<![CDATA[In The Ruins
by Lydia Bower <bower@cu-online.com>
Classification: SAH, MSR
Rating: NC-17 for sexual content.
Spoilers: US5--The End
Distribution: Anywhere, just keep it complete and with my name
attached.
Summary: Some fires destroy. Others cleanse. Mulder and
Scully experience both.
Disclaimer: Moose and Squirrel aren't mine. They belong to
David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson. Skinner belongs to the
Burly Surly Guy. The X-Files belongs to Mr. Twinkly Eyes, the
gang at 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. No
infringement is intended and no money is being exchanged. This
is simply an exercise in maintaining my sanity.
Author's Notes: Being the World's Slowest Writer (TM) and
having my mailbox flooded with post-The End fics, I wondered if
I should even finish this story, let alone post it. But the ever-
supportive Primal Screamers convinced me there was room
for at least one more voice. If you like it, thank them. If you
don't, blame me. All comments to bower@cu-online.com
In The Ruins
by Lydia Bower
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
But if I am to heal
I must first learn to feel
in the ruins.
Melissa Etheridge
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
We are the only color in the room. The only things alive. The air
is acrid and thick with heat; filled with wet sounds and hot
sounds and the sounds of dying things. The sounds of ruin. At
this point, I don't know if I'm holding Mulder up or it's him that's
supporting me. I think it must be the latter, as he's as stiff and
unyielding as stone. A worthy structure to lean against.
Gone. Up in smoke. Everything. His life, his dreams, his hope.
Our work. Our partnership. Does he share the numbness I feel
at this moment? I can't begin to comprehend the enormity of this
loss.
I didn't think it possible, but Mulder tenses even more, every
muscle so rigid I fear he might shatter at anything but the
lightest of touches. And then he starts to tremble. I feel it
beginning deep beneath my fingers' grasp and moving upward
and all through him.
His face, when I lift mine to look, is a portrait of anguished
rage as only Mulder can achieve. Only those most adept at
reading his face would notice the slight flare of his nostrils, the
gritting of teeth behind a carefully set mouth, the minuscule
narrowing of his eyes.
His eyes. Burning with an inner fire hotter than anything that has
destroyed this office. It is the source of his unabated trembling,
the fuel that pumps his heart and moves the air through his
lungs.
His lips barely move, but I hear his muttered oath:
"Sonofabitch."
"Mulder."
He carefully sets his hands on my arms and, without sparing
me a glance, moves me aside. He then sets about savagely but
methodically finishing the destruction.
Cabinets are yanked away from the walls and tipped over,
spilling their water-soaked, charred contents. Walls and shelves
are cleared of blackened mementos, charts, photographs; hot
sparks flying in the air around him. The tops of desks and tables
are cleared with long sweeps of his arm. Ashes lift and dance in
the flurry of air his movements create, rising up and swirling
about our heads. Curses flow from his mouth in an unending
stream of rage and pain.
I don't try to stop him. It wouldn't do any good, and would likely
just end up with one or both of us hurting even more. I remain
where he left me, holding myself tightly, hot tears burning my
eyes, defiantly held back. It's only as Mulder stops to survey the
damage, turning toward my area of the office, his intent clear,
that I snap from my lethargy. I step to him, a plea on my lips,
when a voice rings out behind us.
"Agent Mulder!"
It's Skinner. We both start and swing around to him, almost as
one. Skinner flicks a look in my direction before turning his
attention to Mulder.
"I think there's been sufficient damage done here already," he
growls, his tone like razor sharp teeth. "There's nothing more to
do right now. I want both of you to go home and sit tight."
Mulder is panting heavily beside me, worn from his exertions. I
can feel heat coming off his body in thick waves, smell the
pungent tang of his sweat. Skinner looks back at me. There is a
glimmer of sympathy in his eyes--unsullied by any kind of pity.
"Is that clear, Agents?"
"Yes, sir." I answer for both of us as Mulder abruptly moves to
the door. Surprised, I take his lead. I'm not sure how to interpret
his out-of-character compliance. It seems all I can do is follow
him where he goes. As usual. As always.
Mulder stops just as he's about to pass Skinner. He locks eyes
with the Assistant Director. His face is smudged with soot, his
eyes still burning with rage. He rasps out a few short, harsh
words.
"They can't do this to us," he declares. "I won't let them."
As if all this is something that hasn't yet occurred; an event that
any of us can prevent from happening.
Skinner's tone is gentle. "Go home, Mulder."
They exchange a long look before Mulder steps past him and
out the door. Skinner catches my arm as I follow. It's all I can do
to lift my eyes to his. "I'll contact you as soon as I can. It might
be a good idea if you stay with him."
The ghost of an embarrassed smile crosses his face as soon as
the words leave his mouth. He already knows I wouldn't be
anywhere else. "Take care of yourself, Scully, and be
careful."
I manage a whispered thank you and take one more look at the
burned-out office. I'm forced to swallow down painful laughter as
I notice the only thing left untouched by Mulder's hand is the
poster on the wall behind his desk. It's scorched and blackened
around the edges, but the simple statement--proclamation and
prayer--remains legible.
I Want To Believe.
I hurry to catch up with Mulder. He's reached the first floor, his
water-logged sneakers squishing and squeaking against the
marble. He practically sprints to the car but then goes absolutely
still as he waits for me to catch up and unlock the door. He
slides wordlessly into the passenger seat and leans his head
against the glass, his eyes trained away from me.
The trip is made in complete silence but for one short exchange.
"Your place or mine, Mulder?"
That gets a look in my direction, and forced cockiness. "Exactly
what've you got in mind, Scully?"
The scathing look I give him is automatic. He has the grace to
look embarrassed as his attempt at innuendo falls flat. He
gingerly scrubs his forehead, sighing, "My place."
We don't speak again until we've stepped into his apartment. He
throws the deadbolt behind me and leans up against the door as
I flip on the light switch and shrug out of my coat. I hang it on
that odd billiard ball coatrack of his, inspecting it as I do. The
trench is ruined, the hem soaked in filthy water, covered
with soot and ash.
So is Mulder, now that I have a chance to get a good look at
him. He is painted with black smudges. His jeans and t-shirt, his
arms and hands and face. His once white sneakers are gray. As
is his complexion. He looks completely wiped out.
"Mulder, you should try to rest." I reach for his hand and he
sucks in a sharp breath, jerking it away. My first thought is of his
savagely broken finger. But no, it's the wrong hand.
Burns. Of course. He's burned his hand. Some of the things in
the basement were still smoldering when he went postal.
"You're hurt," I tell him unnecessarily, taking his hand again. He
lets me, and watches silently as I flip it over. There are three or
four reddened patches on his fingers and the palm of his hand. I
can see small blisters forming under the skin. His left hand
shows the same damage. First and second degree burns.
Nothing some antibiotic cream and gauze won't take care of.
"I'm okay," he mumbles.
"No, you're not." Automatically, I begin checking his arms. More
burns. Small ones. He stands passively as I run my hands up his
arms, wincing as I reach the curve of his neck and shoulder. I
pull the collar of the t-shirt away to look. Another burn on the
side of his neck, this one larger and deeper.
"Oh, Mulder," I sigh. So much pain. I wonder if the day will ever
come when we're both healthy and whole at the same time. "You
need to get cleaned up so I can dress these. Can you manage a
shower?"
For the first time since I began my inspection, he lifts his eyes to
mine. The fire in them has burned down to ash, gray and chilly.
He nods slowly and heads into the bathroom, pushing the door
partially shut behind him. I wait until I hear the shower come on
before I go down to the car for the medical kit and my small
overnight bag.
Once back inside, I slip off my shoes, hesitating only a moment
before I enter the largely unfamiliar territory of his bedroom. It
looks much as I remember it. Stacks of boxes and cardboard file
cabinets fill most of the room, and I side-step them to the bed. A
thick, dark green comforter is covered with more papers and
books and stacks of neatly folded laundry. Mulder may prefer
the couch, but I'd like to get some sleep in a real bed. It only
takes me a few minutes to clear it. I'm pleasantly surprised to
find soft cotton sheets and fluffy pillows under the spread. It's so
like Mulder to splurge on the best of things and then deny
himself the luxury of actually using them.
I often wish he would allow himself some small comforts. Well-
stocked cabinets, a set of matching silverware and dishes. The
use of his own bed instead of the poor substitute of a narrow
couch. The gentle touch of loving hands. He denies himself as
though offering up penance for some horrific crime--his only
accuser being himself.
Before I leave the room, I dig through the tidy piles of laundry
and find clothes for him. I stand in front of the bathroom door,
my fist raised to knock. I don't know what compels me, but
instead of knocking I lower my arm and push through the half-
open door. "Mulder? I brought you some clothes. I'll leave them
on the toilet."
I'm met by the sound of the shower and nothing else. "Mulder?
You okay?" I don't know what I expect to find as I step to the tub
and pull the curtain open a bit. Perhaps a repeat of the shocky
Mulder I discovered in a motel in Providence?
At least this time he's on his feet. He's standing with his back to
the showerhead, eyes closed, a bar of soap in one hand, a
washcloth in the other. I quickly glance away, obviously more
concerned with modesty than he is. It's apparent he's gotten no
further since I left than stripping down and getting under the
water. His arms, from mid-biceps down, remain covered with
greasy black soot. Water runs from his scalp down over his
smudged face and neck. I speak to him softly, not entirely sure if
his mind is still here with the rest of him.
"Mulder, you need to get clean."
His reply is barely above a whisper, almost drowned out by the
hard spray of the shower. "I'm tired, Scully." He can't even be
bothered to open his eyes.
The decision is made in an instant and without my customary
weighing of risks. I draw the curtain back and push up my
sleeves, leaning in and taking the washcloth and soap from his
hands.
You can do this, Dana. Just get him clean and get him out of the
shower. I purposely choose his face and neck to wash first,
allowing time to steel myself for the larger and more dangerous
task of cleaning the rest of him.
I am well aware that in my professional capacity as a doctor, I
must have the ability to view a nude body as just that: a
structure of muscle and bone, in no way sexually arousing in
and of itself. I have very little trouble switching from admiration
to clinical detachment. Under normal circumstances, I don't
even have to think about it.
But this is not normal. This lean, strong body belongs to the man
I've loved and desired for years. And I'm finding it very difficult
to access the part of my brain that is physician. Especially now,
when events have left me vulnerable and clinging to whatever
remains of what Mulder and I have, and what there is between
us.
The X-Files brought us together, and that has been effectively
destroyed. But the work hasn't been all that's kept us together
over the years; not even close. It's the connection we rarely
acknowledge that binds us most tightly; those things left
unspoken and numinous. It is this connection that has allowed
the woman in love to push stubbornly to the forefront tonight.
I soap the cloth and begin carefully cleaning his face. With my
arms held high, it isn't long before I'm wet up to my armpits, the
water tickling me as it races down my sides and soaks the
waistband of my pants.
Only the tightening of his closed eyelids alerts me to the tiny
pinpricks of burns on his face as the cloth encounters them. I
berate myself for not realizing sooner how it must be chafing his
tender skin. No washcloth then. I drop it and it falls with a heavy
splat at our feet.
And then there is nothing but my fingers against his face,
cushioned by a thin layer of soap. They slide over the stubble on
his cheeks and jaw, across the wide bridge of his nose, against
his furrowed brow. Carefully I clean the burn on his neck,
struggling against a foolish impulse to stand on tiptoe and place
a healing kiss upon it.
Not a word has been spoken. Bubbles like lace slide over the
lines of his neck and down his chest, catching in the thin mat of
hair there for a few moments before continuing their journey
downward. I force my eyes away from their descent and draw in
a shaky breath.
I can't seem to think clearly, to carefully assess the situation I've
found myself in. All reason seems to be abandoning me, leaving
me sluggish and confused. I know what I want, but I'm frightened
of simply taking it. Even now, when there is nothing more to
lose, I'm afraid of letting go of my fears. They have always
anchored me and given me strength to do what must be done.
To tear myself away from their welcome restraint is difficult.
But there's no reason not to. Not anymore.
"Turn around," I tell him. "Rinse your face."
Mulder circles obediently, if a bit unsteadily, and presents me his
back, lifting his face to the spray. I am confronted by even more
honey-gold skin, stretched smoothly over prominent shoulder
blades. The last of the fear suddenly and utterly gives way under
the weight of desire and I quickly shed my clothes. Clad in
nothing more than heated skin, I step into the tub behind Mulder.
His head begins to twist around, his eyes coming open. "No," I
tell him firmly. "Stay there." There is still a part of me that needs
to hide, to not yet let him see me so literally stripped of my
defenses. And I don't want him to think I've surrendered, that he
can simply take what is offered. I want him to recognize this as
my victory, as well as one he can call his own.
I work up a heavy lather and lay my hands on his shoulders. His
chin immediately dips toward his chest as my fingers find and
soothe the rigid muscles in his neck and across the tops of his
shoulders. He begins to hum low in his throat, strings of
appreciative moans. His skin is warm and pliant, silky even
beneath the robe of bubbles. I work my way down his arms,
replenishing the lather as I need it. I wash away the marks from
the muscles of his biceps and forearms, my hands slipping down
over his wrists, fingers tangling briefly with his before sliding up
again.
The shower washes over both of us now, wet and naked as
children. But there is no innocence remaining here. My breasts
make contact with his back as I lean over for the soap, and
Mulder arches against me like a cat. I stand closer as I return to
his back, washing my way down. My hands slide over his ribs
and down to his waist as I step even closer. A sharp wave of
heat rolls through me as the auburn curls covering my mons
brush against his ass, my breasts now pressing firmly into his
back. Our mutual sighs bounce against the tile, echoing softly in
the steamy confines of the tub.
Even if I wanted to, it's too late to retreat from what is happening
between us. This game of push and pull we've been playing for
so long must come to an end. Now seems most fitting a time. It's
the only thing we have left to give.
I step away a little, my soapy hands dropping to explore the
rounded swells of his ass. Mulder pushes back against me and
then shivers as I trace with a fingertip the crease where the back
of his thigh meets the upward curve of his buttocks. I feel a
secret smile settle on my lips and consider my good fortune. In
this, if nothing else, Mulder has granted me his patience. He
stands before me utterly compliant, content to let me take the
lead in this dance we've begun.
I regretfully leave the small globes of muscle and make short
work of cleaning his long, narrow legs. Sweeping lather quickly
across the furred skin of his thighs and calves, I come up from
a squat and place a single, open-mouthed kiss between his
shoulder blades.
"Turn around, Mulder."
His shoulders lift as he takes in a long breath, and then begin to
fall as he turns to face me. Sudden shyness envelopes me as
he completes the circle. I know that this time his eyes will be
open, that he will see me, look at me, study me as I have
studied him. No matter how much I inwardly rage at myself, I
find it impossible to lift my eyes to his.
There is a soft nudge against my belly and my gaze drops. His
cock is fully erect, framed by a dark, dense forest of wiry curls.
An instinctual thrill courses through me, pooling hotly between
my legs. It's highly arousing, the knowledge that I've done this to
Mulder, that I've elicited such an obvious reaction from my slow
worship of him.
There is a moment of indecision. While part of me wants nothing
more than to drop to my knees and take him into my mouth,
another part is enjoying this last long, slow seduction. There's
still so much more of him to discover.
Mind made up, I focus on his chest and smooth the bar of soap
across its wide expanse. I lean a little to the side and place the
soap back in the dish. And then my hands begin another
exploration.
Finally, finally, as my hands slip down his flat stomach, Mulder
touches me. He reaches around and places the pads of his
fingers against my upper back and slowly pulls them down,
curving around until his hands come to rest low on my waist. His
callused thumbs begin drawing small circles on my hipbones.
My left hand slips lower, bumping against his erection, my
fingers weaving through the coarse hair until they find and curl
around the base of his cock. It is warm marble clothed in silk.
My right hand comes to rest on his chest, his heart knocking
rapidly against my palm. Only now, as I hold him firmly in my
hand, am I able to lift my eyes to his.
There is a storm raging there, dark and powerful and all-
encompassing. His eyes are moss green behind hooded lids;
tiny flecks of gold making them appear to glow in the diffuse
lighting of the bathroom. They hold a kaleidoscope of emotions,
all swirling and blending together. Arousal. Pain. Regret. Love.
There is nothing hidden, nothing disguised. I look at Mulder and
see into his soul. I am humbled and awe-struck by what I find
there. But then he withdraws, closing his eyes, hiding behind
heavy lids.
"What?" I whisper.
After long moments, his eyes come open and they are filled with
fresh despair. A tickle of worry runs through me. I don't want him
to slip away from me. Not again.
"Mulder?"
"It's over, Scully. They've taken everything."
"No," I murmur, my heart breaking anew. "No, Mulder, not
everything. We still have this. They can't take this." My hands lift
to cup his face and I rise on my toes, pulling his mouth down to
mine.
His lips are velvety soft, his breath warm against my face as I
pull away, only to return again. Small kisses, feather-light and
gentle, shyly but determinedly investigating the lush landscape
of his mouth. Endless, infinite, each caress of lips against lips
lasting an eternity.
But then gentle becomes firm. Soft becomes hard. Inquisitive
becomes probing. The tip of his tongue seeks permission to
enter my mouth and I grant it, opening under him. An arm
encircles me and pulls me close while his hand tangles in my
wet hair, cupping my head in his outspread fingers.
His warm, thick tongue explores my mouth in wide and thorough
sweeps. Mine investigates and circles his, fighting for a measure
of control I'm not even certain I want. Waves of heat wash
through me, and I cling to him as his kisses leave me weak-
kneed and unable to think clearly. All I know is that I need this,
need more.
After minutes (hours?) Mulder breaks away. He nuzzles the hair
at my temple, his cheek coming to rest against mine. We are
panting softly, our hands continuing their sweet work. And then
he bends low and gathers me even closer, squeezing me tightly
against him. His embrace betrays both his strength and his
vulnerability.
"Hey, Scully?" He breathes the words into the cup of my ear.
"Yeah?"
"Water's getting cold."
Sheltered by his body, by his heat, I hadn't noticed. And yet
even now, after his pronouncement, neither of us seems in a
hurry to move. I can't help but wonder if Mulder is worrying, as I
am, that leaving this small space will somehow break the spell.
Will we pull open the curtain and be forced to reconsider what's
happening here? Once outside this island of pleasure we have
created, will he decide we can't finish this?
I don't want that to happen. I don't this to stop.
"C'mon," Mulder says, reaching back and shutting off the water.
I cringe as he pulls back the shower curtain with a quick jerk of
his arm. Goosebumps rise up on my suddenly chilled skin.
Mulder steps from the tub and pulls a towel from the rack. He
passes it to me with a tender look and, ever the gentleman,
offers me his hand, helping me out.
I clutch the towel, unable to move now. Caught in stasis by
indecision. Taking the time to dry off seems much too mundane
a reason to stop touching him. I'd much rather stay wet and dry
him instead. As Mulder reaches for a second towel, the decision
is made.
"Wait." He turns his head and throws me an inquisitive look. "Let
me do that. I'm going to finish what I started."
He settles his sleepy gaze on me, and desire flares darkly in his
eyes. My decision has been the correct one. Mulder completes
his turn and stands before me, arms hanging loosely at his
sides, feet spread wide. He issues a welcome challenge with a
simple tilt of his head and the ghost of a smile.
There is a long moment when his eyes lower from my face and
pass over me, slowly, studiously. I am caught like a small
animal in the snare of his gaze. Lifting an arm, he lays his index
finger at the base of my throat and draws it down the valley
between my breasts. Watching the movement of his finger with
fascination, as though it were attached to someone else, he
slides it over the curve of my right breast and around the turgid
nipple. Circling slowly once, twice, three times, before it
journeys to the other side, repeating the action on my left breast.
His eyes make a lazy trip back to mine. He languidly licks his
lips.
"You're cold," he tells me, his voice honey-warm, roughened by
desire.
While that may have been true only a minute ago, it isn't
anymore. His touch has inflamed me. As I knew it would. As I've
always known. I am faced with the unbridled power of the
raw sensuality he keeps so barely restrained. A force often
hinted at and now given free rein. I bask in it. It frees me, even
as it binds me ever closer.
"No," I assure him. "It just looks like I am."
He chuffs softly. "Well, it's a good look, Scully. I like it."
He reaches for me and I back away. "No, I'm not finished. It's
still my turn."
I've quickly grown addicted to the simple joy of touching him.
And as long as he will indulge me, I intend to take advantage of
the opportunity. Mulder shrugs and rewards me with easy smile,
lifting his hands in acquiescence.
After scrubbing his hair reasonably dry, Mulder ducking his head
to make the job easier, I begin as I did in the shower, with his
face and neck. Dr. Scully briefly makes an appearance as I
can't help but inspect the angry burn on his neck. "I need to get
some ointment on this, and a gauze pad."
"It'll wait," he tells me.
Until later, I translate. Until we're finished with this thing we've
begun. His earlier quiet compliance has shifted to eager
encouragement. This allows me to relax a little, grow more
comfortable with what we're doing. There's no need to feel
hurried now. There'll be no backing down from either of us.
"Your hands may need to be bandaged, too."
"Oh, I don't think so, Scully."
Off my look he explains, "I figure sooner or later it's going to be
my turn. And when I touch you," he murmurs, "I wanna be able
to feel it. I don't want anything between us. Just my hands . . .
on your body."
I respond to his words in the only way possible: I stretch up and
kiss him. Thoroughly, passionately. And he kisses me right back.
Judging by the confidence of his ardent caresses, I don't think I
need to worry about his hands.
This time I pull away, my mouth drifting to the straight line of his
jaw and down the curve of his neck. Mulder makes a noise
somewhere between a hum and a groan as I flick my tongue
against the tender skin below his ear. It's a sound I find very
pleasing, and one I want to elicit time and again.
His fingers gently knead my arms as I explore with my mouth
the trail my hands earlier forged in the shower, drying him as I
move down his chest. I nuzzle my nose in the patch of hair
there, inhaling his clean, spicy scent. His flat brown nipples are
teased erect with a few laps of my tongue. My name is pushed
from his lips, low and yearning.
The towel drops from my nerveless fingers as I move lower,
following the thin line of hair that bisects his stomach. My hands
low on his hips, I gently push him backwards. He bumps up
against the toilet and awkwardly drops down onto the seat,
chuckling as he goes.
Ah yes, this is much better. Settling on my knees between his
outspread thighs, I focus my attention on the intended target.
I'll be the first to admit that male genitalia are not inherently
beautiful. In fact, when in a flaccid state, a penis can be
downright funny looking. But there's nothing amusing about what
I reach out and take in my hand.
Mulder's erection throbs hotly against my palm, lined with thick
veins, the crown stretched tight and purplish-red with blood.
Holding him firmly, I slowly stroke upward and then down, tip to
root. And then again. Mulder throws his head back, his eyes
snapping shut. A strangled growl seeps from his clenched teeth.
Beautiful. Just beautiful. His cock is a perfect sculpture, long
and thick and slightly curved, reaching for his belly. It's been a
long time since I've been this close to such an impressive
erection. But I haven't forgotten what to do with one.
Mulder's head snaps back into place as I take his heavy balls in
my left hand, gently rolling them in my palm. He looks down at
me with something very close to astonishment written on his
face. It's with a utter sense of victory that I dip my head, my
tongue darting out to wet my lips, smoothing the way.
And Mulder mutters, "Oh, man," an instant before I take the
head of his cock into my mouth. My tongue, slightly rough and
wet, darts and circles, discovering the saltysweet tang of him.
Mulder goes completely boneless, sliding further down on the
seat, his arms hanging limply, fingers almost brushing the floor.
My lips curl up in a smile around the heft of him.
He is mine.
The small room fills with soft, wet sounds as I thoroughly bath
him with my mouth. Alternating between long strokes and short
flicks of my tongue, pulling him in deeper as I go. There is a
moment when he bumps against the back of my throat and I
gag--but only a moment. Relaxing as much as possible, I open
myself to him, stopping only when my nose is buried in dark,
wiry curls. His balls tighten noticeably in my hand. It's only as I
begin to suckle him, my cheeks hollowing as I slide up and down
his length, that Mulder's hands lift and settle, one on my
shoulder, the other on the side of my head. He doesn't try to
guide my movements or force me down. He merely strokes my
hair, his hips rising and falling languidly.
I revel in the taste of him, of his natural masculine aroma. He
tastes clean and sharp and rich. He smells of life; of the earth
and the salt of the sea. His low whimpers of pleasure join the
sounds of my suckling and urge me on. Bobbing up and down,
lifting and pulling, swirling my tongue around his circumference.
One hand cradling his sac as the other stays firmly wrapped
around his root, pumping in firm, slow strokes.
Every whimper, every sound that leaves his throat, stokes the
fire building within me. I squirm on the cold tile floor, my thighs
pressed tightly together, increasing the friction between my legs.
Moisture builds and pools, flooding me with heat, engorging my
clitoris and swelling the folds of my sex until I find myself
wishing for a third hand, a way to relieve some of this sweet
tension.
The heat overwhelms me and my hand leaves his balls and
slips between my legs. Yes, oh yes. Two fingers slide deep into
my canal and out, spreading slick fluid up over my clit. I glance
at Mulder and find him staring down at me. His eyes drop to the
hand between my legs.
"Fuck," he hisses, his upper lip curling, the hand grasping my
shoulder tightening its hold. He watches me pleasure myself
as I pleasure him, his gaze soft but intent. And then his eyes
slide closed and his tongue slips out to lick dry lips.
Mouth and lips and tongue. Licking and sucking and pulling. One
hand stroking him, the other circling my swollen clitoris. Heat
building and building until I reach the razor's edge, dragging
Mulder along with me. My name on his lips, repeated over and
over, beginning with a soft entreaty and quickly becoming more
forceful, more focused. Suddenly he sits up, the hands that
moments ago were holding me to him now pushing me away.
His cock leaves my mouth with an audible pop.
My eyes flick up to his and he shoves out a heavy breath
through pursed lips. Panting, almost breathless, he rewards me
with a shaky, embarrassed smile. "Scully?"
I smile right back at him. "Uh-huh?"
"If I have any chance whatsoever of impressing you with my
prowess, you're gonna have to stop that right now. It's been a
long time." He punctuates his confession with a soft, self-
conscious chuckle.
I can't help but shoot him a smug grin. Okay, fair enough. I'm
not ready for this to end so soon either. I nod sagely and
rearrange my hands, placing them on his outspread thighs.
Mulder immediately grabs the hand that was between my legs
and takes my fingers into his mouth. He licks them clean,
humming his pleasure. And then removing them, he looks down
at me very seriously and says, "Thank you, ma'am. May I have
another?"
Oh, and how good it feels to laugh. To hear Mulder's scratchy
baritone echoing around us, bouncing off the tile and settling
sweetly in my ears.
I know, I *know*, that more heartache lies before us. I know that
this is only a temporary respite from the tragedy that's so
recently unfolded. But I have learned to grab at those moments
of pleasure, to cherish them while they last. I think Mulder has
learned this, too. They may knock us down, temporarily steal
away our hopes and dreams, but they will never fully defeat us.
Not as long as we can continue to find some measure of peace
with each other. Every day together, every experience we share,
strengthens us. This time will be no different. There is great joy
in that knowledge
Mulder's low growl pulls me from my musings. "Is it my turn
now?"
I casually look aside, purposely stretching out the moment. "Oh,
I dunno. Maybe."
He's on his feet in a flash, pulling me up with him. "Maybe?" he
repeats as he playfully backs me up until I'm flush against the
wall by the door. "Maybe?" He presses up close, until my breasts
are crushed against his chest, his erection digging into my belly.
He grabs my arms and pulls them up over my head, holding my
wrists in the grip of one hand as the other lowers to slide along
my ribs and down to the swell of my hip. "So who says you get
to call all the shots, Scully?" He towers over me, shamelessly
flaunting his height and bulk.
"What's wrong, Mulder, don't you like assertive women?"
"Oh, I love assertive women," he assures me, dipping his head
and tugging at my earlobe. He briefly cups my ass and then
captures a breast in his hand. Pulling away, he holds my eye.
"And I'm in love with one in particular, but that's beside the
point."
I am so caught up in the pleasure/pain of his thumb flicking
across my nipple that the import of his declaration takes a
moment to sink in. My face must reflect my surprise, because he
nods to my unspoken question.
"Uh-huh," he says. I fill in the blanks: You heard me right.
My heart swells. I can't say I didn't know. But hearing it
somehow makes it the truth of it so much clearer to me. I can do
nothing but smile at him, no doubt looking as witless as I feel
right now. Mulder has reduced me to a grinning idiot.
I knew it was only a matter of time.
"So what's your point, Mulder?" I'm amazed I can form the
words. And then more amazed that my legs continue to hold me
up as he snakes a hand between them, abruptly plunging one
long finger inside me. The sound that leaves my throat is high-
pitched and foreign even to me. No one has ever done anything
to cause me to make that noise before. I doubt if anyone but
Mulder ever could. It is the sound of my surrender.
"God," I moan. "Ohgod."
"My point, Scully," he murmurs, rasping his cheek along mine,
his finger pumping into me as the heel of his hand bumps
against my clit, ". . . is that I have a few ideas of my own." He
sucks my earlobe into his mouth and flicks his tongue across it.
Breathlessly I ask, "Such as?"
He releases the lobe and murmurs into my ear, "Well, the
thought of burying myself so deeply inside you that you can feel
me in your throat holds a certain appeal right now."
Oh, but I've felt that already. More or less. I decide not to remind
him and instead wiggle a hand free of his grip, reaching down
and grasping his cock.
"Somehow I don't think that'll be a problem, Mulder."
The chuckle he begins swiftly turns to a groan as I skillfully
stroke him. He thrusts up into my hand and covers my mouth
with his, muffling our moans.
We are forced by lack of oxygen to break the kiss, leaving us
panting, our mutual exhalations bathing our faces with moist,
warm air. Mulder rests his forehead against mine. His finger
slides out of me and circles my clit before returning, this time
joined by two others, opening me more fully. He is quickly
driving me insane.
"What are you waiting for?" There is an undercurrent of
desperation in my voice. And that's all it takes.
He pulls his fingers free and reaches down to grasp my ass in
his hands. Swiftly, bending from the knees, he lifts me. The
damp skin of my back stutters along the tile wall as my feet
leave the floor. Instinct raises my legs and I wrap them around
him. He stops my hurried ascent when my breasts reach the
level of his mouth. Bracing me against the wall with his hands
on my ass and the weight of his body, he flicks his tongue
against a nipple and then pulls it into his hot, wet mouth. I yelp
and dig my fingers into his shoulders as he teases the taut
nubbin of flesh with the point of his tongue.
"Oh my God. Oh, Mulder, that's so good." I am actually
crooning. I don't croon. I just don't. Until now.
My fingers weave through his hair as he moves to the other
breast, lavishing the same attention on it. I shamelessly grind
my clitoris against his belly; so close, so close, so close . . .
And then Mulder lowers me, his cock blindly seeking out my
opening and finding it. A swift pump of his hips and I am filled
with him. Past my throat, past my eyes. I swear I can feel him
prodding at my brain.
I shatter, flying into a million sharp and white-hot pieces.
Vaguely, somewhere in the swirling maelstrom that is this
moment, I hear Mulder quietly boast, "Gotcha."
I go limp in his sturdy hold, my face pressed into the curve of his
neck, my arms slung loosely across his shoulders. Tiny tremors
continue to roll through my body, centering in the walls of my
vagina, pulsing rhythmically around him.
And then Mulder steps away from the wall and wraps an arm
under me, turning towards the door.
"Wha . . . ?" It's the best I can do right now.
"Hang on, Scully, you're going for a ride."
Okay. After all, I'm not in much of a position to argue. I am quite
literally a part of him now, as he is of me. Where he goes, I go.
Some thing never change.
We don't travel far, and it's as he stops that I manage to pry
open my eyes. We're standing in the doorway of his bedroom.
He peers in the direction of the bed, pristine and empty, and
then glances down at me, an appreciative grin on his face. I've
managed to please him. This makes me inordinately proud.
"Ah, Scully," he says. "You're good."
"Thank you," I mumble against his neck.
He walks us to the bed and bends deeply at the waist and knees,
slowly lowering me to the mattress. His arms around me and my
legs wrapped low on his hips keeps us joined together. Just as
I'm realizing he hasn't made a single stroke inside me since his
first, Mulder eases my legs from around him and pulls out of me.
Oh, no. We can't have this.
"Where the hell are you going?"
He grabs me under the arms and lifts and scoots me to the head
of the bed. Still kneeling between my legs, he parts my thighs
with his hands and answers, "Pearl diving."
This information is immediately followed by his cocky "you
asked" look.
Well, that's something I've never heard of before. At least not in
those terms. As he slides down onto his stomach and presses
my thighs even further apart, it strikes me how surreal all this is.
Only hours ago we were standing in the burned-out ruins of the
X-Files division, threatened with official closure and certain
reassignment. And now here we are, naked as the day we were
born, Mulder's face nestled between my legs.
My life has become an example of the truly bizarre.
At this moment, I wouldn't have it any other way.
Arms wrapped low around my hips, Mulder uses his thumbs to
pull open my slickened folds. There is a moment that stretches
out forever, when we are both caught waiting and watching, the
anticipation as titillating as any actual touch. And then Mulder
purses his lips and softly blows warm air across my clitoris.
Despite the fact of my stunning orgasm only minutes ago, this
prelude alone is enough to spark anew the ember still burning
within me. It blazes to life as the flat of his tongue sweeps over
my sex in one long, agonizing stroke. Mulder places an open-
mouthed kiss on my clit and then repeats the whole process.
Two, three, four times, before he finally narrows his focus and
concentrates on the hooded bundle of nerves.
Once again, those odd squeaky sounds are leaving my throat as
I squirm helplessly on the bed. I'm trapped by his mouth and his
hands as he tilts my pelvis up. Grabbing the backs of my thighs,
he folds my legs until they are almost touching my chest. There
is momentary concern over how ridiculous I must look,
completely splayed out before him like this. Then there is the
darker, more thrilling realization of how much this is turning me
on. I've never been this uninhibited with a man before, never
allowed any of my lovers to put me into any sort of position that
wasn't vaguely dignified and demure. The hazards of a Catholic
upbringing, I suppose.
But this . . . this is different. This feels so good, so right. This is
Mulder. And Mulder's mouth on me. And it feels wonderfully
decadent.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. And enjoyed it
immensely.
The potential hinted at by Mulder's oral fixation is being fully
realized and deeply appreciated. As with most things he does,
Mulder is quietly determined and completely focused. As he
slides a finger deep inside me, working it in and out in rhythm
with his tongue, my world narrows to just this moment, just these
sensations.
His finger stroking the walls of my vagina. His tongue licking and
swirling and flicking against me. Jabbing pointedly at my clit and
then soothing the ache with slow, gentle laps of his tongue.
My arms fly above my head and I grab the headboard, hanging
on for dear life, my hips lifting from the bed, grinding
shamelessly against his face. I am moaning almost continuously
now, curses and threats and promises all leaving my mouth at
once.
And then Mulder finds just the right spot, the right speed, the
right pressure. His mouth closes around my clitoris and his
tongue begins a rapid, wide circling, flicking the bud back and
forth.
"Oh God!" My back arches off the bed as I cry out. I don't care
how much noise I'm making. I don't care about anything except
that he . . . must . . . not . . . stop. "Oh, yes. Mulder. Yeah. Right
there. Fuck. Right there. Oh, don't stop. Please, don't stop. Oh
my God!"
It begins as a tingling in my fingers and toes and shotguns
through my body. A million tiny suns explode across every inch
of skin. A brutal conflagration I welcome with joyful tears; a
moment spent in an infinite, healing fire.
The blaze rolling through my body abruptly banks, leaving me
weak and flushed. Mulder carefully lowers my trembling legs to
the bed. I feel the mattress shift as he moves up over me.
"God, you're beautiful."
Yeah, sure. I probably more closely resemble a drowned rat at
the moment. Wet hair hanging in tangled locks and eyes no
doubt circled with dark smears of mascara.
I force open one eye and peer up at him. And then the other one
pops open. All the better to see you with, my dear. He is tousled
and sweaty, his eyes dark, his talented mouth glistening with my
juices. *This* is beautiful.
"Mulder, remind me again why we waited so long to do this."
He cups my face in his hands and thumbs my cheekbones. His
eyes grow soft as they move over my face. "I really do love you,
y'know," he says. "This wouldn't have happened otherwise."
My throat goes tight and my eyes begin to fill. "I know." My
fingers trail lightly down his back as the seconds stretch out. And
then Mulder considerately ends the awkward moment by dipping
his head and placing kisses across my face, ending at my
mouth. He shares with me my essence. And although he seems
perfectly content to stay as we are, a not-so-small reminder of
his condition is pressing urgently into my thigh.
"Hey." I wiggle under him, shifting him closer to where he needs
to be.
"Mmmm," he responds absently, nuzzling my temple.
"Don't we have some unfinished business to take care of?"
"Yeah," he confirms. "But I'm putting off the inevitable."
Maybe so, but still he shifts his hips enough to place the length
of his erection along my sex.
"How come?" I ask, and then play back what I've just said. I
know he won't be able to resist.
He doesn't. "I suppose the same way all men do, Scully. How
come you?"
Granted, it wouldn't be that funny under different circumstances,
but right now it is. We trade looks and I have to hide my face,
muffling my snort of delight against his arm. Mulder's back
shakes with silent laughter.
After a minute or so, I finally manage to gather some control.
"So why're you putting it off, Mulder?"
He lifts his head and looks at me sheepishly. "Because the
inevitable is close. Very close. Embarrassingly close."
You have to admire the man for his honesty in touchy situations.
I know I do.
"I don't care. I want you inside me."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
So he lifts his hips from the cradle of my thighs and then settles
back down, slip-sliding into me an unhurried inch at a time, until
his sac is brushing against my upturned ass. The long groan that
leaves his throat sends shivers up my spine.
"Oooh, Scully, you feel so good."
I wrap my legs around him, raising my hips and tensing my inner
muscles to hold him tightly within me.
"Stop that," he chides, giving me a look that I suppose is meant
as a warning. Unfortunately for him, the impact is dulled by the
grimace of pleasure that immediately follows.
"I don't want to," I complain. I continue my gentle tightening
around him. "Please, Mulder."
"Please what?" He thrusts once and then stops again, dipping
his head to pull a nipple into his mouth. His tongue busily flicks
against it.
"Muuuldeeeer." God, how does he keep doing this to me?
He lifts his head and looks straight at me. And I gasp at the fire
burning in his eyes. His surface control notwithstanding, I can
see how close he is to losing it.
"What, Scully?" he whispers heatedly, raggedly. "What do you
want? You want me to fuck you? Is that what you want?"
"Yes, that's what I want," I plead, thrusting against him again,
my ass lifting from the bed.
"Say it," he demands. "Say it, Scully."
"I want you to fuck me, Mulder. Please."
He crushes his mouth against mine and begins to move, going
from zero to warp speed in the passing of a second. Full bore,
flat-out fucking; hard and deep and frantic. He drags his mouth
from mine and latches onto my shoulder, teeth sinking in deeply,
threatening to break the skin. My ears fill with the sounds of
flesh slapping wetly against flesh, of his animal-like grunts and
my answering cries.
Either he misjudged his staying power or we experience some
strange phenomenon, but his climax is delayed long enough to
pull me helplessly over the brink for a third time. I've stopped
questioning how he can do this to me, can reduce me to a
whimpering mass of flesh and heat. Some things don't need an
explanation. Some things just need to be relished.
I hang on tightly, riding out my orgasm as he pounds into me
with mindless fury, his hips whip-snapping up and down, in and
out. His lifts his upper body from mine, weight braced on his
hands, shifting the angle of his penetration. His eyes are
squeezed shut, his brow wrinkled in concentration, his mouth
open, sucking in air in huge, hungry gulps. Tendons stand out in
sharp relief along the lines of his neck. Sweat drips from his
body and lands softly on my skin.
And then his frantic pace slows and he begins to move in
measured, deliberate thrusts, ramming into me fully before
pulling back, only to return again. His skin flushes red, starting at
his chest and moving upward. I stretch up and place my lips on
his neck, pulling the tender skin into my mouth and sucking
gently.
"Oh God, Scully," he whimpers. "Please."
"Come for me, Mulder," I quietly urge. And that does the trick.
He drives into me a final time, an agonizing groan of pleasure
torn from his lips. His entire body shakes and trembles in my
tight embrace. I can feel his cock pulsing inside me, emptying
into me, bathing the walls of my vagina with his cum.
He collapses on top of me, gasping for air, his body a burning
cinder everywhere it touches mine. He buries his face in my
neck, fighting to control his breathing, warm puffs of air bursting
across my skin. My hands roam over him, soothing, healing,
bringing him back to himself. Memorizing the satin smooth feel
of his skin beneath my fingers.
"Hey, Scully?" he finally murmurs.
I turn my face and kiss his sweaty brow. "Yeah?"
"Wanna do it again?" He is already chuckling into my neck.
"I'm ready any time you are, Mulder."
"I was hoping you'd say that," he mumbles. "But I think maybe
we should just take a minute and . . . rest." His voice is sleepy,
his tone soft and little boy-like. There's sound reasoning behind
the claim that great sex is the ultimate sleeping pill for men.
Give them a satisfying enough orgasm and you can bank on
them nodding off afterwards.
Actually, that doesn't sound like such a bad idea. I can't think of
a better way to spend the next few hours than sleeping in
Mulder's arms.
"Mulder?"
His response is slurred, sleep-drunk. "Scully?"
"You're gonna have to move. You can't sleep on me."
"Huh? Oh, sorry." He slowly, carefully lifts himself up. We both
make small sounds of disappointment as he pulls out of me and
rolls over onto his side. He puts a hand on my shoulder and
turns me a little before snuggling up against my back, pulling me
closer until we're spooned tightly together. He heaves a put-
upon sigh and then scooches us away from the middle of the
bed, inch by inch.
He must sense my curiosity because he explains, "Wet spot,"
and snuggles up tighter, one arm supporting my neck, the other
wrapped low around my waist. He nuzzles his nose against the
nape of my neck and then places a kiss there. My eyes slip shut,
a tiny smile tugging the corners of my mouth. I'm quickly lulled
into that warm, hazy place we travel through before sleep finally
drags us down.
"Frohike's gonna be so pissed when he finds out about us."
My eyes fly open. And here I thought he was asleep. Instead,
he's thinking about Frohike. Why does this not surprise me?
"And how would he find out if we don't tell him, Mulder?" God
knows, Frohike is the last person I want finding out that Mulder
and I have finally crossed the line and gotten physical.
"He won't need to be told, Scully. The little troll's got some kind
of weird built-in radar. He always just seems to know when
somebody's gotten laid."
I flash on the bizarre image of Frohike with antennas and a
small satellite dish attached to his head and snort softly. I can
feel Mulder lift his head from the pillow, trying to see my face.
"What?" he asks.
"So we'll avoid him for awhile. Until the newness wears off."
And then I find myself wondering if that will ever happen. I just
can't picture sex with Mulder ever becoming routine.
The head goes back down on the pillow. Mulder's hand lifts to
travel down the length of my thigh and then back to curl around
my breast, cupping it gently in his palm. "We can't," he reminds
me. "The boys have got all the back-up disks stashed away
somewhere. We'll need to start rebuilding the X-Files as soon as
we can. Hope their printer's got a fresh cartridge."
"So we've got them all on disk now?" Making certain there are
back-ups of all the files has always been one of Mulder's
priorities. His sense of paranoia has served him well this time.
And even though it's obvious the conflagration in the office was
more a means of sending a message than any real desire to
destroy information, much that was in the basement can never
be replaced. Five years worth of memories, for one thing.
"Yeah, all but the most recent," he confirms. "And I have the
hard copies of those here in my desk."
This conversation is forcing me think of things I'd rather not
contemplate tonight. But once latched onto a train of thought,
my mind has a habit of not letting go until the trip is over. I'm
more than a little relieved that Mulder's already beginning to
bounce back from this latest blow. I'm constantly amazed by the
passionate determination that continues to drive him. But this
time, we're faced with a larger problem than the full-scale
destruction of the basement office.
"They're going to try to separate us, Mulder."
The arm around me tightens. "We won't let them."
"Mulder--"
"They can't, Scully. Not now. They've tried to take you away
from me before and it didn't work. They've tried to take away the
X-Files, too, and they couldn't do that either. We'll do whatever
we have to do, Scully, but they're not going to do this to us."
There is a small silence. "I won't lose you again. They'll have to
kill me first."
I turn my head and kiss the arm under my cheek. "Let's hope it
doesn't come to that."
"It won't," he whispers with certainty, but it's really nothing more
than wishful thinking. We both know it. If wanting a thing badly
enough was the key to receiving it, neither one of us would have
willingly endured the hell we've been through.
Long minutes pass, but I find myself unable to sleep now.
Mulder's breathing has evened out, becoming deeper and
slower, his arm going slack around me.
I keep thinking that I should be feeling more . . . giddy at this
newest facet of our relationship. The pleasant ache between my
legs is exciting in its own way, but only on a sexual level. And I
guess that's the difference. We are already so tightly and
inexorably entwined that making love has only added another
thread to the tapestry of our lives, not defined it. We are defined
by so much more. Trust. Respect. Loyalty. Affection. Honor.
Love.
I can't get over the simple fact that this feels so familiar, despite
it being our first time together. Once past the initial
awkwardness, it was like taking up where we'd left off. Like
returning to an old, comfortable, and beloved habit. He is in my
blood and in the air I breathe, and in the very cells of my body--
as surely as if he were a part of me. I can't imagine my life
without Mulder being in it.
But I also can't kid myself about any of this. We still have such a
long way to go. So many more things to discover about each
other, and learn to accept. Mulder will always be impulsive and
erratic and frustrating, just as I will always be logical, cool-
headed and reluctant to give too much away. This is simply who
we are.
That doesn't mean we can't learn from each other, that we
haven't been all along. We are constantly transforming
ourselves, shifting and blending, bumping against each other
until we find just the right way to make it all fit again.
I question my earlier unwillingness to give back to him the few
words he spoke to me as we made love. Twice he told me he
loved me, and neither time did I respond the way I know he
would have liked me to. It's not that I don't love him, because I
do. More than anything in my life. I don't know why it's so hard to
say it. It's strange that I should find having sex with him easier
than just telling him how I feel. At least than he'd know.
So lying there beside him in the dark, feeling the flesh and blood
furnace of his body cradling mine, I try out the words, whispering
them under my breath, listening to what they sound like. It gets
easier and easier, until I find myself saying them a little louder
one last time.
"I love you, Mulder."
And it sounds good. Wonderful, in fact.
I let out a happy sigh and close my eyes, ready for sleep.
The seconds tick by in silence. And then, startling me a little, his
voice floats out of the darkness, sleepy but smug:
"I heard that."
So what's a person to do in this type of situation? I do the only
thing I can do: I roll over and tell him again.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
THE END
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