinkly hair of his chest. He reaches up to touch her hair, and the static
charge passes through to her, sending her hair flying like a pulsar in a
reddish glass globe.
She reaches for his cock and grasps him tightly, shivering and solid. One
stroke, then two, and he is left panting for God, for mercy he doesn't want.
Save me and send me under, he thinks. Keep doing this forever.
He reaches down to cover her hands with his and they begin to stroke
together. Two weeks ago he sat in the clinic, jerking himself off to
produce a sample. But whereas then he was simply imagining what she would
look like if they ever made love, right now he knows. The love is mixed
with arousal and bone-crushing need.
Inside me. Now. Let's do what twenty clinicians couldn't accomplish.
The words slither through his brain. He doesn't know if she said them or if
they were his own synapses ordering him to fulfill what his body covets.
Hips shift in tandem and she guides -- pushes -- him inside her.
With other women years ago, he would have procured protection before this
moment. He didn't want children, certainly not with those women. He'd
played the field and had certainly had more than ample opportunity to be a
father, should he have chosen that path. But then he found the woman who
made his life complete, and protection was unnecessary. Futile.
He was fertile, but had not thought he wanted children until she asked him
to father hers a month ago. She cannot give them to him. This devastates
him, as the sudden need for children fills his mind. He wonders if this
need is for a baby of his own, or simply for a child with her. But he
cannot make logical deductions when she is around him, staring down at him
with such craving.
Scully braces her hands on his chest and begins to move atop him. In and
out, clench and relax. He wants desperately to touch her breasts, so
beautiful and ripe as they sway above him, but her arms are in the way. He
instead cups her face in his hands, and she turns her head to pull his thumb
inside her mouth, sucking hard.
Mulder cannot kiss her in this position, so he purses his lips and blows in
her direction. Her answering smile is closer to a grimace, eyes fluttering
closed as he moves his other hand down to thumb her clitoris. She shivers,
and he marvels at the symbiosis of sex, the give and take turning sensation
into its own circular logic. He rubs her hot clit and she shivers. She
clenches her vagina around him and he moans, impulse making him rub harder.
Current flows around the circuit, sending currents of electricity through
every cell of his body.
He continues to rub and her body suddenly freezes above and around him, her
heat still searing his skin despite the gooseflesh he sees on her belly.
Mulder stops thrusting and lets her ride out her climax, watching as she
throws her head back and closes her eyes. Her tongue traces her upper lip
and he sees all the shades of red he had only sensed as they'd kissed.
She finally softens around him, her blurred beauty gazing upon his face.
Moving his hands to his chest, he laces their fingers and she lowers herself
down on him, their bodies pressed together. His fingernails are against her
soft nipples and his knuckles dig into his pectoral muscles. She slowly
begins to move again and he thrusts in counterpoint, more gently this time
but still grinding his teeth with his rising passion.
Then suddenly he is on the edge of climax. He blinks. She looks down on
him with wonder.
In a perfect world, this would be It -- the beginning of conception. Lovers
everywhere create children this way, by accident or by intention. He and
Scully have the intent, but cannot make it happen.
He comes, breaking the circuit and letting his energy spill inside her. The
thread snaps and he lies, boneless and spent, matching her pliancy. Tilting
her head, she kisses him. Mulder marvels at the shift of emotion from
delirious need to sated softness.
"Are you still hoping for a miracle, Mulder?" she whispers after a kiss.
He traces the curve of her jaw and thinks that maybe this is the one he was
looking for.
He says nothing, and kisses her again, warmth and life flowing everywhere in
their bodies except where they crave it the most.
++++++
New Chances Clinic
Washington, D.C.
February 3, 2000
The room is cold. Scully shivers, folding her arms around the flimsy cotton
gown she wears. Her skin is a crazy quilt of scratches and bruises, the
colors vibrant even in the weak light filtering through the half-opened
blinds. Closing her eyes, she forces herself to take slow, deep breaths,
but the air is tainted by the smell of antiseptic and failure.
The last time she was here life had been planted in her womb.
She swallows the taste of tears, salty and viscous in her throat. She's
tried to remain optimistic, to keep her spirits up and her thoughts
positive. But defeat covers her with its oppressive cloak, weighing her
down in mind and body.
Her feet swing free, hanging over the side of the examining table like a
child's. The bandage on her right ankle is stark against the bruises that
bloom like exotic flowers on her leg. A reminder of another failure.
Shuddering from more than the chilled temperature of the room, she tightens
her arms' hold and tries to squeeze Pfaster's face from her memory.
Mulder hadn't wanted her to work on the case, treating her with a kid-glove
kindness he usually reserved for the victims they encountered during an
investigation. She couldn't allow him to take charge; she needed to be in
control of some portion of her life. Work was all she had to keep her
grounded, to keep things normal and help forget the pain of disappointment.
Now she deals with those consequences as well, that failure stirring in an
additional measure of stress to her pressure cooker existence.
A thin trickle of tears cut a pathway across her cheek, warm against her icy
skin. She wipes them away with her fist, scrubbing hard to eradicate the
telltale sign of her weakness. Mulder is waiting for her, just a few doors
away. If she starts crying now, Scully fears she will never stop, and if
she is to make it through the next few weeks she must remain strong. For
Mulder, for herself, but most of all, for the life they hope to create
together.
"Hello again, Dana." Dr. Parenti enters the room, closing the door behind
him with a decisive click, and walks over to the examining table. "I'm
sorry to keep you waiting. I had an overanxious father to contend with."
Scully forces her face into a parody of a smile. "I understand. I presume
you're satisfied with my physical condition and we are ready to schedule the
second implant procedure."
The doctor fans through the papers in the folder he is holding. "I've been
studying the hospital report, Dana." He drops the file onto to the table
and reaches for Scully's arm, examining the contusions with care. "I was
under the impression that you'd made arrangements to cut back on your duties
in light of these fertility procedures." His tone, though gentle, is
tainted by censure, and Scully squirms under his piercing eyes.
"That was...*is* my intent. This was an unusual case. It...I don't plan on
taking any chances in the future." She wets her lips, choosing her next
words carefully. "I know how important it is to follow procedures. I can
assure you, if I had been pregnant I would not have been working in the
field on this particular case."
"I see." He lifts Scully's leg, taking note of the livid bruises and myriad
of scratches marring the skin. "Are you taking any medication for pain?"
Scully shakes her head. "Nothing, not even over-the-counter pain
relievers."
Dr. Parenti nods. "Your tests results are all within the accepted
parameters. Heart, blood pressure normal. Have you resumed working?"
"I'm on a leave of absence at the moment." There is a slight hesitation
before Scully speaks again. "When...when can we schedule the next
procedure?" She winces, hearing the anxious quiver in her voice.
Picking up the folder, the doctor makes a few notes. "Why don't you get
dressed? We can talk in my office."
In the dressing room, Scully stares at herself in the mirror. She feels
vulnerable in the rough cotton gown; unprotected. Clothes are her armor.
The tailored navy blue pantsuit and white blouse are chosen to project the
image of a cool, business-like woman, a player not to be taken lightly.
But once re-girded in the wool and silk, she feels nothing like the woman
she wants to be. Instead, the somber colors and straight lines of her
clothes highlight the fragility she is so determined to cover. Seated in
Dr. Parenti's office, renewed anxiety sweeps through her, and she folds her
hands in her lap, willing away the trembling that wracks her frame.
"Now, Dana." Dr. Parenti looks up, his expression sober. "There are a few
things we need to talk about."
A cold feeling of dread settles in the pit of Scully's stomach, and she
suddenly wishes she'd asked Mulder to be present for this part of the
consultation instead of leaving him to thumb through outdated magazines in
the clinic's waiting room. "Is anything wrong? Has something happened that
I need to be aware of?" Visions of destroyed ova flash through her mind,
and she swallows hard against the bile rising in her throat.
As if reading her thoughts, Dr. Parenti shoots her a small, reassuring
smile. "No, nothing like that," he says with obvious gentleness. "I'm just
a bit concerned about you, especially after that work-related...incident."
He pauses, removing his glasses and setting them on the desk. Without them,
his brown eyes seem larger, and Scully can see the concern reflected in
their depths. "I'm not sure you fully understand what a beating like that
can do to your body, specifically in light of your fertility issues. Your
reproductive system is already compromised, and there are signs that your
body is in a periomenopausal stage. I'm not saying you won't be able to
conceive using the in vitro fertilization procedure. But you will need to
be extremely careful, if you want to succeed."
Scully nods, her mind processing the doctor's words. She had only three
chances to conceive, and one has already failed. There is no way she will
risk further disappointment. "I will see to it that I'm not put in this
position again. I promise you that."
"Mr. Mulder...does he understand all this? Perhaps you would like to set up
a meeting with him to discuss the matter?" Though the question seems
probing, it is delivered without curiosity and Scully tamps down the fear
that causes her heart to race.
"I will be sure to relay the information to him," she states, moving to
perch on the edge of her seat.
Dr. Parenti nods. "Good. Someone will call you within the next forty-eight
hours to set up the appointment. Meanwhile, continue to get plenty of
rest." He stands, extending his hand to Scully. "We'll get through this
together, Dana."
Scully rises and takes the offered hand. "Thank you, doctor."
In the waiting room, Mulder slouches in the corner, staring out the window
to the parking lot below. She watches him, noting with surprise how pale
his face seems. The shadow of his impending beard seems darker, almost
sinister until he spies her and a smile lights up his face. He jumps to his
feet and grabs their coats, striding over to meet her with ill-concealed
relief. "Ready?" he asks, holding out her coat.
"Yes," she replies, slipping her arms into the proffered garment.
Grinning, he leans down to whisper, "Did the doc let you know when we get to
do it again?"
His smile is contagious; she finds her lips curving in a matching one.
"Someone will call to set it up, probably in a day or so," she assures him,
pulling the belt tight around her still-small waist.
He takes her arm, matching his steps to hers as they walk to the door. "So,
how about grabbing something to eat? Thai, Italian, Mexican, Chinese. Take
your pick. After reading six issues of Gourmet, I'm starved."
She looks at him through lowered lashes. "I have some boneless chicken
breasts in the freezer, plus the makings for a salad. Why don't we have
that instead? It's healthier. Besides, we need to talk," she adds, almost
as an afterthought.
He looks at her, his smile fading. "Whatever you want, Scully. Count me
in." He pushes at the door with his elbow and gestures for her to go
through. "I'm with you, every step of the way."
+++++
END (3/8)
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