Venatus Vis

by Leslie

When he touches me, I forget everything.  My life, my sister, the truth, all become blurred images on the edge of my subconscious.  The only thing that matters is the smooth glide of his rough hands, the heat and wet of his tongue.  He is my weakness, I hate him, yet in the heat of passion all I can do is breathe his name.

As soon as the sound escapes my lips, his body stills for an instant.  A light enters the chill green of his eyes.  Triumph.  He has beaten me.  The climax is swift for us both.  I want cry out, with anger, with shame, with pleasure.  But I won't, not with him.  Never with him.  I clench my jaw in an effort to stay silent, watching his face at the moment of release.  He does not groan or scream as other men do, there is merely a tensing of his facial muscles, a slight dropping of lashes, casting his eyes in shadows.

Spent, he rolls off of me and sits at the end of the bed, his ragged breath slowly stabilizing.  No words are spoken.  The only sounds are the faint ticking of the clock and the padded thump of his feet as he moves around my room, gathering his clothes.  The air is heavy with the smell of sex and guilt.  Mulder.  He would hate me if he knew.  This would destroy him.  Each thought is like a physical blow, making me feel sick.  This would kill him.

Mulder loves much like he lives, with an intensity bordering on madness.  No surprise, really.  Mulder never does anything in halves.  There are times, however, when his single-minded devotion overwhelms me.  He is aware of his increasing dependency on me, yet by the same token, he fears that I will one day betray him.  I have seen it in his eyes.  The look of a condemned animal waiting for the steel trap to close.  When I see this side of him, I almost wish I had never known him at all.  It make me feel helpless, this constant draining of my strength, will, and faith.  But I love him.  So why do I do this to him?  To us?  It's not that I don't want him sexually.  God knows I do.  And from the way his hands and eyes frequently touch on my body, I know that he wants me just as much. Surprisingly, though, I sense that he doesn't want to go through with it.  It occurs to me now that Mulder does not necessarily connect love and sex.  It is ok to relieve his tension in pornography and nameless women, but he is loathe to do it with someone he loves.  In his mind, I am pure.  Untouchable.  So he places me on a pedestal and is content.  I, however, am not.

Alex is another story entirely.  He doesn't love me, any more than I love him.  For him, it is revenge.  Revenge against the shadowy figures that dominate his life.  Against Skinner.  Against Mulder.  Especially Mulder.  It seems strangely predictable that Mulder and Alex have become adversaries.  They are like Cain and Abel, flip sides of the same coin.  Mulder could have easily been Alex, had he let his demons control him.  Alex realizes this too, which makes him hate Mulder more.  So he has taken the one thing in Mulder's life that hadn't been corrupted.  Me.  And I let it happen.  As surely as I am Mulder's Madonna, I have become Alex's whore.  A broken sob escapes my throat as I choke on the irony.

At the unexpected sound, Alex ceases his efforts to get dressed.  I glance up sharply, alternately showing my defiance and dreading his displeasure.  The muscles in his back clench and release beneath gold tone skin, his head cocking slightly in my direction.  No emotion, then.  A twitch of his lips.  A hint of a smirk appears, followed but what Mulder would call "the Scully brow".  That look I give Mulder every time he mentions crop circles in Arkansas or exsanguinations in Texas, the look of tolerant affection.  He imitates this gesture perfectly.  Alex is the master of illusion.  He has even thrown Mulder's "little boy lost" look at me on occasion.  A not so subtle reminder of my deceit.  He knows how much that look hurts me, and it pleases him.

Unbidden, tears slip down my flushed cheeks.  I bite down hard on my lip in an effort to control the tell-tale trembling.  The wet tracks glisten on my face.  He sees this, and moves towards me.  I turn my head quickly, avoiding his eyes, but he prevents that with firm fingers on my chin.  The tears have stopped as abruptly as they had begun, leaving salty trails in their wake.  The fingertips of his other hand gently brush my eyelids closed.  Light as mist, I feel the tip of his tongue on my cheek.  His lips soon follow, touching, tasting.  He goes on like this for some time, drinking my dead tears, taking all the guilt and anguish with them.  He has consumed me.  The pleasure begins again.  Hands slide into my hair and yank me back violently.  I shudder from the loss of his mouth.  Dazed eyes open and caress his face.  His lips are still wet with my tears, and I want him again.  At this moment, he is my only love, my possessor, my enemy, my ultimate destruction.  He kisses me brutally then, cruelly.  To punish and to master.  I revel in it.  He pulls away suddenly, staring down at me hard.  I am suddenly confused, unpleasantly so.  This is not how the game is played.

My spark of defiance returns, and I stare back at him, unrepentant.  His eyes are still cold, beautifully so, but beyond that ice lie emotions too strong to conceal.  Savage possession, a hint of the rage he keep so tightly in check, and something else.  A spark of reluctant adoration.  I'm shocked to see it.  There is no mistaking that look.  I have seen it a hundred times over in Mulder's eyes.  Coming from Alex, however, it is disconcerting.  We lock eyes and fight for control, mine bright and confident with this newfound insight, his burning hot and cold behind the faltering mask.  After a long moment, his eyes slip shut and he sighs.  I taste victory like ashes in my mouth.  I now have all the power.  Drunk with that knowledge, I contemplate what to do.

The spell broken, I can return to life as it was before.  I can go back to being Mulder's obsession, the porcelain goddess worshipped from afar.  Go back to yearning looks and unresolved desire. I can finally reprise the role of safe little Dana Scully, a woman content with circling truths and indifferent passion.  That was the smart thing to do.  But the decision was already made.  On their own accord, my lips sought the amber skin at the base of his throat.  I love the taste of him, the bittersweet scent of his skin assaults my senses and strengthens my resolve.  At the sharp intake of his breath, I glance up.  His eyes are wide, pleading.  A mirror of my own a few minutes before.  I shake my head sadly at him.  He doesn't understand.  He needs to understand.  I grab his hand and place it on my breast, curving the long, tapered fingers almost painfully around it.  I never break eye contact, begging him silently to know my choice.  His eyes shutter as he mentally retreats from me.  I fear for an instant that he will refuse, that he will disappear.  The wave of despair that hits me steals my breath.  Then I feel his fingers tighten.  I squeeze my eyes shut as pleasure-pain engulfs me.  He knows.

I lay my head on his shoulder and weep bitter tears.  Tears of sorrow.  Tears of loss for the woman I will never be again.  But, mostly, they are tears of relief.  His hot breath stirs the hair at my temple, his arms wrapping around me so tightly my ribs ache.  So lost am I in the silent embrace that the sound of his husky voice startles me.

"You have given me your soul."

I feel my body burn in response.  He unfolds his body from mine and moves quickly away, gathering his affects in preparation for departure.  Gray light streams through my bedroom window, indicating that that dawn had arrived unnoticed.

Lying on the bed, I watch him move with the precise efficiency of a man who has done this a thousand times before.  He goes to the window and prepares to climb out, knowing as I do of Mulder's occasional all-night vigils outside my apartment.  Halfway out he turns, wearing a smile both sad and cocky, and devours the sight of my sinfully nude form among the rumpled sheets.  I return the smile, the first I have given him in all our association, and, with a muttered phrase in his native tongue, he is gone.

I sit in the meditative quiet he has left behind, struggling with the meaning of his parting words.  Being that my comprehension of Russian is worse than my German, I have to rack my brain for the translation.  The first word is "beautiful", I am sure.  The second word leaves me puzzled.  I think it is "torment", or perhaps "tormented".  Or maybe it was "tormentor".  I couldn't be sure.  But considering the events of this night, it could mean all three.

Finis

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