Over the Line

Date: Mon, 29 Jun 1998

TITLE: Over the Line
AUTHOR: Shannon O'Connor
FEEDBACK: Please, thank you. Oh, to shannono@iname.com
CATEGORY: SA
RATING: R
CONTENT: Language, sexual situations, Mulder angst/torture
(self-flagellation, in other words), possible rape
SPOILERS: None
KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully

SUMMARY: There's a thin line between passion and rape -- has
Mulder crossed it?

DISCLAIMER: These characters aren't mine; they belong to Fox,
1013, and Chris Carter, not to mention David Duchovny and
Gillian Anderson (which I guess I just did). But this story
*is* mine -- whether I really want to claim it or not.

THANKS: To Katwoman, for editing -- and for not giving up
after the second section. <g>

**********
Over the Line
By Shannon O'Connor

Mulder froze, the strangled groan sticking in his throat.

He didn't breathe for long moments.

He felt only the sweat running down his neck, and a twitch
from the flesh surrounding his rapidly-shrinking penis.

His eyes squeezed shut, his arms holding his weight up off
her body only by sheer force of will. He wouldn't look. He
couldn't.

Not at her.

Not to her.

A muffled sound came from somewhere below him, and he felt
another spasm from the muscles sheathing him, the sensation
radiating along his over-stimulated flesh and through the
rest of his body. Then a sharp pain registered, along his
jaw, where the flat of her hand had connected with his face
mere minutes before.

The argument. The fight. Words screamed in anger, flying
like daggers, targeted to wound mortally.

Passionate.

Giving way to passions.

A low cry escaped his mouth as he tore himself from her,
throwing his body across the room. He felt a warm
stickiness running between his legs, their mingled
juices following him. Staining him.

Forever.

<Out, out, damn'd spot.>

He still couldn't look at her.

More sounds drifted toward him, the hitch of unsteady
breathing. Sobs. Pain.

Always her pain.

His mouth worked silently, and he heard sounds emerge,
but they made no sense. No words would come. And no
apologies could be made.

It was over.

His sweatpants and T-shirt lay crumpled near his feet,
and he willed himself to grab them and just get out. He
should probably wait for the police, let them go ahead
and cuff him and get it over with.

But he couldn't sit here and listen to her cry.

Drawing on the last of his strength, the very dregs of
his soul, he pushed himself up from the floor, hooking
his clothes as he rose. Sweats and T-shirt on, feet
shoved into running shoes, boxers in hand, grab the
jacket and leave.

He never heard her call his name.

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

Dark.

Oppressive. Suffocating.

Claustrophobic.

The dark used to be his refuge. He felt at home there,
comfortable in the shadows.

Now, the shadows didn't even want him.

He felt dirty, defiled. He sat slouched on the floor,
back against the sofa, staring, unseeing, into the black.

The fluids between his legs had dried to an uncomfortable
crust on his skin. But he couldn't move to wash himself
yet. Any moment now, the knock would come on the door,
and he wasn't about to compound his crimes by destroying
evidence.

And so he waited. A condemned man, resigned to his fate.

Until the knock came. Soft, so soft.

The door was unlocked, even open an inch, ready for them.
The uniforms would be there in seconds, guns drawn. Of
course they'd expect him to be armed. He's an FBI agent.
The gun comes with the job.

But the gun wasn't there. He'd left it in the spot where
his jacket had lain on her apartment floor.

Good thing. He might have eaten the barrel by now. And
she deserved to watch him pay.

The knock sounded again, only minutely stronger, but
enough to move the door this time. A shaft of light cut
through the murkiness, the slight movement of the air
sending dust motes spinning in the shine.

The glow crept across the floor toward him. He tensed at
its approach. It would burn when it touched him.

Or it would be swallowed up by the black hole that passed
for his soul.

The quiet rang in his ears. Where were the by-the-book
words, calling his name, announcing their presence?

<Don't screw this up. Don't let me get off on a
technicality.>

And then a single sound emerged, two syllables that
tore ragged holes open in his skin, and his heart
bled.

"Mulder?"

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

Even his lungs failed him.

He was filthy. He'd already destroyed her purity. He didn't
deserve to breathe the same air as her.

But his lungs wouldn't cooperate. His mouth fell open as
he gasped, gulping in oxygen like water to a man dying of
thirst.

A man dying.

"Mulder?"

The voice again, more urgent this time, and the light
retreated into the hall. A pause, then heat next to
his elbow.

His breath turned ragged again.

Neither moved for a long time.

He could smell her now, even over his own stench. Her
sweet scent, marred by his sweat and semen.

She hadn't showered, either.

<Good,> he thought. <Better for the rape kit.>

His eyes gradually readjusted to the dark, and he could
see her form from the corner of his eye. She was
squatting just a foot away, not touching him, not
reaching for him.

"Where are the cops?" he managed to rasp.

An indrawn breath, then a rush of air hitting his
shoulder as she blew it out. "I'm not calling the
police, Mulder."

He recoiled slightly at that. "Then I'll do it for
you," he bit out, moving as if to reach for his phone.

She was faster than him. Almost leaping forward, she
grabbed the receiver, and threw it away from them. It
bounced off the wall -- the sound of plastic hitting
plaster cracking through the room -- and spun, broken,
on the floor.

The sound of her harsh breathing mixed with his,
echoing through the room.

"Why, Mulder?" she squeezed out.

His head jerked to the side. "Why what?" he spat. "Why
did I *fuck* you?"

She sucked in a breath and didn't let it out. "No,"
she wheezed. "Why did you *leave* me?"

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

"Leave you?" Mulder choked out. "*Leave* you?"

He jerked his legs up to his chest, grabbing his bare ankles
and digging his nails into the skin.

"What was I supposed to do?" he spat. "I. Just. *RAPED*. You."

A small cry emerged from her mouth, and she sank fully to the
floor deflated. "No, no, no, no ..." The word became a chant
as it faded away. Then, "It wasn't. Rape. Mulder. No. Not
rape."

He let out a cruel caricature of a laugh. "Rape, sexual
assault, whatever the hell you want to call it. I got pissed,
I shoved you on the floor, and I *fucked* you against your
will. You call it what you want. I call it rape."

"Mulder."

That one word again, this time spoken in a tone which
demanded attention. For the first time in an hour, Mulder
raised his eyes to her face.

Her eyes glittered back at him through the murky air as she
spoke.

"That. Was. Not. Rape."

He couldn't help the smirk. "Already to the denial stage, I
see," he said sarcastically, his head dipping back toward his
chest.

"No!" Her yell echoed off the walls. "*Listen* to me, Mulder.
That ... what happened in my apartment ... that was *not*
rape." She paused, and her voice lowered a few notches,
quivering. "Did I ..."

She swallowed, hard.

"Did you ever *once* hear me say no?"

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

Mulder froze, for the second time in a hour. His mind
raced back to the argument, the scene he hadn't allowed
himself to remember yet.

<"You self-centered *asshole*! You really *do* think
everything is about you, don't you?">

<"It *is* about me. My life. *My* search. And I don't
appreciate your interference.">

<"*Interference*? Is that what you think of me? 'Oh, yeah,
here comes little Scully, running after me, *interfering*
with my grand and noble quest, so she can save my sorry
little *ass*, again, so I can ditch her next time, again.'">

<"Bitch.">

<"Bastard.">

<"Get the hell out.">

<"Not. On. Your. Life.">

<Hard.>

His swirling thoughts cleared, and he looked at her through
the darkness. He was afraid to ask, but he had to be sure.

"Did you ..." His voice was fuzzy, distant. "Did you say
no?"

A pause, then, "No."

Every muscle in his body relaxed.

Redemption.

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

Scully continued speaking, as if she was afraid to let the
silence take them again. "I'm not going to say it was all
good and light and beautiful, Mulder, because that would be
a lie. It wasn't. It was hard and dark and probably shouldn't
have happened like that, but it wasn't wrong. It wasn't a
crime. I was a willing participant. It was both of us, Mulder,
not you forcing anything or me being a victim. It wasn't wrong
that it happened, Mulder. It wasn't the way we wanted it to
happen ..."

"*NO*!" His hoarse cry cut her off. "No, no, it wasn't like
that. I hurt you, Scully. I hurt you. You were ... you were
crying. I *heard* you."

He felt her move closer, her hand coming to brush briefly
against the top of his knees, still drawn up tight against his
chest. "No, Mulder," she whispered. "I didn't cry because you
hurt me. You didn't hurt me. I cried because you left me."

His head shot up again, and she was ... there. Her beautiful
face hovered just inches from his, her skin still streaked
where her mascara had run with her tears.

But her eyes were soft, glowing, piercing the darkness that
enveloped them. She shifted slightly, and he felt her hand
settle back on his knee.

"You didn't hurt me, Mulder," she repeated. "Not with the sex.
Your words hurt, when we argued, but that came out even.
Because my words hurt you, too, just as much. Maybe more.
The sex wasn't the way we would have wanted it to be, not the
first time. But it wasn't rape, Mulder.

"And it wasn't wrong."

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

They sat, on the floor, in silence. Long moments passed,
seconds, minutes, hours, neither knew or cared.

The only sounds came from their breathing, still uneven
and unsteady. Their only contact was the point where her
hand still lay on his knees.

Mulder felt wetness under his fingers and realized he'd
cut into his ankles with his fingernails. With an effort,
he relaxed the grip, and the stabbing pain retreated to a
dull ache.

He began to notice aches in other places. His head first,
a pounding headache building behind his eyes. Then pain
radiating through his entire body, every muscle throbbing.

He drew a shaky breath, convulsively, and the hand on his
knee began to move, caressing the outer edge of his thigh.

"Mulder."

Her voice was soft again, back to the normal modulated
tones, but with a gentleness she used only in the rare
instances when they talked on a personal level.

He raised his head, his neck screaming with the effort
of moving. Their eyes met, roaming the depths they saw
there, reading, devouring.

Understanding.

Gradually, one hand released its death grip on his leg
and moved toward her. The back of a finger slid down the
side of her neck, from jaw to collarbone, just barely
touching her skin. Then the hand turned so the first two
fingers rested against her pulse.

"Scully."

The single word contained so many layers of apology and
forgiveness and longing and love that it could never be
unraveled.

But she could try.

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

She would have to make the first move. They both knew it.

So she did.

She moved her free hand from the floor to lie over his
where he still measured her pulse. She applied gentle
pressure, pushing his hand down to rest at the center
of her chest, over the buttons of her wrinkled blouse.

He could feel her heartbeat clearly now, as his came
into rhythm with it.

Then she released his hand and lifted hers toward his
face. She touched his hair, brushing the sweat-stiffened
strands back from his eyebrows, then brought her hand
down to cup his cheek.

She moved toward him, slowly, and touched her lips lightly
to his. The skin caught and pulled a bit as she brushed
up, then down.

His fingers moved reflexively against the material of her
blouse.

She pulled back, her hands still on him, his still on her.
She moved her hand from his knee to grasp his where it
lay on her chest, and she rose to her feet, trailing the
fingertips of her other hand along his jawline as she
rose.

He looked up at her, incomprehending, and she smiled
softly.

"We need a shower," she said.

She tugged on his hand where she held it between them,
and he stood, following her as she led him to his
bathroom.

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

Inside the small room, Scully never released Mulder's hand
as she turned on the water full-blast, steam rising through
the air. It was still dark; neither had turned on a light.
They weren't ready for that yet.

She turned back to face him as the water ran. She reached
for his other hand and brought them together at the top of
her blouse.

And together, they opened the buttons.

Her blouse fell open, but neither moved to take it off.
Instead, she moved their hands again, this time to the
hem of his T-shirt. Together, they moved the soft cotton
up as far as they could, before she had to release him
to move the garment over his head and off his arms.

She tossed the shirt aside as he brought his hands back
down, where she caught them again and held them. Then
one small foot moved to touch his ankle, and he understood.

At the same time, they each toed off their own shoes.

She moved again, this time bringing his hands to the open
front of her blouse. She placed his fingers around the
cloth, then rubbed the backs of his hands lightly before
taking her hands away.

He didn't move for long moments. He searched her eyes,
waiting, still uncertain.

She knew he needed the words. He had to hear her say it.

"Take it off, Mulder," she whispered.

He nodded slowly, then drew the cloth back to expose
her flesh. His breath caught in his throat as her breasts
came into his view, and his hands began to shake as he
moved the blouse down her arms and allowed it to slip
from his numb fingers.

She paused momentarily before reaching toward him, running
her fingernails up his body from waist to shoulders. He
shivered, and his own hands moved of their own will to
dance across her shoulder blades.

She didn't take the time to bring his hands into play
as she slipped her thumbs beneath the elastic of his
sweatpants and moved them down over her hips. He caught
his lower lip between his teeth with a moan as the
fabric snagged on his growing erection, and then he
felt her lifting his feet to remove the pants completely.

Before he could move, she was standing again, pulling
her own sweatpants down and off, taking her panties with
them. Then she took his hand again, and led him into
the shower.

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

As soon as they stepped under the spray, she turned her
back on him and picked up the bar of soap. She worked up
a lather on her own skin, washing off the sweat from her
shoulders, chest, stomach, thighs.

Then she turned to face him. His eyes were closed, his
hands balled into tight fists, every muscle tense. He
was still afraid to touch her own his own, afraid his
baser insticts would take over and he would hurt her.

He still didn't believe he hadn't hurt her before.

But then her hands were on him, and she didn't mess around.
Her soap-slicked fingers drew across his hips before
sliding down his inner thighs, the lightest touches
brushing against his erection. Her touch roamed across his
body, cleaning him quickly and efficiently.

Then she dropped the soap back into its tray and pulled
him under the water, tight against her.

He trembled with the effort of holding back, only
allowing his arms to encircle her and press her wet
skin against his. But her hands were on the move again,
sliding to his shoulders and pressing down, urging him
to his knees.

He went willingly, ready to pay whatever cost she would
charge for his indiscretion.

And then she took a half-step forward, bent her own
knees, grasped his erection lightly, and guided him
into her.

He moaned at the feeling but didn't move. This was her
play. He didn't even have the script.

She moved against him, pressing her lips along his neck
and murmuring softly, telling him to relax, to let it go.

His hands finally obeyed her, one moving down to cup
her ass and pull her more tightly against him, the
other moving between them to help her along.

They didn't last long.

As their breathing slowed and the water cooled, she raised
her head back to look into his eyes.

"It may not always be perfect, Mulder," she said. "But
it's always going to be us."

And they were released.

**********
**********
**********
END