ECLIPSE
Chapter Six
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Bernhardt's Piano Bar
Washington, D.C.
April 21, 2000
"Do you want anything? Something to eat, maybe?" he asks as the bartender
walks toward them.
She shakes her head and he waves away the woman. The piano bar is just
hitting its stride, even at the late hour. People mill around them, having
a last drink on a warm springtime Saturday night. Mulder's eyes are far too
focused and alert after a couple of glasses of Merlot. The dim light of the
bar doesn't mute the faint flush of his face or the sparkle in his eyes.
He looks lovely.
Such a strange adjective to use for a man, but it suits him. His beauty is
in the little things, like his long pianist's fingers and the way the
midnight shadow of his beard melts into his collar. His features are
nothing like those chiseled by the ancient Romans, but his beauty is
classical.
And he is a classic man. Old-fashioned. She'd chuckled and been a bit
taken aback when he said he wanted to take her on a traditional date.
She accepted his offer, but didn't quite know what to make of it. Deep
down, she had feared that this new intimacy existed only because of the
circumstances of the IVF treatments -- that their emotional closeness was an
effect, not a cause. Yet as she stares at him across the table from her,
his thumb tracing the back of her hand, she realizes they could never have
embarked on the treatments without the intimacy they have always shared.
No, she amends her thought, without the love they have always shared.
She still feels odd thinking of him as a lover, but the beauty of his face
right now makes the new appellation come more freely to mind. He is her
lover now -- not in the old, sordid way as a euphemism for sexual partner,
but as one who gives her love and to whom she tries her best to return love.
"We can continue like this, Mulder," she murmurs over the soft sounds of the
singer. Wine and new realizations make her bolder than she has been in the
past. If he is to be her lover, they need to learn to talk to each other
this way, without reservations.
"Hmm?" He doesn't seem to have read her motivations on her face.
"I realized tonight that we didn't become lovers out of need or because of
the intimacy of the treatments. We became lovers because we want each
other. I want you in my life, Mulder. Forever."
"Was there ever a doubt?" he immediately replies, then furrows his brow.
"Wait, that sounded wrong. I understand what you mean, Scully, but I never
had to come to any realization." He pauses, and turns his palm to grasp her
hand.
"I made love to you that first night because I wanted you -- have wanted you
for as long as I can remember. Maybe the situation gave us the impetus we
needed, but it would have happened eventually anyway. I've always been
absolutely sure that we will be together forever."
He takes a deep breath and squeezes her hand. She shivers.
"Maybe we'll have a child someday. Maybe not. Maybe we'll live forever, or
maybe we'll die tomorrow. But whatever I may imagine about my future, you
are in it."
As her eyes fill with tears, she knows they are not caused by fears for
their future, because she no longer has any. No, the tears are for love of
his man. This lovely man whose warm hand in hers makes her feel strong and
sure.
She leans over and kisses him lightly, the bar stool swiveling with the
motion. She loves the strange intimacy of the scene.
"Mulder," she murmurs, her low voice carrying above the music, "if we ever
do have children, I want them to be just like you."
He chuckles, but she can see the warm glow of flattery in his cheeks. "I
could say the same."
"Well, they can be a combination of both of us, biologically or just
emotionally."
He purses his lips, then spreads them into a smile. "I like your sense of
compromise."
After a few moments of drinking in his beauty, the light catches the
near-empty wine glasses on the bar, and she lets go of his hand and refills
their goblets. "Thank you," he says, then takes a sip.
"You have impeccable manners, lover," she says with a laugh, the wine and
conversation making her bold enough to give him the unusual pet name. She
thrills in the red of his blush. "Did your mother teach you how to be a
gentleman?"
"Etiquette classes and many a night playing host at my parents' cocktail
parties. I was saved from the reputation-destroying sissiness of it all by
the fact that every other boy on the Vineyard had to do the same thing."
His face breaks into the smile of the boy he had once been.
She takes a sip of her wine. "That would explain tonight."
"Oh?"
"Dinner by candlelight, the theater, then this bar? I'm surprised you
didn't take me dancing too."
Ever quick with a quip, he retorts, "I couldn't find a ballroom open this
late. The senior citizens of D.C. have early bedtimes."
"When we're old, Mulder, will we go to bed early?"
"Only if you're naked in that bed."
She reaches for his hand again, her entire body buzzing with a potent
mixture of alcohol, love, and wild, growing lust.
"Take me to bed, Mulder."
In one fluid motion, he withdraws his wallet and tosses a fifty onto the bar
to cover the bottle of expensive wine and tip. "Anything for the old lady."
Before she can raise a teasing eyebrow, he amends, "Anything for my lover."
Much better.
So much better.
She slips on her jacket and grabs her purse. Laughing, lets him take her by
the hand and hastily lead them out of the club to her home. Together.
Taking her lover to bed.
The past few months have been a test of their strength and commitment. But
despite the failure of the treatments, they have passed the true test, and
now they can begin the rest of their lives together.
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"Did you know that when you're tipsy, your skin gets this adorable flush to
it?"
"Oh?" She wobbles a bit more than she should as she steps out of the skirt
pooled at her ankles.
He reaches for her shoulder and steadies her. "Yeah. And you lose a bit of
muscle control."
She lightly shrugs away his hand so she can pull off her shirt. "You've
never seen me drunk before. How do you know it's that and not lust?"
Mulder takes her shirt and begins to fold it, the action rather
inappropriate for the situation, but he knows it will make her happy.
"While I'd like to believe it's lust, Scully," he gives her breast a
gratuitous grope before reaching behind her to begin the arduous task of
unfastening her bra, "I know inebriation when I see it. You nearly finished
off that bottle of wine on your own. You're the one who insisted I drive us
home, remember?"
Damned bra won't cooperate. As he moves to stand behind her, her head lolls
back on her neck, fine red hair brushing his fingers as he struggles with
the hooks. Perhaps lust has made her close her eyes, but the lolling is all
alcohol. It charms him, and he has a sneaky suspicion she loses a bit of
inhibition with a '91 vintage in her bloodstream.
This should be fun.
"Mmm... Mulder?" She slurs his name, but recovers with, "You're still
dressed, you know."
"Are you sure about that? Maybe I got naked faster than a speeding bullet."
"Bullet or not." She presses back into his body. "I can feel the buttons of
your shirt against my spine."
Busted. He doesn't regret it one bit. "You want to take my clothes off?"
"No." Her head lolls some more; her hair tickles his collarbone. "I'm not
in full possession of my faculties."
"So you admit that you're drunk?" Mulder needs to step away so he can
unbutton his shirt, but this feels too damn good. Pressing his hips against
the small of her back, his erection doesn't quite fit perfectly into the
curve just above her ass, but he doesn't care.
"I admit nothing."
"Lust, then?"
"Of course."
He finally puts his hands on her shoulders and stands her upright, propping
her long enough to make sure she has regained her balance, and then he
quickly sheds his clothes.
"There is one advantage to all of this, though." She pivots to face him,
but keeps her eyes closed. "If I were pregnant, I couldn't have had that
marvelous bottle of wine."
Thank God her eyes are still closed, so that she can't see him freeze in
panic. Steady voice, now, he cautions himself. "True."
Her face is calm, though. A slight smile curves her lips. Perhaps this
fuzziness presents the best opportunity to take advantage of the situation
and say something that has long been on his mind.
"Why don't we try anyway?"
Blue eyes bolt open. "Try to get pregnant?"
He nods.
"I can't." The words should be sad or bitter, but she seems more intrigued
than angry.
"Maybe not, but we can certainly have fun trying."
After a long stare, full of dilated pupils and a just-barely creased brow,
she lets a slow smile spread over her face. "Let's try."
Blessed instinct comes through again. "I love you, Scully," he murmurs.
"Me too," she whispers through her smile. A quick flinch of surprise, then,
"I love you too."
As she advances on him in a now-steady gait, he marvels at the predatory
gleam in her eyes, mixing with a new playfulness. On first thought it
doesn't seem "her," but he realizes that they are trying on new roles. The
previous times they made love were a mixture of heartbreak and comfort and
need. They have never been together like this just from the joy of being
together.
Tonight it is just them, in love and as close to sheer happiness as they
have ever been. If they are to make good on those small steps toward
permanent commitment tonight, they need this. Badly.
As she slowly licks his shoulder, he half-groans, "Do you know how many
babies are conceived during drunken sex?"
"Mulder, do you know how many of those people don't even know each other's
names?" she asks his pectoral muscle.
Seven years of intense observation have seared her face into his memory; it
is as familiar to him as his own. "I know your name, Scully." Mood drops
from a tease to a whisper. "It's the first thing on my mind when I wake up
every morning."
She looks up at him and blinks. He adds this expression to his portrait
gallery of Scully beauty.
He wants this to be as good for her as he knows it will be for him. To
create something tonight, be it a miracle child or a seal on a commitment.
I am yours and I am you and you are mine and me.
But he almost doesn't want to become her; he wouldn't be able to look at her
the way he does now. Loving one's self is narcissism. Loving another is
divine.
Stepping back, she nods in the direction of the Queen Anne chair in the
corner of her bedroom. A glance at her reveals only the quirk of lips and
brow, but he reads her signals. She clasps her hands behind his neck, and
whispers, "Ready?" With that, he lifts her, gripping her hips tightly as
she locks her heels on the back of his thighs. A few straggling steps
later, he is seated with her on his lap. The chair isn't quite big enough
for the both of them, but they manage.
"After this, I don't think I'll be able to pass this heirloom down to our
kids." Her voice is a low, throaty chuckle as she gets her balance.
"Heirloom?"
"My grandmother's." She runs her fingers through his hair. "I don't think
this is what it was designed for."
He raises his hand to mimic her, red hair falling fluid through his
fingertips. "Maybe generations of your family were conceived in this
chair."
"Per--" she begins, then the word trails away in a puff of air as he cups
her breast in his hand and rolls the nipple with his fingertips. He thinks
she says, "Oh, goodness," but the words are barely more than a long stream
of breath.
When he enters her, she sighs again, her breath tickling the curve of his
jaw. Once she is balanced around him, he pulls her back so he can look at
her face.
We can spend the rest of our lives together and be happy, he thinks. We
will make it work. We are a family, whether or not children enter our
lives.
With his hands on her hips, he cannot touch her clit, so she does the
honors, her knuckles brushing against his cock with every ring. As he
watches her climb toward her climax, he stills his lifts of her body, so he
can give her this climax before his own. Impulse tilts his chin up to meet
her lips, and he steals a quick kiss before she comes. Her body swirls like
a twister, then she stiffens and melts into his body, boneless and sated.
"I love you," she whispers to him. "Come for me, Mulder."
He regains his balance just enough to begin lifting her up and down on his
cock. A few long slides then he is coming inside her, long and breathless
and electric.
Minutes pass and he stays inside her, as if he could hold his semen inside
and conceive their child. Afterglow makes him truly believe this could
happen. In the late hours after dinner, theater, and wine, the world is
his. Anything is possible.
"Be mine," she whispers, a Valentine's endearment two months too late.
He opens his eyes and stares at her dear, familiar face.
"I am."
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END (6/8)
alanna@alanna.net
all4mulder@aol.com
