by Carol Roi
Finding no answers in the ceiling plaster, Dee crawled quietly out of bed and headed upstairs to the third floor, which she had long ago turned into a workout studio. Turning on the stereo, Dee picked out a CD, selected a track, and set it on repeat. She adjusted the volume so that it wouldn't wake Blair, then she chose a sword from the wall, a curved Arabian shamshir. As the beat of drums and bells began, she started to move her shoulders, then her hips, slowly at first, then with more confidence as her body remembered the ancient dance.
As the song started over for the third time, Diandra achieved her goal, tonight's tragedy forgotten for the moment. She became one with the music, lost in the rhythm of the dance.
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Rolling over, Blair stretched his arm across the bed. When he encountered nothing but empty mattress, he opened his eyes. Dee was gone.
A long sigh escaped his lips. Why did they keep doing this to each other? Why had he turned his back on her, shut her out, the way she had him a few days before? Why had he refused the comfort she offered? Did he really think that by pushing her away, by keeping his pain inside, he was sparing her anything? He was only making it worse for both of them. Really, how stupid was that?
Turning onto his back, Blair scrubbed at his face with his hands, then ran his fingers through his hair. As he stared at the ceiling, he heard the faintest of thumping noises, like bare feet on a hardwood floor. It was coming from above him. He knew it was probably Dee, working through her frustration with him physically, taking her irritation out on some defenseless punching bag, but he pushed the covers to the end of the bed and got up anyway.
Ascending the stairs slowly, he began to hear the soft strains of music as he reached the top. Crossing the landing, Blair stopped just outside the doorway to the studio, his eyes widening at the sight of his lover.
Diandra's eyes were closed as she moved to the middle-eastern music, her cropped tank top wet with sweat, her loose pants flowing as her feet twirled her across the floor, her hips undulating in time with the beat. It wasn't a big stretch for Blair to imagine her dressed in precious jewels and veils, performing for some sultan in a decadent palace. The sword seemed out of place, but as he watched she incorporated it into the dance, the deadly swathes she cut through the air a counterpoint to the seductive movement of her hips.
She turned toward him, her eyes opening. Surprise flickered across her face as she caught sight of him, then she smiled, the hand not gripping the sword beckoning him into the room. Blair entered slowly, a bit uncertain. Dee laid the sword behind her head, across her shoulders, and shimmied toward him, her fingers trailing along his cheek and over his shoulder as she danced around him. He felt his heart skip a beat as she freed the curved blade again, twirling it around them both in an intricate pattern.
He didn't dare move for fear of accidentally injuring himself, but his gaze followed her as she danced, watching in the mirrors when she moved behind him. There was a slight break in the music as the song ended and then began again, and she sent the sword sliding across the floor away from them during it.
Wordlessly, she invited him to dance and, self-consciously at first, he began to follow her lead, stamping his feet on the floor, then shaking his shoulders. He had a bit of a problem with the hip thing, then realized he was trying too hard. Once he relaxed, he got the hang of it and was rewarded with a teasing grin from Dee.
The music paused, then repeated, and Diandra danced closer, her body brushing against Blair's as she moved. She pressed her back against his chest, one arm curled over her head and behind his neck. She slid down him to sit on the floor then, as his hand grasped her still upraised one, she spun to face him, rising gracefully to her feet. Planting the hand she held against the small of her back, she began the steps again, this time face to face, all of her touching all of him.
A low moan escaped him. Everything else faded away; nothing mattered but this moment in time, nothing but their erotic ballet. They danced across the room, ending up on the large window seat, half on and half off the plush cushions as urgent hands discarded annoying clothing. Then they were skin on skin, touching, tasting, no words necessary to express the primal need to reaffirm their bond, to be one in heart, mind and body.
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Megan walked out of Jim's bathroom carrying a small bowl filled with first aid supplies, sterile gauze pads, tape and alcohol. Crossing to the couch, she took a seat next to Jim, who had his injured leg up on the coffee table, house rules be damned. Plopping the bowl in his lap, she let the bathrobe she was wearing slide off her shoulder.
Jim reached over and began to peel the tape away from the bandage covering her gunshot wound. "Ow, bloody hell, Ellison!" she cursed as he ripped the tape off.
"Well, you told me you preferred quick to slow."
She gritted her teeth, knowing the sentinel was grinning even though her back was to him. Still, she guessed she couldn't really complain. Overall, they'd managed pretty well the past five days. She was Jim's legs, and he was her hands. She knew bets had been made about how long they could go without killing each other, but so far they hadn't argued over anything other than the TV remote, though they'd almost come to blows over that.
"Looks like it's healing really well. When are you supposed to get your stitches out, tomorrow?" Jim asked as he cleaned the injury and applied a new bandage.
"Yeah. Then it's off to physical therapy." She wasn't looking forward to that.
"Okay, turn around. Back's done."
Megan fumbled with the lapel of her robe with her good hand, trying to preserve some amount of dignity and failing.
Jim let out a sigh. "We go through this every time, Connor. I've seen you naked before and the world didn't end."
She thought back to their drunken roll in the sack in Hawaii over three months ago. With a small shake of her head, Megan let go of the robe and let him remove the gauze covering on the entrance side of the wound. After a few moments, she asked, "Do you regret it?"
Jim didn't look up from swabbing her sutures with an alcohol soaked cotton ball. "Regret what?"
"What happened in Hawaii."
He paused in his washing, then met her gaze. "It was…the wrong time. But I don't regret it, no. How could I? You’re a good friend, Megan, and a beautiful woman. And as long as no one was harmed by our indiscretion, then I don't regret it. Do you?"
She stared into his clear blue eyes for a long moment, pondering her answer. Before that night, she'd never really considered a relationship with Jim, in fact, she'd denounced the idea to Blair. But she had to admit she'd enjoyed it. What she'd enjoyed even more was the way she and Jim had been so in synch, had had the same goal of getting Blair and Dee back together and had worked together to attain it. It made her wonder what else they could accomplish if they put their minds to it.
"Megs, it wasn't that tough a question," he chided, using his nickname for her.
Blinking, she smiled at him. "No, I don't regret it. In fact, that night's been on my mind a lot lately."
Jim went back to changing her bandage. "Really? How so?"
"I don't know. Just wondering, I guess."
"Wondering what, or do I really want to know?" He applied the last piece of tape and gently pulled her robe up on her shoulder, his fingers lingering a little longer than strictly necessary.
Megan breathed deeply, trying to calm the butterflies in her stomach. "I've been wondering what it would be like to maybe think about the possibilities of a relationship. Of course, if you're against the idea, forget I brought it up."
Jim grinned at her, his fingertips lightly tracing the skin at the side of her neck. He leaned in closer, gently nuzzling her. "I think I can be persuaded." Lips ghosted across her cheek, then met hers in a tender kiss.
When he pulled away a few moments later, Megan exhaled slowly, trying to calm the desire burning in her
veins. Slow, take things slow, Meg. Jim leaned in a second time, his talented lips nipping at her throat before claiming her mouth again, his kiss deep and urgent. She moaned into the kiss, the fingers of her good hand riffling through his short hair. Screw slow!
He broke the kiss to look at her. "What?"
"Mmmm…" She ran her hand under the suddenly constricting collar of her robe. "I think I said 'screw slow'…."
His eyes lit up as his fingers tugged at the belt holding her robe closed. "Sounds like a wonderful idea…."
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Peace. Love. Joy. Blair slowly identified the emotions filling his soul as he lay draped across his lover, his muscles suffused with a warm lassitude. He felt her fingers moving in his hair, separating curls damp and tangled with sweat.
The horror of having his mind invaded was fading, replaced by the knowledge that here in Diandra's arms he was safe. For the moment, he felt invulnerable. Nothing could hurt him, not the loss of his reputation, or the prospect of long-term unemployment, nor the lingering fear that what he'd done for Jim hadn't been enough to compensate for the damage he'd caused. For now, Blair felt only happiness.
Diandra's lips brushed against his forehead, and she tugged the soft afghan covering them a little higher.
Happiness wasn't a strong enough word, Blair decided. Bliss. This was what bliss felt like.
He wriggled on the big window seat's cushions, and slid most of his weight off his lover, leaving an arm around her waist and one leg entwined with hers. He let out a contented sigh.
"Comfy?" Dee asked.
Blair nuzzled her cheek. "Very. I want to feel this way forever."
She kissed him gently, whispering, "So do I, love, so do I. I don't want us to fight anymore."
He raised up a bit on his elbow and looked down at her, a grin parting his lips. "I don't know. If we never fought, we'd miss out on the great make-up sex."
She trailed a finger down the bridge of his nose. "Maybe we can just fight about the little things, like leaving the toilet seat up." She accepted a kiss from him before she continued, "I don't want to go through the past few weeks ever again. I know most of it was my fault. I wasn't there when you needed me--"
Pulling her close, Blair made a shushing noise. "Angel, don't do this. I'm as much at fault as you are. I'm the one who screwed things up by letting my mom have access to my thesis. It just snowballed from there. And tonight, tonight was nobody's fault but Bowman's. I'll…I'll deal with it. But it's over now, done with. We get to start again, with a whole new set of wonderful possibilities. Besides, you're always talking about destiny, about fate. Maybe this was my--our--wake-up call to let us know we were on the wrong path, that we should be paying more attention to what's really important--our friends and each other."
He watched as the blue of her eyes deepened, then she pressed her cheek against his, her voice thick with tears as she spoke. "I love you so much, Lobo. I promise you, I swear, I'll always be here for you."
Blair simply hugged her in return, murmuring his love for her, pushing away the painful truth. She was Immortal. No matter how much she loved him, sooner or later, she would have to leave. But until that moment came, he vowed nothing would tear them apart.
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Climbing out of her SUV, the Phoenix took a long look around. Tall pines stretched up the hillside, their branches entwining overhead, filtering the sun's rays so that the forest floor was dappled in shadow. Consulting the old Native American map, she headed up the mountainside. According to it, what she was looking for was just above her.
As she approached her goal, a slim opening in the rock hidden by vegetation, visible only to sharp sentinel eyes, she felt the electric tingle start. Yes. This was it. This was what she was looking for, land blessed by some ancient shaman. Holy ground. Reaching the mine's entrance, she tore the brush away by hand, then entered.
She spent several hours exploring the abandoned copper mine, searching for the perfect base of operations. She found it in a side shaft. It would take some work, but with a little cement, some chain-link fencing, and a generator, she would have the perfect place to stash an immortal prize.
A feral smile crossed her face, and remained there for the entire hike back to her truck.
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Blair got off the elevator at the seventh floor, pausing in the hallway, taking a long look before he began his slow trek toward Major Crime. The glass had been repaired, he noted, though the new sheet rock hadn't been painted yet. Passing the men's room, he made a detour inside. No one else was there, which was good.
He washed his hands at the sink, watching the dust and dirt he'd picked up cleaning out his office at Rainier run down the drain. He hadn't imagined it would be so hard. Every book, every artifact, hell, every piece of paper was a memory of a life he no longer had. He bent over the basin, splashing water on his face. Grabbing a paper towel, he patted it dry, then peered at his image in the mirror.
The eyes that stared back at him were red and tired. He looked old; shit, he felt old. And try as he might, he couldn't forget the feel of the gun in his hand, the retort as it fired. The fact that he hadn't actually killed anyone, that he'd triggered Mulder's immortality, didn't matter. He never wanted to hold a gun again.
Mulder had been cool about it, actually. He'd showed up on the doorstep of Dee's townhouse the morning after, and had a long talk with Blair. He'd reassured Blair that he didn't blame him, that, in fact, Mulder was glad it had happened. Now he would never be separated from Scully. As far as Mulder was concerned, his misadventure had a happy ending.
"Too bad I can't say the same about mine," Blair said to his reflection. Things with Dee were…better. They'd finally sat down and talked about the events of the past few weeks, about the things that had gone wrong, about the mistakes they'd both made, about their fears. Blair knew that he could count on her, that she would always be there, that she would always love him, no matter what.
He'd clung to that the whole way back to Cascade. Even though she had stayed behind in DC to give Mulder some preliminary training while searching for a teacher for him, Blair knew he had her support and her strength to get him through the days ahead. He'd really wished for her physical presence that morning, though. Nothing quite so humiliating as cleaning out his office with security leaning over his shoulder, taking inventory, making sure he didn't walk out of there with so much as a paper clip that was university property.
But Diandra would be home soon, and they could finalize the plans they'd made late at night, curled together in her cozy bed. They would open an antique and collectibles business, using the treasure trove of artifacts she'd told him she had stashed away in a couple warehouses around the world. One could accumulate a heck of a lot in almost three thousand years. He'd expressed concern about how his newly minted reputation as a fraud would affect business. She'd kissed him and told him not to worry. The items were genuine, and after a few sales, they would create a new reputation, one of honesty, fair prices, and high quality.
It sounded so simple when she explained it. Of course, she wasn't the one who had to break the news to Jim. But what else did Jim expect him to do? Blair had to earn his keep somehow, and at the moment, he couldn't think of any reason someone would hire him to wash dishes, let alone handle any kind of responsibility. A partnership in an antique store seemed--well, if not perfect, at least it would allow him to create a new name for himself.
Sighing, Blair ran a hand through his hair. He was glad Jim was at the loft. He didn't think he could bear it if his friend was there to witness Blair's second humiliation of the day, cleaning out his desk in Major Crime. One last glance in the mirror, then he headed for the hallway. Time to get this over with.
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From her position in the passenger seat of the Ford, Megan glanced over at Jim. "Are you sure you should be driving?"
Ellison nodded. "Doc said it was okay as long as I don't over do it."
"I offered to drive--"
"One-handed? I don't think so." He punctuated his words with a grin in her direction.
Megan felt a pleasant warmth spread through her, then shook her head. "Don't do that."
"What?"
"Look at me like that. It reminds me of what we were doing before Sandy arrived this morning." Fortunately they'd both been decent and in the kitchen when Blair walked in. Otherwise they'd probably still be trying to explain to him what they didn't understand themselves. When they had found out Sandy was returning, they'd decided to keep their interest in each other under wraps until they'd figured out if it was serious or not. Megan and Jim were both a little wary of romance, especially with each other. She didn't blame him, after Eolia. And Jim definitely wasn't her usual type. But she had to admit they'd had fun the past week, and found some rather creative ways to get around their injuries. She sighed and looked out the side window. "I can't keep my cop face on when you do that."
