DISCLAIMER: Once again, I'm taking someone else's 
characters--Chris's, 1013's, Fox's--and taking off their 
clothes.  But at least I'm honest about it.

I didn't know quite what pairing to put at the head of this 
story.  It is a sequel to "L'Alba" and so I got Mona's 
permission to post it to Xslash-stories; however, Krycek is 
nowhere in sight, and Scully is.  *There is m/f sex in this 
story*, so if that bothers you, don't say I didn't warn you. 
Likewise, there is discussion of a m/m sexual relationship, 
so don't say I didn't warn you about that either.

**********************

Vespers
by Merri-Todd Webster

**********************

You alone are immortal, who made and fashioned mankind; 
we mortals then were formed from earth and to that same 
earth we shall go, as You who formed me commanded 
saying: You are earth, and you will go back to earth; to which 
all we mortals will go making our funeral lament a song: 
Alleluia.
--Kontakion for the Burial of the Dead,
Orthodox Christian liturgy

*********

It was getting dark as Dana Scully put away her rosary.  How 
long had she been doing this, now?  Had she started to pray 
again, or to try to, when she believed she was dying?  Had 
she kept it up because everything else fell apart, nothing 
could be trusted?  She looked at the reddish-brown beads 
lying across her palm, joined by tiny pale gold links.  Tiny 
links held everything together.  So tiny.

She slipped the rosary back into its blue silk bag and placed 
it into the drawer of the nightstand, on top of the little book 
that contained the rosary prayers.  She'd almost forgotten 
the right sequence of Hail Marys and Our Fathers, but what 
had drawn her to the book was its reproductions of paintings 
by Fra Angelico, one for each mystery.  In her still-frequent 
skeptical moments, she thought simply looking at the 
beautiful, peaceful paintings helped her as much as, or more 
than, saying the prayers.

She closed the drawer and stood up, yawned and stretched. 
It had been a long evening, hot in a way that the air 
conditioner didn't quite cut, and she was already thinking of 
sleep.  Bath first, or snack first? She was still trying to decide 
when she heard the door open.

She came into the living room and saw him before he caught 
sight of her. Unshaven, collar limp, hair plastered to his 
forehead with sweat.  A mark on his neck.  A glow around 
the tired eyes.

"Scully!"

Mulder jerked upright, suitcase still in hand, into a stiff, 
defensive posture that she'd seen many times when Skinner 
was being difficult.  One hand started to move toward his 
collar, then wandered away.

"I thought you were out of town.  At your mother's."

Scully cleared her throat.  "I was, but something came up 
with Bill and Tara and the kids.  Mom had to fly out there, but 
they didn't need me." The bitterness in her voice chilled the 
room more than the air conditioning.  Mulder put down his 
bags and came toward her, slowly, awkwardly, wobbling. 
He's afraid of me, she thought, and hated the satisfaction 
which that realization gave her.  She folded her arms over 
her chest and let him have it.

"I know where you've been, Mulder."

He stopped in mid-stride, one foot just above the carpet.  To 
his credit, he didn't attempt to lie, to dissemble.  He just 
nodded, then put down the hovering foot and detoured into 
the armchair, where he slumped over, apparently staring at 
his shoes.

"How long?" he asked, after she said nothing else.

Scully shrugged, sat down on the sofa.  "Long enough.  Long 
enough to accept it."

His head jerked up.  "Accept it?  Christ, Scully, you--"

"I deserve better.  Yeah, I know."  She wrapped her arms 
more tightly around herself.  "I know you tried to tell me that 
three years ago.  You tried to tell me what I was getting into. 
I didn't listen.  I wanted you too much." 

She bit her lip--I will not cry I swore I would never cry never 
cry over this never--and looked away.  A tentative hand 
came to rest on her shoulder.

"There's nothing I can say, is there?"

She shook her head.  Mulder headed toward the bathroom. 
When she heard the shower running, Scully got up and went 
to bed.

She heard him, later, coming into the dark bedroom.  The 
sunset had finally faded completely.  Of course she wasn't 
asleep.  The bed gave under his weight, and she turned 
over, looking toward him in the dimness of the humid night.

To her surprise, he turned toward her and gathered her in, 
wrapping his arms around her and cupping the back of her 
head in his hand.  He smelled good, of soap and just faintly 
of his own sweat, nothing else.

"Scully."

She rubbed her head against his chest and said nothing.

"Scully, I love you."

Once I would have given my soul to hear those words, she 
thought.  And then I did.  "I know."

"It's just that I need...."  His voice trailed off, the hand 
stroking her hip stilled.  "I won't give you up," he finished. 
Stubborn refusal stuck out of his voice like a rock.

Scully sighed.  Mulder held her a little tighter, constricting her 
breathing.  It was too hot for that, despite the a.c., and she 
drew away, sat up on the bed.  He was looking at her, 
pleading, needy, eyes gleaming with a hazel light.  Once she 
would have done anything to make him feel better, to make 
that look go away.  That had changed when she realized 
how little he needed her. 

"I haven't given you up, Mulder."  There was flint and steel in 
her voice.  It hid the need she would never, could never 
admit to him. She needed him much too badly.  That she 
needed him at all was less bearable than the fact of sharing 
him with someone else.

The pleading look changed into a smile, an enigmatic Mulder 
smile.  He took hold of her hand and pulled her closer again, 
his fingers sliding into her hair as he captured her mouth for 
a kiss.  Even as the inevitable familiar overture of arousal 
began to sound inside her, a different voice sounded in 
counterpoint:  Does he kiss Krycek like this?  Does he run 
his fingers through that short black hair the same way he 
runs them through mine? She hadn't heard that voice for a 
long time.

"Scully," he whispered against her lips.  All the endearments 
in the world, on the lips of other lovers, never affected her 
the way her surname, her father's name, did on Mulder's lips. 
She shivered, once, and pushed down the straps of her 
nightgown so that her bare breasts could rest against his 
chest.  Does he miss my breasts when he's with a man? the 
inner voice asked, but she ignored it.  She wound her arms 
around his neck and kissed him again, more aggressively 
than he had kissed her. After a pause, his arms went around 
her and his hands found her neck, her hair, her ass, 
agreeing to her demands.

Only a few hours ago, perhaps, he had been naked in bed 
with Krycek.  Alex Krycek, their enemy, Mulder's lover, their 
own personal one-armed man. He had showered thoroughly, 
she wouldn't taste or smell the other man on him, and no 
doubt he paid Krycek the same courtesy, wouldn't go to him 
reeking of the other woman.  Scully slid down and bit sharply 
at Mulder's throat, smiling.  The skirt of her nightgown caught 
for a second on the moist head of his cock.

She didn't bother to take off the nightgown before going 
down on Mulder.  

He gasped inarticulately--was it *her* name he was 
saying?--and let his arms fall to his sides.  Maybe Krycek 
had done this for him.  Maybe he had done this for Krycek. 
When she first determined what was happening, she'd been 
unable to have sex for weeks, revolted by the knowledge.  
She'd pleaded a bumped cervix, evaded his touch as much 
as possible.  But the nausea had passed, and eventually the 
sex had been as good as ever.  Mulder was a skillful, 
considerate lover, as intuitive in bed as out of it, able to 
divine what she wanted and needed; she rarely, if ever, had 
to voice a preference, and she liked it that way.

But now, sucking him in, rubbing with slow firm strokes on 
what she couldn't take into her mouth, tasting Mulder (she 
loved the taste of his skin), Scully found it exciting to 
contemplate the two of them together, both tall and slim, 
brown hair and brown-black, Mulder's lips wrapped around 
another man's cock, Mulder being fucked as gracefully as he 
fucked her. She ran her tongue around and around the 
shapely head of his cock, making it wetter and wetter with 
her saliva and his pre-cum, and Mulder moaned, this time it 
*was* her name, "Scully...."  She bent and tongued his balls 
until a fine hair caught in her teeth, then swung around and 
used her teeth on his nipples.  Mulder moaned again and 
again.

Only when she sat up, at last, and pulled off the nightgown 
did he reach for her.  She lay still, peaceful, contemplative, 
as he worked his way down her body with hands and mouth, 
like a harpist testing all the range of his instrument, sounding 
each string in turn.  Her lips.  Her shoulders.  Her breasts. 
Her belly.  Her thighs.  Her feet. Finally, her cunt.  She 
propped her feet on his shoulders and let him worship her, 
teasing her own nipples with idle fingers.  Mulder gave as 
good as he'd gotten, touching and tasting every contour, 
suckling her clit until she cried out blissfully, diving into her 
as far as he could.  Scully cried out again when he stroked 
her wet clit with one fingertip, quivering all over as though he 
plucked a string that made the whole frame sing.  He can't 
do this with Krycek, she thought dreamily.  Men can't come 
over and over.  I can.  I let him do that to me. 

Long fingers filled her cunt, sliding in easily.  She felt so 
deep, as though he would never get to the core of her. Two 
fingers were replaced by three, just as she wanted, and 
Mulder's hand stayed steadfast, fingers inside her, thumb on 
her clit, while she thrust against him, eyes closed, lips 
parted, fucking herself and so happy that he would let her. 
He knew exactly when to take over and start pumping, 
bringing her to a convulsive pleasure that made her coil 
around his hand like a serpent.

Scully accepted Mulder's head onto her breasts, ruffling his 
hair with affection.  "I love you," he whispered.

"Do you tell Krycek you love him?" 

It had gotten still darker, but she could see Mulder blinking 
owlishly.  "What?"

"Do you tell Krycek that you love him? *Do* you love him?" 
She had never even dared to wonder, before, just as she 
never dared to doubt that when Mulder said he loved her, he 
meant it.  For Mulder to lie like that was an impossibility.  But 
he was capable of lying with Krycek.

"Scully!"

She heard, underneath, what he wouldn't say:  Scully, you're 
breaking the rules, you're not supposed to act this way, 
you're not supposed to ask questions.  She reached for his 
cock, still erect, still wet, heard him whimper as she tenderly 
squeezed the resilient head. "Never mind, I want you to fuck 
me."

Mulder knelt over her obediently, letting her hands guide him 
in.  He groaned as her cunt engulfed his cock, and Scully bit 
her lip to keep quiet.  Good, it was always so good, she'd 
been celibate so long before she and Mulder had gotten 
through that barrier, and her body was still grateful every 
single time, praising God for every touch and every orgasm. 
They moved together in an easy rhythm like perfectly 
matched dancers, back and forth, back and forth, Mulder's 
eyes squeezed shut and Scully's eyes locked on his face.

All it took was clenching her muscles around him as he 
moved, and she could have one orgasm after another while 
pushing him to his limit.  Scully took her pleasure slowly, 
relentlessly, while watching the signs on Mulder's face, 
looking for the point of no return.  He ground into her, 
gasping, losing the beat for a few seconds, and then the 
words were ground out of him. 

"He loves me." 

"What?"

"He loves me." He pushed in harder. "Krycek loves me. I 
don't deserve it, but he loves me--" 

This was it: the tension in his face, the lips curled back, his 
hips stuttering against hers, he'd forgotten now that she was 
small and fragile, and Scully offered her fingers to his mouth, 
to his greedy suckling, and when they were wet and slick 
cupped his ass and went in after his prostate.

Mulder screamed as the orgasm took him, shaking like an 
animal in the jaws of a predator.  Scully growled in her throat 
as one last ferocious spasm passed from him to her, hanging 
on to him tightly, one arm around his ribcage and her fingers 
buried in his asshole.  When it was over, he collapsed on top 
of her, heavy, sated, smelling strongly of sweat and sex.

As soon as she stirred beneath him, Mulder withdrew and 
rolled away.  As usual, Scully went to the bathroom, cleaned 
herself, brought back a damp washcloth for Mulder.  She had 
insisted that they not use condoms; they were both clean, of 
course, and there was no danger of pregnancy, none at all. 
She put back on the discarded nightgown, settling it over her 
still swollen breasts, and got back into bed.  Mulder's hand 
squeezed hers, when she took it, but he was already 
snoring.

She reached out and turned on the radio, knowing she would 
not sleep for a while.  A chesty Russian chorus burst out, but 
softly, with something she thought she recognized. 
Rachmaninov's Vespers?  Or the Kontakion, the hymn for 
the dead she'd heard all too recently at another agent's 
funeral?

I love you, Mulder, she thought.  But I need you too much to 
tell you.

*********

end