Collage by Erin - archived at E's X-Page

TITLE:  The Cause of the Effect
AUTHOR:  Lara Means
E-MAIL:  LaraMeansXF@aol.com 
CLASSIFICATION:  VRA
RATING:  NC-17 (angsty erotica)
ARCHIVE:  Gossamer, NO; Spookys, NO (I'll 
submit directly to both); Ephemeral, YES; 
Xemplary, YES; anywhere else, YES, but if 
possible please let me know

SPOILERS:  Emily, Closure.  (post-Closure; time frame 
indeterminate)

SUMMARY:  When guilt and grief have bled 
your soul dry, what's left?  And who'll pick up 
the pieces?

DATE POSTED:  08/15/00

FEEDBACK:  Encouraged and welcomed at LaraMeansXF@aol.com

DISCLAIMER:  "The X-Files" is copyright Twentieth Century Fox 
Television and Ten Thirteen Productions.  The show, its premise 
and characters were created by Chris Carter and are used here 
without permission.  No copyright infringement is intended, no 
profit will be realized.  (I've also borrowed the name of a 
character from Carter's "Millennium" as a pseudonym.  Same 
disclaimer applies.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

THE CAUSE OF THE EFFECT

Written by Lara Means

You sit alone at the bar and all you want to do is drink 
yourself into a stupor.  But she won't let you.  She walks right 
up to you and sits down next to you.  She doesn't say anything 
for a moment, until the bartender comes over to ask if you want 
another one, and he asks her too.  She orders something you'd 
never think of for her -- Jack and water.  Funny, you've always 
considered her more of a wine drinker, beer maybe, but hard 
liquor never occurred to you.  You, of course, just drink 
scotch.  Straight scotch.  No ice, no water, nothing to dull the 
burning of the alcohol as it slides down your throat.

You sit there next to her for what seems like hours.  You can't 
remember having more than one or two drinks since she sat down, 
but you can't exactly trust your own memory these days.  Then 
the little band comes back from a break and strikes up a nifty 
cryin'-in-yer-beer tune.  Wonderful.  Just what you need.  
Country & Western angst.

"Dance with me," she says.  You don't say anything, you hope 
she'll just go away, but she doesn't take the hint.  She takes 
your hand instead and drags you off the bar stool, draws you 
onto the postage-stamp sized dance floor.  She places your hands 
at her waist, wraps hers around your neck, and pulls you close.  
It's almost like you're holding each other up.  Appropriate, 
tonight.

You sway together, barely keeping time with the music, just 
moving against each other.  You feel yourself getting hard -- 
almost an involuntary thing with her by now, you want her so 
badly.  You *need* her.

Then the band starts playing that song "How Do I Live," and you 
think how much the girl singer sounds like Trisha Yearwood.  And 
you sing along in your head.  How do I live without you?  How do 
I breathe without you?  If you ever go, how will I ever, ever 
survive...?

And you fall apart inside.

You can't fall apart outside, of course.  Not now.  You have to 
be strong.

Especially now.

But you're not sure why.  Why this grief has settled in your 
soul, why it feels like you'll never be whole again.

What you *do* know is that she can Make It Better.  So you pull 
her closer, so close she can't help but feel your arousal 
through your tight jeans, and you make your desperate need known 
to her.  You press hot, wet kisses to her throat.  You whisper 
her name, your voice ragged, and she moans a little.  And oh god 
it feels like she's thrusting against your hard-on.

Now you're devouring her, feasting on her mouth, her tongue, 
her... *her*.  And she's more than your equal in this.  Her hands 
are in your hair, molding you to her, making this kiss 
impossibly deeper.  Your hands are on her ass, encouraging that 
little thrusting motion, caressing a part of her you never 
thought you'd be able to touch.

All you want right now is her.

To fuck her.

To fuck her until neither of you can see straight.

Still, you're surprised when she takes the lead.

"Let's get out of here," she whispers, tugging on the collar of 
your leather jacket.  You're not sure you can walk, but you 
follow her anyway.

Her room is closer, so that's where you go.

Once in the room, you have her up against the wall, the door, 
the dresser.  She pushes at your leather jacket until it falls 
to the floor, and you do the same with hers.  Her eager little 
hands get underneath your tee-shirt and you both gasp when her 
skin touches yours.  You tear your mouth away from hers just 
long enough to yank the sweater over her head and the tee-shirt 
over yours.  Your hands are the eager ones now, kneading and 
squeezing her tits through pale satin and lace.  You fumble with 
the clasp until she just does it herself, baring her body to 
you.

You devour her tits as you devoured her mouth, lapping and 
sucking at them like a starving child.  She throws her head back 
and welcomes your attack, hungry for the touch of another 
person, another human being.  Now is not the time for tender 
words or gentle actions.  You both need to know you're alive, 
and the only way to know that right now is to fuck each other 
senseless.

She reaches for your jeans and tugs the zipper down, almost too 
fast, then shoves her hands inside to take hold of your cock.  
She squeezes and fondles and strokes you and it's been so long, 
so fucking long since anyone's hand but your own has touched you 
there...

Oh god oh god oh god...  Too good, this is too good...

Certain that if she doesn't stop you'll explode, you pull her 
hands away.  Then you give back as good as you got -- your hands 
in her jeans, in her panties, in *her*.  Her moans are nearly 
constant now, and she starts to tremble, to shudder as you work 
her clit and finger-fuck her.

Neither of you can stand another minute of this -- you both shed 
the rest of your clothes and fall onto the bed together.  Her 
thighs are open beneath you, and you shove yourself into her.

She's so fucking wet -- wet for *you*, your brain dimly 
registers.  She wants *you*.  And you're inside her.  Inside 
*her*.  Where you've always wanted to be.  Where you need to be.

And oh god it feels good.

She wraps her legs around you, lifting her hips, encouraging you 
to move.  So you do.  You pull almost all the way out, then 
drive back into her.  Then you do it again.  And again.  And 
again.  You're in so deep, you're sure you'll lose yourself in 
her.  Not a totally bad thing.

You want this to be good for her.  Not just some desperate act 
of lust or need, but *good*.  From the way she's moaning and 
whispering your name, she's enjoying it, but you want her to 
*really* enjoy it.  Your manhood is at stake here.

You snake a hand between your bodies to find her clit again.  
You know when you've found it by her sharp gasp and the bite of 
her fingernails into your shoulders.  You rub it just hard 
enough, and you let your pubic bone press your fingers against 
it with every thrust.  She's loving this, you can tell -- she 
struggles to keep her eyes open, to keep her eyes from rolling 
back in her head.

Then, all of a sudden, she's coming.  Her body shudders, her 
walls quiver and ripple around your cock.  Christ, the feel of 
her.  It's almost as if you've never had sex before in your 
life, it's so incredible.

This feels so fucking good, so goddamn right.

Now you feel free to be selfish, to drive toward your own 
release.  You pound into her, slam into her even as she trembles 
in your arms.  Ordinarily you're a sensitive lover, not only 
making sure your partner comes but that she has a chance to 
recover before you go for it.  But tonight you're not that man.  
Tonight, at this moment, you're an inconsiderate prick.  Now 
that she's had her chance, it's your turn.  You want to come.  
You need to come.

But you can't.

Dear god in heaven, you can't.

You're still hard.  You still thrust into her with all you've 
got.  You even pick up the pace as much as you can.  But it 
doesn't help.

Fuck.  This has never happened to you before.  Okay, yeah, once 
in a while, when you're alone, when you're distracted -- but 
certainly not when you're actually *with* someone.  And you 
*never* expected it to happen when you're with her.

Your thrusts become erratic, eventually you just stop altogether 
and collapse on top of her.  You can't help the sob that escapes 
you, or the whispered "I'm sorry" that follows it.

She holds you tight, runs her hands up and down your back, 
soothing you.  Her fingers are in your hair and she murmurs 
comforting words in your ear.

You think you're going to be sick.

You pull out of her and stumble into the bathroom, falling to 
the floor in front of the toilet.  Dry heaves wrack your body as 
the tears flow.  She doesn't follow you.  You thought she would, 
but now you're glad she didn't.

You stay on the floor until both your tears and your erection 
subside.  Then you drag yourself to your feet and splash cold 
water on your face.  You catch sight of your face in the mirror 
-- haggard, haunted eyes stare back at you, and you wonder when 
you got so fucking old.

When you finally make it back out, she's sitting up in bed, the 
sheet drawn up over her breasts.  She doesn't look at you as you 
snap off the bathroom light.  She doesn't look at you as you 
gather your clothes.  She doesn't look at you as you move toward 
the connecting door to your room.  But she speaks.

"Don't," she says, and your hand freezes on the doorknob.  "Stay 
with me tonight.  Please."  Slowly you turn toward her -- she 
turns toward you just as slowly, and your eyes finally meet.  "I 
need... I need to know you're safe."

She holds your gaze for a long, long time before you move.  When 
you do, it's to drop your clothes and slip into bed next to her.

You lie on your side, facing away from her.  After a moment she 
moves to lie next to you.  One hand reaches out and she 
tentatively strokes your back.  When you don't flinch or move 
away she comes closer, spooning up behind you, her breasts 
crushed against your back and her arm draped over you, holding 
you tightly to her.  The tears come again without warning, and 
she presses her cheek to your shoulder.

"It's not your fault," she whispers.  You shake your head 
sharply and she holds you tighter.  "What happened to them, it 
wasn't because of you."  You shake your head again, pull her 
hand to your lips.  "Why now?  It's been months.  Did the case 
trigger something...?"

"I don't know," you answer weakly, knowing it's a lie.  She's 
right -- months have gone by since your mother's suicide, since 
you found out the truth about your sister.  You should be past 
this.  You haven't cried since that night, the night she held 
you, after she cut up your mother at your request.

Until now.  Until tonight.  Until this fucking case.

Dead women.  Dead girls.  Tortured.

Doesn't it affect her?  She lost a sister, a daughter.  It 
should affect her too.

Maybe it does.  Maybe that's why she's with you now.  The same 
reason you're with her.  To fill that empty space in your soul.

It seems easier for her somehow.  Her pain is further removed 
than yours -- you're jealous of that.  You want your pain to go 
away too, to lessen a bit at least.  It's not fair that this 
hurts so damn much, that your pain is so fresh.

Bullshit.  You know what crap that is.  You wear your pain like 
an old necktie.  You'd feel undressed, naked without it.  The 
pain, the guilt -- they're all you know.  The grief is new, but 
it just adds to the ensemble.

You feel her press a kiss to the back of your neck, and you 
shiver at her touch.  "It's okay to feel good, you know."  Her 
voice, her breath at your ear send chills down your spine.  She 
nudges you onto your back and stays close.  You try not to look 
at her, and she allows that for the moment.

"Do you remember when Emily died?"  You nod slightly.  "I denied 
myself everything.  Everything except the anger, I fed on that.  
But everything else..."  She strokes your face, tilts your chin 
so you can't avoid her eyes anymore.  "...even the comfort I 
needed so much... comfort from you... I couldn't allow that.  I 
couldn't let myself feel anything.  That's why I sent you away, 
when she was dying."  Her voice is breaking now -- reassuring you 
is costing her.

You bring a hand up to her face, brush away a tear she probably 
doesn't know she's shed.  "I wanted to hold you."

She nods, leans into your palm.  "I know.  And I wanted you to 
hold me.  But I couldn't let you.  I couldn't let myself feel 
the way I knew I would feel with your arms around me."  She 
watches as her fingers touch your lips, as your lips purse 
reflexively at her touch.  "I don't want that for you.  You've 
carried so much pain for so long..."

She leans in and kisses you softly.  Her tongue gently caresses 
your lips, and you open your mouth to her.  You bury your hands 
in her hair, kneading her scalp, holding her to you.  You don't 
intend to respond this way, but you need her so badly...

"Scully..."  It comes out as a whimper.

"It's all right to feel good, Mulder.  Let me make you feel 
good."

You moan as her lips travel over your face, your ear, your 
throat.  Her fingers dance along your collarbones and down your 
chest.  Your back arches a little as her nails trace tiny 
circles around your nipples.

Your eyes squeeze shut as the pleasure washes over you -- you 
try to fight it, to hold onto the pain and the guilt and the 
grief.  But she won't let you tonight.

She's up on her knees now, at your side, bending over you.  Her 
hands work magic on your shoulders and chest, her touch both 
relaxing and arousing at the same time.  Her mouth comes into 
play again, her tongue flicking, her teeth biting, her lips 
caressing.  As she works her way down your body, from your chest 
to your stomach to your abdomen, she whispers to you again and 
again, almost a mantra now...  "Let it go..."

Her tongue is warm as it dips into your navel, and her hair 
brushes lightly against your renewed erection.  She nuzzles the 
tender skin in the crease of your thighs, but that's as close as 
she gets to your cock.  She coaxes your legs apart and kneels 
between them, her hands massaging your trembling muscles.

She leans down to kiss you behind your knees, your inner thighs, 
her strong fingers playing over the smooth skin.  You can feel 
her breath on your balls, she's so close.  Then one little hand 
touches you there, and you feel the tingle in your entire body.

Your breathing is slow and deep now as she strokes your cock.  
Her movements are light and leisurely, completely at odds with 
what she's doing.  You're growing impossibly harder -- and from 
what happened before, how you felt before, you should be 
completely freaked by the mere thought that she's touching you.

But you're not.  You've surrendered to her, allowing her to Make 
It Better.  To make you feel good.

She finally wraps her lips around your erection and you let out 
a shaky breath, reaching out a trembling hand to touch her hair.  
Her tongue swirls around you as her hands continue their gentle, 
loving strokes.  Then one hand moves to cup your balls, rolling 
and caressing them.  Then one finger moves to massage your 
perineum, her touch incredibly erotic.  And just when you don't 
think you can keep your hips still a moment longer... she stops.

She's stopped moving entirely, even though her hands are still 
wrapped around you.  You feel her moving on the bed, but you 
keep your eyes closed -- until she guides you to her opening.

Your eyes lock with hers as she lowers herself onto you, taking 
you into her body.  She exhales, shuddering, and gives you a 
bright, dazzling smile.  This woman... you can't believe that 
this woman is with you.  That she wants to be with you.  And 
the tears start again.

She leans over and kisses you, her mouth open and inviting.  
Then she kisses away your tears, whispering, "Let it go, Mulder.  
Let yourself feel."

Leaning back again, she starts to move.  You let her take 
control this time, knowing that she'll take care of you, that 
you're safe.  That it's okay to feel good.  Soon she begins to 
touch herself, fondling her breasts and teasing her clit.  You 
move now too, thrusting up into her.  Together you set a rhythm, 
gradually increasing the pace as your arousal builds.  Her jaw 
goes slack and her eyelids flutter as her own orgasm approaches.

Suddenly she's there, her internal muscles pulling at you, 
drawing you in deeper -- and she takes you into oblivion with 
her.

And it feels so, so good.

You finally come to, opening your eyes to find her draped over 
you.  She's smiling again, and that simple thing warms you.  You 
reach up to touch her hair, returning her smile.  She kisses you 
softly, then moves off you and curls her body next to you.  You 
wrap your arms around her, holding her close, breathing in her 
scent.

For some reason, your mind goes back to that song.  How do I 
live without you...  You've both lost so much, and now, with 
your mother gone and questions answered about your sister, 
you're afraid you'll lose your focus, your purpose.

You're afraid you'll lose Scully.

If you ever go, how do I ever, ever survive...

Then you realize you won't have to.  She loves you.  She hasn't 
said it, she doesn't have to.  What she's given you tonight has 
shown you.

She's given you back your soul.

END

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

AUTHOR'S NOTE:  You know how you get those stories in your head 
that just won't shut the hell up until you've written them?  I 
started out intending to write a nice little smut biscuit 
(erotic croissant?) as a break from all the angst I've been 
indulging in lately.  Sadly, that story went absolutely nowhere 
-- but this one popped into my brain to take its place and 
wouldn't go away.  Seems I can't write without angst! <g>

I cribbed the title shamelessly from one of Mulder's lines in 
the season 3 episode, The Walk, which was on FX as I finished 
this.  "How Do I Live" was written by Diane Warren, and the best 
version was recorded by Trisha Yearwood.

Oh, and the second-person thing was an experiment.  Let me know 
if it worked, 'kay?

Lara Means

---------------

"I've been called a lot of things, Detective.  Skeptical, 
however, is not one of them."
   - Mulder, 'Mind's Eye'