Title:  Not-Resolved
Author: IndigoMuse
E-mail address: IndigoMuse@aol.com
Archive:  If you like but please let me know where.
Rating: R
Category: UST
Summery:  Written as a sequel to Non-Resolved (which
you probably do need to read first to get this in context)
...the morning after the night before and Mulder & Scully 
wallow some more and try to deal with their realisations. 
Disclaimer:  Nobody's mine.  I'm borrowing them. I'll give
them back in a few pages time and I'm sure they'll be glad
to go.

(Oh yeah...apologies for the feeble titling.  At least it's 
consistent...totally lacking in imagination, but consistent!)




Not-Resolved  1/2


Time flies when you're having fun?  Well it also passes 
far more rapidly than you might anticipate when
you're dissecting your own misery.  It was only an
impatient 'hurry up' demand someone was issuing to their
companion from outside that made me aware of the time, 
and consequently of the fact that despite how much I'd 
like to indulge the soon to be lost opportunity to gaze at
her superbly naked form, I had to wake her.  For
just a moment I considered an act of utter cowardice...I
could set the alarm clock beside her and creep away so
she'd wake in my absence.  One slight problem...we're
in *my* room.  I could just shout at her from where I'm
standing but that seems...I don't know...impolite
and something I'd never do in usual circumstances and I 
do after all remember the loose terms of this contract...
mature adults...carry on as usual.

But what is usual now?  Just what the hell is the appropriate
manner in which to rouse your naked partner and friend 
after a night of good - and despite my proclivity for 
emotional flagellation it was damn good - but never to
be repeated sex?  I know how I want to wake her.  I want 
to lay back down on that bed beside her.  I want to pull the 
loose strands of hair from her face and kiss my way down 
her neck. I want to pull her to me and feel against my chest 
the changed pattern of her breathing as she stirs.  I want 
the first thing she registers on waking to be the heat of my 
flesh on hers.  But her?  Hell - all she expects from me is 
'business as usual'.  I wonder at how many men might envy 
me my current position...the knowledge that not only can I 
walk away without any emotional responsibilities or liabilities
but that I am expected to.  I should be able to take the 
licence she issued to do just that, owing her nothing but a 
thank you,  moving on..past this.

I don't think I can do it.

Slowly, so slowly I ease myself down on the bed beside 
her, just sitting.  A hand towards that unruly strand of hair 
but fingers withdraw just in time. The touch suddenly seems 
inexplicably and inappropriately over-intimate.  I settle for a 
quick hand on her shoulder, a tiny shake, a mumbled name, 
rousing her from a sleep she exits with a surprising speed 
and clarity.

Her first move is to grab the tangled sheet from around her
feet and pull it up around herself, making me instantly
aware of my own previously unconsidered nudity.  She
smiled up at me.  I've seen few enough of her smiles to 
recognise that they only come with the accompaniment of
sincerity and so I knew this one was real.  Warm and 
genuine and yet she seemed to be straining to keep it on 
her face as her actions prompted a wry little chuckle and 
she commented..

"I guess it's a bit late for coyness eh?"

"I guess..."  but nevertheless found myself crossing my
legs away from her in a belated attempt to preserve my
own modesty.  We sat immobile, each of us I felt
waiting for the other to say something, to figure out
just what we should be doing, how we should be behaving.
What the hell should we say?


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


I could hear him moving across the room towards me.  
Although I still hadn't opened my eyes I could sense the 
light on the other side of them and realising we were well
past night-time guessed he was going to wake me. After 
all we have work to do and nothing gets in the way of 
Mulder and his work.  

I know that's unfair.  Of course he will move past this back
to our professional roles.  Is that not what I had insisted I
wanted, expected? I try to close some non existent second 
eyelid against the image that intrudes into my darkness..
his sweat slicked face, the taut muscles of his neck as
he arched above me...his teeth on his lower lip just before
he released it to gasp my name....damn it - stop!

When the mattress dips besides me and I realise that
he is going to touch me I almost whimper aloud.  I hadn't
anticipated any repeated proximity to his naked body and 
had prepared no guards against it, no solid Scully walls to
deflect the wave of want that came crashing towards me. 
Now. If he does or says anything now that offers me even
the hint of intimacy I refuted last night when I turned from 
his kiss I swear I'll nail the man to the bed before I let him 
walk away from me.  

Of course he doesn't.  

He is calm and practical, the same Mulder he was six 
hours ago...tender enough with firm fingers on my shoulder 
to remind me of everything I've screwed up, brief and 
efficient enough to establish that he has no problem playing 
by the rules I set.

Business as usual.

I'm no great actress and didn't play the waking from
deep sleep bit too well, opening my eyes and propelling
myself upright with a speed that seemed to surprise him.
I grabbed at the sheet on the bed to cover myself without
really knowing why.  I'd been laying here for what felt
like an eternity knowing he was...or might have been - 
(maybe in the aftermath of having seen it/done it I  held no 
further interest for him)....watching me uncovered and naked.  
I feel suddenly childish and find that I need him to think 
I'm not really embarrassed and to somehow acknowledge 
what has passed between us, to make him believe I'm on 
the same path back to professionalism that he is, however 
far from the truth that may be.

"I guess it's a bit late for coyness eh?".  I don't want him
to think I regret what we've done despite the fact that with
every atom of my being I do.  He'll misunderstand the regret.
I know this man's capacity for self recrimination so well and 
even though his perfect memory will recall every word I 
spoke, though he might tell himself  and I would echo the 
truth - that I initiated this,  I cajoled him into this with what 
amounted to a promise of sex unfettered by any requirements 
past the physical, he will interpret regret on my part as a 
failing on his.  I won't allow that.

I try to figure out just what is appropriate here. We have to
move and our clothes are piled on the floor far enough away
for me to have to walk across the room to have to get them. 
This is his room so I can hardly ask or expect him to leave.  
I don't want to have to drag the sheet with me but equally I
don't want to get out of the bed and move even that short
distance in front of him.  The casual familiarity that would 
allow me to feel so unabashed is a comfort accorded to 
lovers and amongst the other lessons I've learnt these past 
few hours secondary only to the severity of my own self 
revelation is that sex has made us far less lovers than intimate 
strangers.

There is a hesitation in his eyes as he looks at me.  Why is he 
sat there just looking at me?  I can't help but feel he is seeking 
reassurance, confirmation that he owes me nothing... I have 
to say something...but what falls out of my mouth is so banal...

"It's OK Mulder...we're OK"

His mouth smiles at me but his eyes refuse to join in. I try 
again...

"It was ...good.  Thank you.."

I had thought that was what he was waiting for but perhaps 
not.  His smile does not recede but his eyes change.  The man 
is looking at me as if he hates me....


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

I tell myself that I would have said it...I would have told
her but that brusque assertion that we were OK was so
clearly a dismissal.  Hurry up Mulder...get over this
hovering and leave me be.  In that moment she snatched 
away the words I was forming.  OK?  Just one little word - 
not even a word actually, just two idiotic letters that make 
the position clear and all my courage is gone.  It seems 
that even the part of  this ridiculous mess that we agreed 
on is not to be mentioned.  OK.  Fine.  Lets just get on with 
things.  And 'it was good - thank you.'  What the hell is that?
She was talking as if I'd taken her to the movies.  Damn
the woman.

I can see her eyes flicking between me and the pile 
of clothes and realise her indecision comes from a reluctance 
to let me see her.  More than anything else this saddens me,
that she can -  that she needs to -  detach herself so 
completely from what has gone before.  It seems to suggest 
a coldness in her, a mercenary attitude I would never have 
accredited her with.  Then what of last night would I have 
accredited her with?  The fact is that she was more than 
willing to strip herself in front of me, to revel in our nudity 
for the sake of sex but feels unable to relax enough in the 
light of day to trust me with the sight of that which I had 
caressed, kissed, licked, slid over and in last night.  There 
could be no clearer expression of her desire to move past 
this, to return to the 'office' role.  She used me.  But then, 
at the outset had I not been willing enough to use her?  What 
a fucking mess.

I take her hand, surprising myself even as I do so, and
squeeze her fingers lightly, more in an attempt to ground
myself, rein in these feelings, than to reassure her, but she
can take it how she will.  I will concede to her modesty...
telling her as casually - as normally - as I am able that
I'll go shower...see her in the diner for coffee in half an
hour...the message clear.  I won't watch you.  Go away.  
Put on your working skin while I put on mine and we'll 
pretend this never happened.  She flashes me a tiny smile,  
barely perceptible, showing comprehension and 
gratitude.  In just that moment, even as I crumble inside 
under the weight of newly defined love I think I could hate 
her.  

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

I wait until I hear the sound of the water before I climb off
the bed and reclaim my clothes, pulling on just the minimum
required to afford decency before I head out of the door.
Nothing in my life has ever sounded as final to me as the click
of the latch falling into place as it closes behind me. A
moment... for just a moment I consider turning and
hammering on the door,  shouting it out at him. But what 
would I say?  'I screwed up.  I thought we could do this and 
carry on.  I can't'.....and most ridiculous of all, the greatest
truth...'I love you' .  No.  Not even the pain I'm feeling now 
could be as bad as the lack of reciprocation I would see in 
his eyes.  At least this way I'm the only one despising myself 
for my weakness.

Minutes later, under water hotter than I can really endure, I
huddle on the floor of the shower, allowing the wet heat to 
wash over me, carrying the last traces of him, of his touch, 
into the water pooling around me.  I watch it trickle down 
the drain with a sense of irrational loss and fear.  I could not 
feel greater privation at that moment were it my life blood 
flowing away before me.

Almost unaware of myself my fingers travel over my 
stomach, between my legs, trying to recapture just something 
of what he gave me, of what I have no right or reason to miss, 
but despite my familiarity with this act, my long perfected touch, 
it is a pointless exercise in relief.  I feel nothing.  I am empty of 
anything but the image of him.  For minutes I sit, wallowing in 
my misery, damning myself for my idiocy in ever having initiated 
this and damning him for his compliance...for being such a...a 
man...taking easy sex without a thought for the consequences.  
Why not?  I'm beating myself up enough here - I cannot help 
but throw one of the punches his way.

Then, like a rubber band snapping back into place, I
snap myself together and the professional Scully comes into 
play.  However much effort this takes I will match his ability 
to step back in time to before this.  I am confident that with 
all my years of practice I can carry this off.  After all I have 
blended self denial and self control to a perfect consistency, 
one which I savour, carry around with me as necessary 
sustenance, without which I might just crumple against the 
glare of my own self revelation.  It takes no small effort to do 
it, to maintain the perfect facade, and it is my weakness and 
not my strength that keeps it going.  That keeps *me* going.

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

She had been nearly an hour before she made it to the diner.
I had long since assumed she just wasn't going to come and 
was about to go back and get her when she marched through
the door.  There was a look on her face that, contrary to the
many I'd seen since last night, I *could* identify - fierce
determination - about what I couldn't quite figure, but I
was grateful for the easy way she slid in beside me and 
took up the now lukewarm coffee I'd ordered for her.  
This was a Scully I did know...the one who stood apart.  
Her walls were up and with hers in place, I hoped I'd find it 
that bit easier to rebuild mine.

End 1/2

Not-Resolved 2/2


By the time we actually leave the diner something 
approaching conversation has begun. We manage to talk 
almost non-stop whilst, apart from the occasional work
related interaction, saying absolutely nothing at all during 
the entire day, as if we feared silence might impose a 
compulsion for us to actually face up to ourselves. The 
enforced joviality was probably harder work than the 
baring of souls would have been, not least because it is so 
out of character for both of us.  Strange how we seem to be 
seeking our defences in the unfamiliar when the whole point 
of this awkwardness between us is the pretence that we are 
carrying on as usual. 

I've made all the resolutions....do not think about it, do not
question it, do not dwell, but my mind keeps drifting back to 
the memory of the sight of her, of how she felt, both soft and 
hard beneath me, head thrown back against the pillow, her 
legs tight around my hips, that low resonant growl she 
expelled when I emptied myself into her....

The most powerful image though, burnt onto my vision, is
of something that never happened.  I see a picture so clear
that it is almost impossible for me to believe it's not a
memory...when I lean over to kiss her she reaches for me 
too,  takes my tongue into her mouth, claims my lips with 
hers.  In my mind's eye she does not reject me.  She loves 
me back.  In just these few short hours those four small 
words have come to represent my greatest wish and the 
more her  incessant chatter rattles around me, and my own 
non-stop  responses bypass my brain, the more I know 
that I shouldn't  have left it alone.  I should have done 
something, said something  this morning.  Now...it's already 
too late.  Time is a far  greater divide than distance.  By 
playing her game I've cut myself out of it.  

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

It was far far easier than I had anticipated to start pretending
but far far harder to maintain the pretence throughout the 
day.  I am almost driving myself insane with the sound of
my own voice as I go on and on, talking non-stop about the 
most ridiculous things just because as long as I am talking I 
can chase the images that rush in  every time I look too long 
at him...the memory of the shape, the feel, the scent of him.  
How long I wonder, has it been since anyone else got to smell 
that heady mix of sweat, semen and Mulderscent?  I feel 
almost crippled by the thought that there might have been 
anyone, anyone at all since I've known him.

The greatest test of my ability to obey my internal orders
comes when I watch him eating those damn seeds.  Jacket
off, sleeves rolled back, that casual, automatic bite, suck,
lick, spit.  It's too much.  I want that mouth - and in 
realising that I wonder anew at my stupidity in rejecting
it last night when it could of - would have - been mine.

The whole basis of the relationship we do have is honesty,
is trust.  In 6 years I have never lied to him.  Last night 
when he went to kiss me I wanted that kiss more than I
have ever wanted anything...but determining it an untruth I 
turned away - and so the dishonesty became mine.  But I 
believed myself.  

We played the game throughout the entire day and I felt
confident that I'd played my part well.  The tension between 
us was palpable but I told myself that that was inevitable.
Even if I'd woken feeling the same way I had yesterday, 
even if I had been able to adhere to my own pre-conceptions
we would be tense...after all we had acknowledged each
other as sexual beings instead of 'partners' and that was
bound to cause some awkwardness.  Once he had got over 
that, I would be on the way to disguising my deeper anxieties 
far better.  

It became painfully uncomfortable at the end of the working 
day when we headed back to the motel through.  We'd 
usually head off, shower, change and then reconvene...we'd
hunt out or call in food, watch bad TV and go over the days
work...but I knew I couldn't set foot in his room and I didn't
want him in mine.  The indecision raced as the car pulled
into the parking lot and I sat hesitant in the seat.  Again
he is looking at me in that way that professes understanding
and even as I dismiss the possibility he surprises me, proves
me wrong with a suggestion that we go out to eat.  Such a
simple thing - the comprehension of and respect for how I'm
feeling - and I'm lost.  I mumble some inanity about wanting an
early night - it's only 6.30...there's early -  and then there's 
early - and propel myself out of the car and across the parking 
lot towards my door without waiting for or looking at his
response.

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


Six hours later...I've run further in those six hours than I
usually would in six weeks, though in that as in all else it 
seems I am going nowhere.  I need to be out of the
room though, as the air, despite the cheap freshener
sprayed around by housekeeping, is still redolent with
the smell of her arousal, still plangent with the throaty 
sounds of her pleasure. Inside I lay on the bed and watch
monotonous B-Movies with none of my usual delight.
I actually start to pack my case in anticipation of 
tomorrow's flight but discover a far greater release 
comes from just throwing things against the wall.
I remember to eat and I guess by the smile on his face I 
really over tipped the delivery boy because I couldn't be 
bothered to count out the bills.  In the shower 
I slid a soaped fist around a hard cock and pumped 
ineffectually for the time it took me to realise the water 
would be done before I would...because all I could 
smell there was soap and shampoo - not her.  

This act habitual to me I strayed into the same territory 
again laying on the bed,  convincing myself that this release 
will take me far enough away for long enough for me to sleep.  
As much second nature to me as breathing I have no trouble 
coaxing the physical response, large hands and hard fingers 
have me solid in my palm.  Tight fists work their oft rehearsed 
choreography, one clenched tight around my balls, the other 
working a first slow, then gradually faster rhythm, practised 
fingers squeezing firm around the head, scooping each tiny 
bead of moisture that appears and using it to lubricate hot 
solid flesh.  My mind claws desperately for the images I 
know arouse as my hips begin to work in counter rhythm to 
my wrist, my breath ragged and unfathomably
loud even to my ears.  I bite my lip so hard I taste the
copper tang of blood to forcibly prevent myself from
calling her name as I spill hot and wet over my fingers.
Her face invades...her face turning away from my kiss...
and with that image I wipe my hand along my thigh, 
indifferent to slight discomfort of the now cold stickiness
and turn away from the spectre of her.  

There has never been an evening that we have stayed 
in any crummy motel where at least some part of it has
not been spent together.  It is the closest thing to socialising
we actually ever do. In just these few hours I miss her.
It is such a pathetic understatement of what I am feeling.  
I crave her.  I yearn for her.  I ache for her.  I hunger for her.  
And this not a sexual need, despite what the rapidly drying
smear along my leg might say of that, although I am not 
so dishonest with myself to deny that urge, the urge to 
revisit last night's haste and make it something different than 
what it was.  

To dispel this I close my eyes and recite a list of all the times 
she has cut down my theories, my arguments, laughed at and 
disparaged my less conventional ideas, but my face smiles 
despite itself as I wipe all of those aside with the memories of 
just how many times, both literally and figuratively, she has 
held my hand and pulled me out of my darkness.  I can't 
throw that away because of this....

So I took the step.  I picked up my cell phone and regarded 
it as if it were a deadly weapon, primed to explode in my 
hand if I so much as breathed in the wrong direction.  I
thanked whomever had come up with the idea of 
programming telephones...I would have been utterly 
incapable of dialling the number.  Each button pressed 
would have brought me one tiny bit closer to either putting 
right or compounding what might have been the biggest 
mistake of my life and I didn't need to hear my fate measured 
out that way.

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

Six hours later....and it may as well have been a six hundred.
I've showered - three times.  Written and rewritten reports 
which lack coherence to such a degree I'll have to rewrite 
them all again come tomorrow.  I've watched TV without 
seeing a single thing.  I called out for food that sits congealing,
uneaten on the table.  To try and get myself away from this
I sat and wrote a list of every single thing he's ever done to 
piss me off. It was practically a novel by the time I'd finished.  
I wrote another of all the reasons they didn't matter...one word..
.his name and it's more than enough to provide absolution.  I 
tried to read the book I'd brought but at the end of every page
realise I haven't taken in a single word.

Eventually I tried to sleep but found myself seeking the scent 
of him on the pillow, despite the fact he'd never touched it.  
I lay rigid on the bed, daring myself to revisit the images,
telling myself they would lead me into sleep but when I ran
my fingers over my belly, they were not as heavy as his 
and so I couldn't feel them.  I moved downwards, 
pushing through flesh too dry, to devoid of arousal for
pleasure, but still I persisted, pushing into myself against
the resistance, using practical knowledge more than touch
to stimulate physical response.  Despite myself I feel
his weight, his heat, his raw wet action, until eventually I 
feel my lower body tense, the muscles in my legs tighten 
as I contract around tired fingers, somehow utterly devoid
of satisfaction.  Conceding defeat I curl into a ball and 
chant my own name as a lullaby, but hate myself for my 
susceptibility when I find tears rising at the realisation that I 
couldn't make it sound right because I couldn't mimic his 
voice.  I damned myself for the damage I'd done, and for 
my absolute imbecility in imagining I could pretend....

I wasn't particularly surprised when the phone rang.  In the
back of my mind I think I had almost been expecting him 
to come knocking on the door, but I guess the phone provides
an additional armour - could he possibly be as uneasy about
confrontation as I am?  He certainly isn't hesitant, not even
waiting for me to acknowledge I'm on the line before he 
jumps straight in.

"We shouldn't have done it."

I replay the words even as he speaks them, searching for the 
recrimination, but despite my resolute determination to
locate it I hear only sincerity and regret...so concede.

"No..we shouldn't."

"But we did."

"Yes."

Silence.  Small talk has never really been our strong point.

"Scully?"...as if he is checking I am still listening.  "Why is
it so wrong?  Is it just the sex?"

Goddamned male egos!  Is that all that this is about - him
seeking reassurance that he measured up (to what)?  Even
the irritation can't push me into a lie though.

"No.  No Mulder..the sex was good - great actually.
Amazing..."  I am sure that I can hear him snigger.

"Yeah?  Well you were pretty hot yourself Scully."

I cannot help but smile.  Hey - even in the depths of misery
a woman likes to know these things...and then I realise that 
he is still speaking, serious again.

"So what is it?  For you?  Why are you so uncomfortable
when it was you...."

Me who what?  Jumped him?  Basically leapt on him? 
The attack of the hormonally crazed woman.  I just can't 
answer him.  The truth is still too terrifying to me.

"Shall I tell you why it's wrong for me?"

I foolishly nod as if he could see me, but as if he can he
responds...

"I want more."

I could just pretend to misunderstand him.  I could 
pretend that he's just talking about getting laid again, but 
the tone of his voice nearly takes my legs from under me...
he sounds like a man pleading for his life.  I realise two 
things almost simultaneously.  One, that Mulder has just - or 
at least I *think* he has just - told me that he loves me.  
Second that I am shaking my head as if in the grip of some 
manic dementia, chanting a mantra over and over..
"metoometoometoo..."

He doesn't interrupt my repeated intonement, waiting for me 
to draw to a close before he speaks again, his voice slow
and steady yet resonant with trepidation...

"Did I just tell you what I think I did?"

"I think so."

"And did you just respond in kind?"

"Yeah."

"Than there's something we need to do Scully..."

"Yes?"

"Figure out where the hell we want to go from here!"

  


End.
**********************************************

Initially I had no intention at all of writing any sort
of sequel to Non-Resolved, but lots of people asked
so nicely -  (and big buckets of thanks to everyone who 
did) - and I gave in.  Thing is the consensus seemed to be for
a happy conclusion with happy sex....and I just couldn't
get them to make that leap without a bit more misery.

Feedback?  Please.  Constructive criticism is my
medicine.

IndigoMuse@aol.com