Consequences

She sleeps now. . . Far on the other side of the bed she won't touch me. She won't find comfort in my arms, but I am not worried, I am not overly concerned.

This wasn't love. We won't talk about it after tonight. If this was love then we would have to think about the consequences and neither of us want to do that. Our lives are complicated enough. She has her work, I have mine. She has her place in the world and I am slowly finding mine. We meshed together on this one night victims of all the fucking clichés you find in the excuses used to cover one night stands. Our eyes met across a crowded room, I saw desire in her eyes and she saw the same in mine. How could I not desire her. How could I not want to feel that tight little body pressed against mine. But this is a one time event. A night in a sleazy hotel five blocks from the FBI headquarters. I wonder if she has done this before. Has she desired others and brought them here for night. A parade of faces flashes before me Colton, Skinner, Pendrell, and others she might have brought to this bed with overly bleached sheets and done to them what she did to me tonight. I know there is one that she hasn't brought here. There is one man she won't bring here. She wouldn't do this with Mulder. When she and Mulder finally consummate whatever exists between them, if they ever consummate it, it will be forever. We are not forever. We are quick tumble to relieve physical need. We are a package of lies and hurried excuses. . . we wont speak of this again.

This isn't love. There probably won't be a sequel to these events. I won't see her fiery hair stretched across the pillows again. I lean close to her and plant a kiss between her shoulder blades. I want her again tonight. I will take all I can get then tell myself the things to make myself forget. She sighs and turns to me. She has been awake awaiting my touch. She moves across the sheets pressing against me. This isn't love, maybe something in a shade of gray something in-between. As she moves into my arms her lips pressing against mine I realize she is shaking and I cant stop touching her. . I roll her under me and thrust into her, and I am thinking about the consequences. I look at her face and I realize this could be love. Then she hesitates and I can tell she is changing her mind. This isn't love.

This can't be love. I am not ready for this sort of thing, Her hips rise to meet mine as my lips consume hers. This isn't love I tell myself over and over in my head. This cant be love. She is pinned underneath me like a butterfly in some collector's frame. I am holding her in place want to hold this moment before it changes, but it already gone. She is changing. She is beginning and ending under me. I can feel her change. I am being washed away.

I am not ready for this sort of thing. She pulls away from me as she cries out. Her mouth moves uttering a name that isn't mine. I can change my name, if that's what she needs. I can think about the consequences, but as I realize this is she already pulling away. My desire spilled and her body gratified . She rolls away from me once again. Leaving me to stroke her back. This isn't love. . . Not to her. She is not ready for this sort of thing. She is gone from me, back into the safety of slumber.

I close my eyes listening to her breathe, she is beginning to talk in her sleep. Tossing and turning, I can claim it is keeping me awake, but it is an excuse to watch her. This isn't love. . . I remind myself as I feel my body relax and drift away

When I wake she is gone. She has changed my mind. I am thinking about the consequences. I think it's love. She has disappeared and oh Lord I am not ready for this sort of thing,