Title: Thunder (1/2)
Author: Rachel Anton
E-mail: RaValliano@aol.com
Rating: NC-17
Category: S, A, R
Keywords: MSR, Mulder angst
Spoilers: Nope
Disclaimer: I guess these guys still belong to Chris
Carter. Don't sue me Chris!! It's a compliment! Really!
Summary: Walk a mile in Mulder's shoes.
Timeframe: Could take place anytime you want it to.
Author's note: This was kind of an experiment for me. Let me know if it works
for ya! Thanks to Amy and Laura for constant encouragment and enthusiasm!
You are drunk. Man are you drunk. So drunk that you
can't really remember where you are or how you got here.
So drunk that when the bartender asks if you'd like
another, all you can formulate in the way of a response
is "mugh". So drunk that when you realize how badly you
have to take a piss you are actually frightened. You
forgot how to walk to the bathroom.
Still, you're not drunk enough. Not by a long shot.
Because you can still remember why it is you decided to
get so drunk in the goddamn first place. To drink,
perchance to forget. If only it were that simple. Dad
always made it seem simple. But for him it was a
lifestyle choice. For you it is a moment of weakness. A
desperate attempt. You are relatively new to the
practice and you don't have your father's accomplished
skill.
You've avoided alcohol most of your life. When you were
fourteen you broke into dad's liquor cabinet and got the
beating of a lifetime and suprisingly, that outdated
teaching method actually worked for you. You didn't
touch the stuff again until college. By that time you
had enough sense to recognize that alcoholism runs in
your family so you better watch it.
You can count the number of times you've been drunk on
your fingers. Well you could if you could find your
fingers. And remember how to count.
You wonder why you are the one who needs to get drunk
anyway. After everything, how are you still the weak
one? How are you the one seeking comfort in the bottom
of a bottle when the one who is really hurting, the one
whose life has become an unending nightmare, seems to
need absolutely nothing. Not even you. Not even now.
As you toss back your fifth (is it sixth?) glass of
whatever it is you are drinking a sudden headrush hits
you and the room seems to spin on its axis. Lights and
music and the din of strangers talking, meeting, forming
connections that you seem incapable of understanding,
all of these things combine into one spinning, mind
numbing blur.
When all is said and done, you don't really feel that
different. This is more or less what your life has
become. An incomprehensible, mind numbing blur. It's
been approaching that for some time but lately...lately
even the things you knew, even the most solid
foundations have been giving way under your feet. And
you just don't know how to act anymore.
You''ve never been terribly introspective. Questions
like "Who am I?", "Why am I here?" have never meant much
to you. You didn't need to think about them because you
knew the answers already. It was all quite simple. Now
that you need that keen philosophical mind, that
brilliant insight into human behavior, to look into
yourself, into her, you find that you don't even know
how to use those tools anymore.
You lean your head against the cool brass of the bar,
hoping to steady your thoughts and your stomach. Is this
your answer? How do you help someone who refuses to be
helped? How do you love someone properly, without making
them, and yourself miserable? How do you stop yourself
from destroying another person's life? How do you stop
being so selfish, so demanding, so pathetic? How do you
find truth when it doesn't even exist? How do you make
this rapidly spinning world, this constantly changing
existance just...stop, just for a minute, just long
enough for you to get your bearings. Have another drink.
That'll help.
You wonder what the hell has happened to you. What the
hell has happened to her. What the hell are you doing?
You are getting old. When will you find what you seek?
What is it you seek anyway?
You feel a cold, small hand on your neck and for a
blinding, blissful moment you think that it's her. That
she's come to save you from yourself. Again.
It is a woman, yes, but not The Woman. It's one of the
others. One of the faceless many, made of celophane and
plastic, passing in front of your form day and night but
never registering as more than a part of the scenery. A
chair, a tree, the guy at MacDonalds who takes your
order, who laughs when she orders a burger with no meat,
another woman. But not The Woman.
She is tall standing there behind you. Probably at least
5'9. Without her heels. Those make her almost as tall as
you. She is blonde. You think she is probably pretty.
She reminds you of a piece of paper, of a magazine. You
like having sex with magazines. They never argue and you
can't hurt them. You wonder if having sex with this
woman would be the same as it is with the others. True
she might actually talk. That would be a serious
downside. But she would be gone in the morning. She
would be safe from you and you could crumple her up and
throw her away and not feel a thing. It might be the
same as the magazines.
You wonder for a brief moment if she is ever threatened
by the decorative women. Does she feel the same sort of
loathing and jealousy towards them as you feel towards
the decorative men? Those perfect faced golden boys, men
who might be able to give her a real life. And then you
laugh because it is such a stupid thought. Why would the
only real person in the world want to become a piece of
paper?
She looks at you strangely. Most of them do.
"Are you alright?"
"Why do you ask?"
"You were banging your head against the bar. You seem
troubled."
Banging your head against the bar? Why don't you
remember that. Troubled. Boy is that the understatement
of the universe. She is wearing black. All black. Even
her earings.
"So you want to talk about it?"
Yeah, talk about it. That's just what you want to do.
With her. You can see how that would really help a great
deal.
"No. No I don't"
"Suit yourself."
She sits down in the stool next to you and looks at you
expectantly. Are you supposed to ask her name? Buy her a
drink? This is starting to seem like more trouble than
it's worth.
"So what's your name?"
"Mulder."
You still can't figure out what her face looks like. You
don't really want to know. In fact, you realize, you
don't want to know anything at all about her. She talks
too damn much. And she's not helping you forget.
You stumble out of your chair and mutter something about
needing some air. She seems disappointed but only
minimally so. It shouldn't be too hard for her to find
another one.
You manage to work your way through the smokey maze and
by some miracle, find the door. The cool evening air
hits you in the face and you feel just a tiny bit more
sober. Of course you still don't know where the hell you
are. Did you drive here? Yes that sounds right. Where is
your car? Probably not a particularly good idea to try
to find it at this point. Maybe you should just walk. Or
a cab. Yeah a cab. That's the way to go.
As you reach into your jacket pocket and realize that
your wallet is gone (stolen perhaps, by your paper lady)
you hear the clap of rapidly approaching thunder.
Wonderful. Perfect. Where the hell are you?
You stumble down the sidewalk in search of a streetsign.
West Anderson. You are on West Anderson. Why does that
sound so familiar...shit. Oh shit. By coincidence or
some subconscious joke your mind is playing on you, you
have been drinking in a bar 5 blocks from her apartment.
Did you plan that? You don't remember.
You can't walk home from here. Not as wasted as you are.
Not in the rain. It's raining. Shit, it's raining. This
is not good. This is very very bad. You can see where
this is heading. You are about to show up on her
doorstep, soaking wet, drunk out of your mind, at two
o'clock in the morning.
Yes you've done it again. On this night, of all nights,
you have put yourself in this position. You have put her
in this position.
You suppose you could curl up and sleep on a doorstep.
Maybe a park bench. Under a rock. Of course you could
wind up in jail for vagrancy. Or public intoxication.
And who would you call for bail? And which situation
would be more pathetic.
You reach into your pocket for a coin to flip. Upon
realizing, for the second time, that you have no money
and that this is your problem, you decide that not only
is showing up at her doorstep like a wayward child a
more enjoyable option, it is also potentially less
humiliating than having her see what a mess you are
without her.
Did you really think you could stay away?
Decision made, you start on your path. Innebriated as
you are, you are still frightened. What the hell are you
going to say to her? How are you going to explain this
newest idiocy?
And more frightening still, who will you have to explain
it to? Who will she be tonight? Which side of herself
will she show you now? How many are there anyway? Just
when you think you've got one down, another one shows
up. Not that you don't love all of them. Not that you
don't need all of them. You're just never sure what to
expect anymore.
You walk a few blocks as the rain increases in severity
and upon reaching Palmer Lane, realize that you have
been travelling in the wrong direction for the past ten
minutes. The obscenity you mutter is drowned out by the
sound of screaching brakes and a blaring horn. You turn
towards the ruckus and see a car stopped dead in the
middle of the road. There is something in front of it,
blocking its path. After a few minutes of honking, the
car gives up and swerves into the other lane to go
around the obstacle.
Curious, you wander into the road. What could it be? A
flash of lightening illuminates the scene allowing you a
clear view of the problem. It's a puppy. Just sitting in
the middle of the street on its hind legs, wagging its
tail idiotically, asking to be hit. It's very small. Too
small. It seems undernourished. And it's dirty, covered
in mud.
You move a little closer to the creature, searching for
signs of rabies. Seeing none you kneel down beside it
and reach out a hand to pet the poor thing. At your
touch the pupppy yaps excitedly and scurries into your
arms. You lift it with one hand and realize that it is
in fact very undernourished. You can feel its ribs. And
it's got no tags.
It looks like some kind of mutt. Maybe a cross between a
golden retriever and a beagle or something. Then again,
you are drunk as shit. What do you know?
Whatever it is it's cute. And it's sick. And it's a
reason. Hallelujah it's a reason. She's a doctor. She'll
know what to do. That's why you're on your way over
there. You don't need her care, her affection, the
warmth of her presence. The dog does.
You lift the puppy in the air and bring its muzzle to
your lips, placing a happy kiss there. "Little guy, you
just saved my ass."
Forty-five minutes later (you got lost again) you have
finally reached her apartment. And grown quite fond of
your little stray friend. You like the way he sits
quietly in your hand as you walk, clutching him to your
chest. He trusts you completely. And he's letting you
take care of him. Letting you rescue him.
Finally you are at her door. You are suprised to see a
light shining under the crack. She is awake.
You knock. It is a shockingly loud noise. You yourself
jump from it.
"Scully. It's me. Come to the door Scully." You are
shouting. You're not really sure why. Damn walk in the
rain should have sobered your ass up.
You lean against the door, suddenly needing some kind of
suppport and your new buddy squeels. You're crushing
him.
"Scully!"
Your support gives way and you hurl into her apartment,
almost colliding with her. When you regain your bearings
you take a look at her. She does not look pleased. You
shrug.
"We were in the neighborhoood." She still does not look
pleased. She's wearing a robe. A silk robe. Peach
colored. It reminds you of something from a long time
ago. That first night. That first case. My God. How
simple it seemed back then. Damn her for making things
so complicated. You can't stay mad for long though.
She's also wearing bunny slippers. How can you be angry
at someone in bunny slippers. Scully wears bunny
slippers.
A snort escapes you at this revelation and she still
does not look pleased.
"Whose that?" she asks, gesturing with her head towards
the puppy. You move further into the apartment, shutting
the door with your foot.
"Take off your shoes if you're coming in Mulder. I don't
want you trailing mud all over the place." You obey.
"I found him on the street. I think he's sick or
something Scully. I thought you'd know what to do." You
stick your puppy filled hand at her. She shakes her
head. Softening. A little.
She walks to the kitchen alcove and gets a large
dishtowel.
"Bring him over here."
You place him in the sink as she indicates and she
starts rubbing him down with the towel, drying him off.
You are dripping all over the floor.
"Is he ok?"
"I think so. I think he's just hungry." Yeah you kind of
figured that. Could have fed him yourself jackass. So
much for your excuse. But she doesn't seem to mind. In
fact she seems to have almost forgotten that you are
here. You lean against her refrigerator watching her
fuss over the thing, petting it, kissing it, calling it
a "sweet baby", smiling, actually smiling, and wonder if
you've ever been so jealous of a dog before.
He is giddy under her hands, licking her and panting. He
loves her already. Smart fucker.
Once he's dry she takes him out of the sink and puts him
on the floor. She walks to a cabinet and takes out a can
of chicken salad, opens it and kneels down to place it
next to him. He yapps once in appreciation and devours
his meal.
"Sorry it's not beef Wellington but I wasn't expecting
company." She is still kneeling. And leaning over him.
The top of the robe slips open just a tiny fraction. She
pets his head once more and looks up at you. The smile
disapears. She stands again and wipes her hands down
over the material of her robe.
"So." She looks at you expectantly.
"So." She walks towards you. She moves to pass you, to
return to the living room. You stretch your hand out and
block her way. You stretch your other arm out and corner
her completely. She is against the wall with your arms
on either side of her, blocking her in. What the hell is
wrong with you?
"Mulder"? Her eyes are angry and afraid. What are you
doing?
You look down at her robe again and you are struck with
an overwhelming need, an all encompassing hunger, to see
what she has on under that robe.
"Mulder are you drunk?"
"Nice investigating skills, you."
"Mulder..."
"Shh." You place a finger over her lips. Her warm, soft,
slightly moist lips. Your finger thanks you and lingers
there for a moment. Then somehow that finger travels
down her neck, over the silken V on the top of her robe.
You think maybe she is trembling a little bit. Or it
could be you. Either way her face is an unreadable mask.
Some kind of courage, some kind of insanity, has gripped
you tonight. Or perhaps its just that burning need to
know. Your finger trails down to the sash holding the
garment to her body and you wrap your hand around it,
giving a small tug.
"What's underneath?" She doesn't answer. She doesn't
move. She doesn't fight. You pull again. Harder this
time. The fabric separates and you drop your hand. And
you stare. For a long time.
She isn't naked. If she had been, you suppose she would
have stopped you. She's in a tank top, grey cotton, with
little camisole shoulder straps. No bra. And a matching
set of small grey panties. You suck in an involuntary
gasp, suddenly in desperate need of air. You are dizzy.
You think maybe you are going to throw up.
"Mulder?" Her voice is a whisper, confused and afraid
and...something you can't identify. Maybe pissed. You
can't tell. What the fuck do you know?
You would look at her eyes, try to search out her
feelings, if you could lift your gaze from the rest of
her body. But you can't. So what you say next is
delivered more or less to her breasts.
"Do you remember that first case Scully? Remember how
you came to me that night?" Her head drops a few inches.
She is embarassed.
"You were afraid. About the mosquito bites. You took off
your robe and you...you showed me. I couldn't believe it
Scully."
"Couldn't believe what?" She mutters.
"That you trusted me that much. That you could do that.
You know that's one of the only times you've ever let me
see you afraid Scully." You lift her chin with your
fingers, forcing her to meet your eyes. "You were so
beautiful Scully. So honest and open. So soft and
fresh." You chuckle. "I couldn't believe what you looked
like under that suit Scully. You scared the hell out of
me." You look down at her again, raking her body with
your vision. And this time you are sure it is you
trembling.
"God, you still do." You sound like you've got a throat
full of rocks.
You back a few steps away from her. What the hell are
you doing? You didn't come here to do this. You stagger
away and into the living room, leaving her staring after
you with a look of utter confusion. For the first time,
you take a look around.
There is a large bowl of popcorn on the table in front
of the couch. The television is on and the lights are
relatively low. What is she watching? You stare at the
set for a minute trying to figure it out. It seems
familiar. God it's Mommy Dearest. There is something
very wrong with Scully sometimes.
You sit yourself down on the floor and lean your back
against the couch. Stuffing your mouth full of popcorn
gives you an excuse not to speak to her for a moment.
Maybe if you pretend you didn't just do what you just
did, she will too.
Ever the denial queen, outdoing even you sometimes,
Scully simply closes her robe and sits on the couch,
saying nothing. You watch the movie together in silence
for a few minutes. Soon the puppy has finished his
dinner and he joins you, leaping onto the couch beside
her. It is a picture of domestic tranquility. Except for
the fact that you can't look at her, except for the fact
that the discomfort and tension in the room is almost a
living being, except for the fact that you can't forget
for a minute that you don't belong there, except for all
of that it's a real sweet scene.
You hazzard a look up in her direction. She is staring
silently at the television. This is a Scully you know.
One that you recognize. But she is in overdrive tonight.
This is the woman who listens to your flirtation and
innuendo, absorbs, and ultimately ignores. She accepts
that you are here. She doesn't question why. And she
pretends that your behavior is completely normal and
nothing worth responding to.
You wonder why. You wonder what kind of reaction you
would have if she came to your apartment out of the blue
in the middle of the night and pulled your clothes off.
The situation is so ludicrous you almost laugh out loud.
Not likely to come up to say the least.
The thunder claps outside and lightening flashes through
the window. You love the sound of a thunderstorm.
Especially when you can enjoy it from indoors. For a
moment you allow yourself to relax. You are here. You
are safe. And so is she. And even though things are
possibly more fucked up than they've ever been in your
fucked up excuse of a life, for a moment that is enough.
Title: Thunder (2/2)
Author: Rachel Anton
Email: RaValliano@aol.com
see part one for summary, disclaimer etc.
You smile as Faye Dunaway, pretending to be Joan
Crawford, shrieks at her onscreen daughter about wire
hangers. Her choice in films is starting to make sense
to you. It's so bad it's good. And it makes her life
look pretty damn pleasant by comparison.
Her "Aww, hi baby" startles you. For a millisecond you
think she is talking to you. You forgot about the dog.
You look up again and see that the little mutt has
crawled up into her lap. What a good idea. You wish
you'd thought of it first.
"I think you've got a new admirer Scully. Maybe you
should keep him."
"I thought you'd want to keep him. You did find him."
You snort at the idea. "Scully please. I couldn't take
care of him right and you know it. Plus he loves you.
You should keep him. Please keep him. He needs you."
Your eyes meet for a moment and she nods simply.
"Okay."
You reach out a hand and stroke the head of the luckiest
dog in the world. "You hear that. You've got a new home
buddy. Now you gotta name him Scully." He licks your
hand and you lean in to nuzzle him a bit.
"How about Thunder?" Another loud crash outside seals
the descision. Thunder it is.
You can't help the smile that spreads across your face
as Thunder laps your face with his tongue. How nice it
is to receive such unconditional appreciation, such open
acceptance. You glance up at her and are happy to see
that she is smiling as well. At you.
The room starts to spin. Is it her or the booze? You
don't know but you need to put your head down. And you
do. On her leg. You rest your cheek against the silken
thigh and turn your face towards the television, letting
out a deep sigh of relief.
"Mulder..." She hesitates for a moment. This is it. The
end of your nice little fantasy. Her next words will
either be "It's time for you to go home" or "Why did
you come here?" and either way you are screwed.
"Why were you drinking tonight?" Suprised again. Your
heart leaps just a little bit. You shake your head
against her and revel in the way the material of her
robe feels rubbing against the side of your face.
"I dunno Scully. I guess I just...I'm just..." just
what? How do you explain something you don't understand
yourself? "Tired. I'm so tired Scully." Miraculously,
stupendously, her hand travels from Thunder's head to
your own. Her fingers run gently through your damp hair,
coming to rest lightly just above your neck.
"Tired of what?" It takes you a few moments to process
her question. How are you supposed to comprehend or
communicate anything with her hand there? Finally some
words work their way through the muddle of your brain
and you find yourself almost rambling.
"Of everything Scully. The whole thing. This whole thing
that we do. This way that things are. I'm tired of
chasing things that don't exist. I'm tired of seeing you
get hurt and not being able to do a damn thing to stop
it. I'm tired of risking both of our lives for something
that might not even matter in the end. I'm tired of
never knowing anything and...and I'm sorry Scully. So
sorry. To you. For needing you to be everything and not
being anything myself. For never being strong enough for
you and needing you to be strong all the time and for
getting angry when you're too strong and you won't let
me in and..." You drift off, realizing that you have
stopped making sense and that you are traveling in some
seriously dangerous waters. And that you have started to
cry, pathetically illustrating your point. "I'm just
tired Scully. I just wish we could stop."
Her fingernails travel under your hair and scrape
against your scalp and you almost moan. How could
anything feel like that? Thunder, somehow sensing his
intrusion, scurries off Scully's lap and onto the other
side of the couch. And now it's just you and her. Your
head in her lap and her nails in your hair and you're
crying and this time there is absolutely no excuse, no
reason.
"What else would you do Mulder? If we stopped. What
would you do?" Your tears are staining her robe. Salt
and water, spreading across her lap, darkening the
fabric. What the hell would you do?
You sniff a nose full of mucus, careful not to let that
sickening stuff spill on her, and mutter "Move." She
laughs. A delightful, soft sound, like music.
"Where would you move to Mulder?"
"I dunno, somewhere warm. Maybe Mexico. Or somewhere
cold, like Colorado. Someplace quiet, with a lot of wide
open spaces and mountains and hardly any people."
"And what would you do there Mulder?" You aren't sure.
You had something in mind but all that you can think of
doing right now is sitting here with her hand running
through your hair. You wonder if she would move to
Mexico with you and just do that. It would be enough. It
would be more than you could have hoped for.
"I dunno. Get a bed. And some food in my refrigerator.
Maybe um...maybe write."
This gets her attention. And you instantly regret having
said it.
"Write? Write what Mulder?" You chuckle self-
consciously.
"Dirty lymrics."
"Mulder..."
"I'm serious Scully. I've got some great ones already.
There once was a girl from..."
"Mulder stop. Tell me what you meant. What would you
write?" You shudder at the soft yet demanding tone that
her voice has taken. Would she sound like that in bed,
telling you how to please her, how to touch her?
"I guess I would write um...ya know, poetry and stuff."
"Poetry? You write poetry Mulder? Really?" You nod
almost inperceptably, hoping that that will be the end
of this discussion. You remember your roomate at Oxford
telling you that poetry was the way to a woman's heart,
and a good way to get in her pants to boot. Personally
you've never seen it as more than a way to humiliate
yourself completely. And Scully does not seem like the
type of woman to be impressed with some adolescent
drivelings.
"Mulder, would you...can I hear one?" Damn. Damn it all.
Her fingers are moving again, lightly stroking your head
and you know you can refuse her nothing. Even this.
So you take a deep, trembling breath and you tell her.
You tell her everything. With a few words, scrawled
frantically on a piece of stationary from the Elvis
Presley Holiday Inn over a year ago, you tell her
everything she is to you. And as you recite the verses,
extolling her magnificence, lamenting your hopeless need
for her, you have to laugh at yourself a bit. While you
were writing this she was getting herself tattoed as a
statement of emancipation from you.
And then something strange happens. The words start to
fall from your tongue effortlessly. They seem to flow
with an ease you've never imagined possible. All of the
sudden it seems perfectly natural for you to be reciting
your poetry to Dana Scully in the middle of the night.
And then you notice that she has stopped moving, stopped
breathing, stopped everything.
You finally reach the last line, some nonsense about
wanting to drown in your goddess of the water, and when
you are done you feel her hand clutching a fistful of
your hair.
"You..you wrote that?" She sounds completely amazed. Is
it from awe or disgust? You nod for a little longer than
is necessary, grinding your head against her legs.
"It's...it's good Mulder. I mean it's really, really
good. I love it." Her voice is cracking a little, and
her other hand has joined its partner in your hair.
Maybe your roomate was right. "What happened to the
girl?" It takes you a minute to recognize the teasing
tone in her voice. Surely she knows.
"Dumped my sorry ass Scully." She laughs softly and lets
out a deep breath. One of her hands lays still on your
head as the other begins travelling slowly downward. You
feel her nails begin to run up and down the back of your
neck and this time you cannot supress the deep, heavy
groan that escapes your throat.
You lift one of your arms and rest your hand on her
thigh, squeezing it lightly as a sign of encouragment.
As a plea. If she stops you are sure you will die.
Soon she has worked her way under the collar of your T-
shirt and she is caressing the top of your back. You
nuzzle deeper into her lap, inadvertantly shifting the
material and causing the robe to fall open again. Her
thighs are partially revealed to you and you are sure
she must be able to feel your hot, hungry breath against
her skin. Such beautiful thighs. You've only been
allowed to see them a couple of times. You remember each
occasion with vivid clarity. Peaches and cream, muscular
yet soft, smooth, as silky as the robe.
You turn your head partially so that your open mouth is
resting against her flesh and her sharp intake of breath
only spurs you on to greater acts of bravery. You take a
piece of tender, juicy skin between your lips and suck
lightly on it. She smells like baby powder. She tastes
like a Thanksgiving Day turkey. Her nails dig into your
scalp and shoulder and a small shudder wracks her entire
body. Why were you drinking tonight? Maybe so that you
would be able to do this glorious thing.
Tentatively you reach out and pull the remaining
material out of the way. You can't resist a peak
upwards. She is naked from the waist down now, except
for her panties. Her head is back against the couch
cushions and her eyes are closed. Thank God her eyes are
closed. If you don't look at each other you won't have
to think about what the hell you are doing. You won't
have to stop.
Your gaze is drawn to the grey material covering one of
the only parts of Dana Scully you have never seen. There
is a dark spot there and as you run your lips over her
thighs, kissing every inch that you can reach, that spot
begins to grow. She is wet. She is wet for you. Because
of what you are doing. Only upon realizing this do you
notice that you have been hard for the past twenty
minutes. You notice because the hardness becomes an
almost unbearable burn.
You run your tongue over the inside of her thigh, right
above her knee, kissing there as if it were her mouth,
and finally she makes a noise. A beautiful, breathless
sigh. And once she breaks the sound barrier, there is no
going back. Each kiss, each stroke of your tongue
elicits a new and exciting response. Soon she is moaning
almost continuosly. And so are you.
You glance at her panties again and realize that the
entire crotch is soaked. That the juice is starting to
drip out of the sides. That you can not only see but
smell her arousal. And that you are about to do
something that neither of you will be able to ignore.
Something that no amount of denial will be able to
erase. And that nothing in the world would be able to
keep you from doing it.
You shift your body a bit and move close enough to your
goal to be able to bury your nose between her legs and
inhale deeply. Her thighs spring open immediately and
you smile. She needs this as bad as you do.
You walk on your knees so that you are kneeling between
her legs and rub your nose furiously against her. That
smell, god you could never get enough of that. You wrap
one hand around each of her thighs and kiss her gently
through the cotton. She whimpers and you feel new tears
forming in your eyes. You can't believe that you are
here. It's like pure electricity against your mouth.
She sucks in a mouthful of air and arches against you.
You think maybe you might have an orgasm right this
minute. Things are spinning again. More than ever. Maybe
this is your answer. To a question you didn't even know
how to ask.
You flick out your tongue, tasting the combination of
laundrey detergent and sweet, sweet Scully that has
become her panties. Her nails are in your scalp again,
clutching and pulling. You need more. So does she.
You reach up and pull at the top of her underwear. She
lifts her hips, allowing you to remove the final
barrier. Laundry detergent and cotton are gone and it's
your face and her...her...just her. What else you gonna
call it? Every conceivable term is far too crude or
clinical to descibe the gorgeous flower in front of you.
Perhaps you'll write your next poem about it. You intend
to become very well acquainted with it.
You run your fingers over the outer lips, enjoying their
softness and warmth. Your name hisses tightly through
her lips and you need to see her. Eyes still closed,
lips pressed together in a near grimace, sweat beginning
to form on her brow. She is the most inconcievably
beautiful thing you have ever seen.
Your tongue works through the hot, damp folds and
reaches her fully engorged clit and you both moan at the
sensation. You have done this before. You know that you
have. But somehow you can't remember a single time. Has
anyone else burned and crackled against your tongue like
a blazing forest fire? Has anyone else tasted like
blackberries and honey and wine? No, paper doesn't feel
like that. Paper doesn't taste like that.
Her hips start to rock and rotate underneath you and she
cries out. She cries out an obscenity. Fuck. She says
fuck. She says it again. Is it a request? Or a
supplication? Perhaps an expression of frustration,
anger, disbelief. Fear? Yes that's probably it. She is
losing control. Fast. And it's scaring the hell out of
her. And you know the feeling well. Because even though
her hands are still on your head and neck and no part of
her is anywhere near your cock, what you are doing is
causing violent tremors of pleasure throughout your
entire body and you are sure that as soon as she falls
into oblivion, you will follow. In fact you might not
even be able to wait that long.
It's not quite as terrifying for you as it probably is
for her though. You are used to letting her see you
vulnerable.
Her legs start to tremble and she slides down the couch
a bit, crushing herself against you. You slide a finger
inside her and almost flinch. Molten lava. God how it
burns. And so, so tight. Your dick twitches and throbs
against the inside of your jeans, perhaps thinking that
it will soon be folllowing your finger.
You focus your licking on the tight bundle in the middle
of her, working harder and faster, knowing that's how
she needs it to be. You slide two fingers in her. Three.
If only your entire body could fit up there.
Her fingers uncurl and her palm pushes ferosciously on the
back of your head as her voice cracks on a wordless,
priceless cry. She convulses around you, her entire body
trembles, pulls you in, grinds against you and your free
hand offers one stroke to the pounding need under your
jeans. One is all it takes. You scream into her and as
you come with her the screaming in your head finally
stops.
You lean your head against her thigh and slowly, things
start to come into focus. The television, the floor, the
dog. The dog is staring right at you. The movie is still
running but all that you can hear is your own panting.
Her hands have dropped to her sides and when you look up
at her, her eyes are still closed. Her lips are parted
as she tries to regain her breath, her bearings.
You are starting to sober up.
You sit silently with her for a few strange, awkward
moments. You can feel her discomfort travelling through
her skin. You can hear the wheels turning in her brain.
How is she supposed to deal with this? What is the
appropriate response.
When she stands up, asks if you'd like a glass of water
and walks to the kitchen, closing her robe again, you
are stupified. Absolutely unprecedented level of denial.
She is positively unreal. You almost admire it.
Yup just you're average Saturday night. Or is it Sunday
morning. Just had an orgasm on the couch and Mulder's
sitting on my floor with a load of cum in his jeans.
Sure, why not. Not much compared to sewer dwelling human
worms or killer trees you suppose.
She comes back with two glasses of water and sits on the
floor next to you. She stretches her legs out in front
of her and demurely crosses them at the ankles.
Strangely you are grateful for the water and guzzle it
down greedily.
"Alcohol dehydrates Mulder." Thanks Mister Wizzard. Her
shoulder is touching yours. Funny how that thrills you
even after that. Maybe especially so. She may not be
ready to deal with it but at least she's still here.
The credits start to roll on the screen and she flicks
the remote, leaving you in an eerily silent room. You
lick your lips, hoping the water hasn't taken away the
taste of her. Nope. Still there.
"So." She says.
"So."
"Still want to stop?" You are not entirely sure what she
is asking you. Stop what? And then you remember your
rant from earlier. Stop everything. God Scully. Not if
this is part of everything. Never. Not stop, just
change. Change so that it's okay for you to do that every
single day for the rest of your life. You try to make
those words come out of your mouth but for some reason
you are completely choked up and all you can do is croak
out "No."
Silence evenlops the room again and a million scattered
thoughts invade your brain. Things that you should be
doing. Things that you are supposed to be saying.
Somehow though, nothing seems right and you can't help
but wonder if any other two people in the world have had
such a difficult time with such a simple thing.
Probably not because you can't imagine anyone loving
anyone else the way that you love her. You can't imagine
anything being this important to anyone. One wrong move
and your entire life could end here on this stormy
spring night. Does she have the same concern? Is that
why she is doing as close to nothing as is humanly
possible? She couldn't. She must realize that there is
nothing she could say or do that would get rid of you.
But maybe that is her real worry. Perhaps her mind is
busy right now, trying to invent a Mulder repellent, a
way to get you out of her apartment and out of her life
before she is forced to show you even more of herself,
to give up whatever she has left.
Your eyes travel from your feet to her face and you are
slightly startled to see her looking right back at you.
She gives you a small smile and looks shyly down at her
own feet. At her bunny slippered feet. She still has
those damn things on. You look quickly away and take a
nervous sip of water.
You are starting to wonder if maybe you misread her
signals somewhere. If you have completely taken
advantage of her. She might not have realized that
scraping her nails along the back of your neck would
have the same effect as waving a red flag in front of a
bull. She might have just been trying to comfort you.
She might not have wanted this at all. She might have
been afraid to say no to you once you started. She might
still be afraid. You'd certainly never know it.
"You know that I love you, right?" For a moment you are
sure that those words came from you, that somehow, they
managed to escape the shackles of your soul and to spill
out onto her carpet. But no, it was her. God in heaven
it was her. And she was asking you a question. And how
in the world are you supposed to answer it? You can't.
You just can't. There is no answer to that question. So
you sit, gaping open mouthed at the wall, and let the
sound of the words reverberate around you. They seem to
bounce off each other and dance through the particles of
air causing an overwhelming vibration throughout your
body, making the entire room seem almost alive with
their presence.
Once again, she has rendered you beyond speachless.
Beyond coherent thought.
"Mulder?" Her voice is a small whisper. Your body
responds. It seems to know what you need more than any
other part of you at the moment. And it is screaming out
for one simple thing. One utterly normal, deceptively
commonplace, uncommonly difficult thing.
"Yeah?" you manage to choke out. It's one word but even
that is almost too much for you.
"I'm scared." Your heart shatters into a million pieces.
Again. You look at her and see the fear in her eyes. The
fear that she is letting you see. That she is showing
you. You are more grateful to her then you have ever
been in your life.
"Scully." You meant that to sound reassuring. It came
out as a terrified whisper. Two sets of eyes shift
nervously back and forth, two mouths open and close
wordlessly. If you don't do this now it will never, ever
be done.
You swallow, breath, prepare. A simple request. You just
have to open your mouth and...
"Mulder, could you kiss me please?"
God. How does she do that? How? Does she really want it
though, or does she just know that you do?
"You...you want me to kiss you Scully?"
"Yes." You slide your fingers into the soft tangle of
her hair, your thumb traces a path back and forth over
her cheek bone. Your breath hitches in your chest and a
tiny sigh escapes her throat. This is it. This is really
it. She is alive under you, real and true, flesh and
blood, waiting for you to seal this, to make it a fact.
A truth undeniable.
You lean in a bit and your stomach twitches violently.
Your body seems to think that this is your first kiss
ever. Tiny pants are passing through her parted lips.
Her eyes slip shut and you nuzzle your nose against
hers. Eskimo kissing. You suppose it's a start.
"Scully."
"Hmmmm..."
"With your eyes open."
Your eyes and lips meet simultaneously, each holding the
other in a fearful grasp. You watch her pupils dilate in
a mixture of shock and excitment at this first contact.
It is a tentative joining, your mouth resting lightly,
almost casually against hers.
Hunger pools in her darkening eyes and she tugs gently
at your lower lip, drawing it deeper into her mouth. Her
tongue traces it slowly and suddenly you are drunk all
over again. You feel her fingers on your face, brushing
over your cheeks, your forehead, over to your ears, down
your neck, tiny pale fingers, pulling you apart and
putting you back together again simultaneously.
Your lips part further and your tongue reaches out,
needing to feel the inside of her mouth. You are almost
suprised when it comes into contact with her own tongue.
An almost accidental collision. And it is you who cannot
bear it, you who must shut your eyes to block out all
sensory imput save the feel of her small, sweet tasting
tongue twisting and writhing with your thick, salty
organ inside the hot, wet sanctuary of her mouth.
You surge towards her with a moan and wrap your body
protectively over hers as you plunder her with kisses.
Needy, frightened, joyful kisses. She responds with
breathy sighs and hands slipping under clothing, nails
scraping calloused skin in places that haven't been
touched since the Reagan administration. And you laugh.
And she laughs. And you cry. And so does she. And you
wanna kick yourself in the ass because it really wasn't
so hard after all now was it.