Title: Catechism
By: Jessica Harris
Rating: NC17 for f/f action. Sc/O
Disclaimer: Scully's not mine and I profit not at all.
Notes: This is an odd little quickie. It started as a snippet for an old friend who always had a thing for Scully, then kind of mutated when I got a little further into it, and I don't think she'd like it anymore. So I'm posting it here instead. Is it still a Mary Sue when you write someone you know into a story? I'm not sure where I was going with this or if I ever got there, so comments welcome. The opinions herein are not necessarily my own, so please don't hurt me too much. No beta or anything. All badnesses mine.
Feedback: Please feel free to enumerate my failings to lumpj@hotmail.com

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Catechism
Jessica Harris
15/3/99

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A black blindfold bisects her pale face, melts into the shadows of her dark hair. I work my knuckles past the ridge of her pelvic bone, and the darkness spills into her mouth as it opens in a round black O of need.

I have my whole fist inside her body. I don't even know her real name.

A surprisingly bountiful body it's proven to be, too, beneath her ridiculous clothes, those artful black rags and tatters. Heavy round breasts, full thighs, the curve of back into buttocks deep and inviting to the touch. I work my hand gently inside her, you can feel every movement when it's this much, this deep, and she arches her head back, moves towards me. All I can see now is the white underside of her chin, the slope of belly up towards the flattened arcs of her breasts.

I may be a small woman but I have strong hands, sure and decisive. They can handle a gun or a scalpel, slit a man's trachea in one smooth gesture to keep him breathing. They can open a corpse without hesitation and scoop it's organs out one by one, weighing, examining. And they're equally ruthless here, in the give and take of pleasure.

My hand is naked inside her heat, the latex gloves in the nightstand untouched. I know better than this, but it doesn't stop me. Latex means the morgue to me these days and when I touch living flesh I want to *feel* it.

And feel it I can. Everything here is hot and slick, pulsing with her heartbeat, and the room smells heated, tidal, sweet and sharp and high like nothing else on earth.

I wonder if Mulder would be shocked if he saw me now. Oh, I know he's seen such things in those videos he favours, but the pouting and posturing of those women have nothing to do with this. And he can be so blinded by his own obsession that he doesn't even notice that the rest of us have passions too.

He just doesn't notice.

We had been called out on a case that sounded like some urban fairy-tale, young people disappearing from some of the alternative clubs downtown, some bizarrely wrinkled and dessicated bodies unclaimed at the morgue. There were rumours of a strange young man or boy who had been seen with some of the missing people, of offers he had made to others of a new drug, or a night of passion, some experience they'd be foolish to pass up. The lucky ones refused him.

We ended up at a club whose black-painted walls sported a winged skeleton blowing a trumpet. Three days on the case and already I was tired of it, of bored children in black affecting disaffection, of make-believe vampires and fresh young faces painted like death's heads. They all wear ankhs and pentacles and other insignia of obscure beliefs, and they love the questions Mulder asks. They're full of myths and rumours and half-digested mysticism, all eager to swear they've seen whatever he may be looking for. They're no help at all, really. So many elaborate masks and costumes that they can't see anything else.

Somehow Mulder spotted him, though. The thin sexless body of a twelve-year old, a face with a thin veneer of boyishness, and a terrible hunger underneath, a darkness beyond anything these children could imagine. I saw their eyes meet, and the boy broke for the door with a strange scuttling movement. The crowd hid what happened in those last moments but I heard screams, I heard a howl, and then I heard Mulder's gun.

When the bullet struck there was an explosion of blood and liquid and then nothing, no body left for us to find. I don't suppose we'll ever know what he really was. Not that anyone would believe us if we did.

Mulder thinks I don't believe him either. It's not so much disbelief, though, as a sense that the answers he seeks are too complicated. I know that science has its limits, but beyond those limits I am left with faith. Good. And evil. Science has limits but the twisted hungers in this world don't, the corruption, the power and greed and covetousness, envy and hate. That's what I see in so many of our cases. It comes in different forms but the stink is unmistakeable.

There was stink and mess aplenty in this case. Blood and broken glasses and panic, jaded expressions replaced by tears and panicked confusion. A few minor injuries; we checked them out, cleaned them up, and sent them home in a flood of black eyeliner'd tears.

This girl, she was different. Older than the rest, calmer, the shadows round her eyes not wholly cosmetic. She had been hit by a flying glass but sat calmly at the bar, staunching the blood from her neck with a napkin while we dealt with the others.

The cuts were shallow, and as I cleaned them I felt the pulse beneath my fingertips quicken. Her skin was smooth and pale, warm, and her hair a glossy weight in my hand as I moved it aside. She reached up and fingered my lapel, brushed lightly against my breast.

"I like your suit," she said. "It's very - severe."

Games. They like that, these black-clad almost-children. Games and toys and pretty jewellery. She's no child, though, in spite of those self-consciously waif-like clothes. Lines around her eyes close up, eyes that know what they want.

Mulder grills her as I work. What's her name? "Onyx," she says. He looks sceptical and she shrugs.

"No-one'll tell you any different. And no, I don't have any ID. I don't believe in it. I can give you my address, but you're more likely to find me here."

He gives in for the moment. We've had a lot of experience with paranoia, after all. More questions - when did the young man first show up on the scene? Had she noticed anything unusual about him?

She laughs at that, leans subtly into my touch. "Unusual how? I see a lot of unusual things. For most people, this is a phase, they move on when the novelty wears off. But some of us - "

She reaches out, plucks something invisible from the air, holds it tightly in one fist.

"Some of us, we *find* something here. So we stay. I've seen a lot of 'unusual' things over the years. I don't take much notice anymore."

Mulder's looking tired now, discouraged, and he keeps scrubbing his hands, rubbing them on the sides of his pants in a gesture I think is unconscious. This case has been hard for him - he's used to disbelief, but not to this, everyone so eager for something beyond the ordinary that they couldn't see it when it walked among them. When I offer Onyx a ride home he doesn't demur, and he looks distant and preoccupied as I drop him off. He doesn't notice the snapping tension in the car, the growing heat. He doesn't even notice.

I keep driving.

"You don't know where I live," she says, smiling again, tease in her voice. I quirk an eyebrow at her.

"Do you want to go home?" I'm tired of games.

She senses my mood. "No," she says. "I want you to fuck me."

We drive the rest of the way in silence, her hand on my thigh.

* * *

I bite the inside of her thigh now, suck the flesh into my mouth, leaving her marked. She swells and flexes around me, her body moving in a thousand different directions, the cuffs jingling against the headboard. I squeeze my thighs together and the shocks of pleasure in my own sex are surprisingly strong, I'm close already just from touching her.

She wouldn't let me turn on the lights, pulled the blindfold from somewhere in her clothes and pressed it into my hands. Night muffled my apartment in greys and blacks, and we tripped and stumbled our way to the bedroom. She shed her clothes quickly and pulled me down hard on top of her, still in my suit. This is what she shares with the other children at the club, this search for oblivion, this quest to lose the self. I don't understand it myself, oblivion finds you soon enough as it is, but I'm willing to accept the passion it sparks in her. Me, I don't feel lost in this. I feel *found*.

"More," she kept saying, "More. More. More..." until I laid my finger across her lips and prepared in silence to give her all I could. Slow and inexorable I move inside her now, a gentle forward motion of the fist. It might mimic a blow, but I feel it as a questing gesture, an opening, something indescribably strange and intimate. She's growing more frantic now but I keep it slow and steady, I don't want this to end too soon.

She writhes but stays silent, the memory of my finger holding her lips shut still. Good girl. I prefer this to the cuffs and gags - subtle restraints, that only trust and will can hold you to. Hunger and restraint; passion and discipline; balance. Limits don't have to hold you back - they can send you deeper into what's within them.

I straddle her leg and press myself against it, sliding on my own wetness, feeling the prickling tension draw me tight, drive me faster. My nipples are painfully hard and my breasts sway, feeling heavy and somehow liquid with their own weight. I'm under no order of silence, but here in this black and grey world it feels right to keep it muted, to muffle moans to sighs and hisses, cries to murmurs.

Then I lean in, dip my face into her glistening centre, suck her clit lightly between my teeth and she surprises me, breaks her long obedient silence with an incoherent shout, comes so convulsively it hurts my hand, traps it there in the grip of her inner muscles.

It's long panting moments before she loosens enough for me to slide my hand free. She moans, whispers something that's all breath as I withdraw, as I slick my body with her moisture, as I start to stroke myself, hips moving into the gesture. She can't see me but she must hear it, feel it, for she says "No - let me!"

I slide up her body, undo the cuffs, and she rolls onto me, blindfold still in place, hands blindly roaming my body, stroke and stroke and slippery teasing stroke until I travel up over that final crest too, my body quaking against her. Only then do I push the blindfold up, watch her eyes blink at me, unreadable.

"Onyx?" I say.

She smiles, no, *grins*, says, "Margo, actually, but don't you *dare* tell a soul!" Luxurious full body stretch, like a cat. "Effective interrogation method you've got there."

Then she curiously flicks the tiny crucifix I wear. I just smile, not answering the unasked question. I believe in good and evil, but I believe in humanity too, in the imperfect mixture we all contain. We're all flawed, all hungry, but if you feed your hungers with honesty and care they won't twist or darken in you.

I believe in sin, but I know this isn't it.

"Go to sleep," I tell her sternly, and she grins once more, moves in against me, an embrace of sweet damp salty flesh.

I feel sorry for Mulder sometimes, so lost within himself that nothing else quite reaches him. He searches for extreme possibilities because nothing else is big enough to fill that emptiness. He can't see what I can - that we all know that shadowed place. You can't escape the darkness, but you don't have to face it alone.

-end-