Rating: NC-17
Classification: Case file/MSR, WIP, Humor, Alternate Universe…people are actually happy here…well, some of them
Spoilers: Everything through the first third of Season 7, the story taking place in the universe set forth in Absolute Beginners I, Absolute Beginners II–Better With Practice, and Absolute Beginners III–Comes The Morning—available on Ephemeral, Whispers of X, Fran’s Fanfic Addiction, and The Grove. (It’ll help to read ’em, honest!)
Keywords: Be careful what you wish for. Character death…not who you think. Necromancy. Santeria. Marriage Proposal.
Summary: This story takes place late in the year 2000. In the early Spring of the same year, Mulder and Scully finally got off the dime (after a false start, angst, guilt and a nightmare or two) and did the dirty deed. After a weekend of ‘solidifying their relationship’, they are pulled off the X-Files, but managed to find at least one way to console each other. Fast forward about six months–and you’ll be right we begin, dear reader.
Disclaimers: You know, they’re not ours. They’re Chris Carter’s. Just using them for the fun, no money involved.
Archive: Yes, anywhere. Just keep it intact.
Feedback: Yes, please. You can contact me: alvaradomccain@earthlink.net
Chapter 7
By Diehard and Dryad
She is beyond exhausted.
She drags herself through the lobby, into the elevator and down the hall to her room. Her body’s leaden, she wonders how she’s capable of walking at all. Glancing at her watch. She sees it’s after ten. Yesterday was long, today longer. With debriefing starting at 5:30 this the morning, it’s been about an 18 hour day. By this time last night, she was easing toward sleep, warm with lovemaking and some good Scotch.
Last night seems like a long, long time ago…
And once again she faced the hideous, the excruciating, and got the job done. Someone else would be telling themselves they were a success today. But not Scully. She’s failed, failed miserably. Not by anyone else’s standards, but by her own.
Today she autopsied killers of the innocent and could barely hold on while visions of their crimes eroded at her self-control. How she ended up having a physical and emotional breakdown.
How can she tell Mulder about this, how can she not?
As a raft of maggots consumed the flesh of these murderers today, pedophiles, child killers, she was glad something ripped into them, desecrating their remains. She hates herself for losing objectivity, for wishing she’d killed these monsters herself. Those feelings do not belong the woman she is, or thought she was. And it frightens her. What if it happens again while they’re in pursuit–some meltdown that cripples her in the field, halts her from getting his back? What if today means the compass she’s held onto her whole life has disintegrated, that their reassignment six months ago only forestalled her from seeing the truth about who she’s become.
She finds her key and rather than opening the door to her room, she stands there remembering the only other time she’d felt this much out of control. It was not the night her father died, not when she heard her diagnosis, not even when the truth of her own barren body was revealed. Even after Emily’s death, all she would allow herself was the overwhelming sorrow that scored her heart.
Through it all, she resisted falling into the pit that claimed her today. Somehow, she kept going and kept fighting the good fight. There was only one other time she was as close to losing her way as she was today.
It was the night Missy was killed–it hit too close to home, the lamb slaughtered, the lamb she couldn’t protect. That night, if she’d had the chance, she would’ve have shot and shot until she emptied her SIG. But there was no one there to empty her clip into, no revenge to be had.
The dead wait for them, day in and day out. She cannot allow herself to falter like she did today, her job is to find answers, uphold the law, serve justice.
And she will, in the light of a new day. Right now, she plans to crawl into the shower and wash away the weakness and beg her God for absolution, a God she prays will show her where strength lies and remind her of her better self.
And she hopes she’ll have the courage to tell her partner, the one man who means everything to her, the truth.
~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~~X~X~
Having trudged through the connecting doors between their rooms, he’s grateful he had the presence of mind to leave them open this morning. They’re supposed to be in her room tonight. Lying on the bed fully dressed, with his trenchcoat still on, he’s got his arms draped across his chest. He made it back about an hour ago, and was completely seduced by the idea of getting horizontal and not moving. Eyes closed, he’s fingering the cord around his left wrist.
He’d never say anything, but right now, he’s feeling his age–pushing forty–just back from a kind of furlough–and in desperate need of a break to catch his second wind. He never needed anything like that before, but he was younger then, and had never been spoiled by the rhythms of a normal life. Normal. What he’d had a taste of for six months would be filed under ‘ordinary’, and he’s come to find he craves it. But the major ingredient of this normalcy is missing. He starts thinking about her, about the matching cord Iyalosha gave him. Hauling himself up to check the clock on the dresser, he starts worrying when he sees how late it is. He starts fishing in his pocket for his cell when he hears the key in the lock.
Scully comes in, drops her bag, her coat and the room key on the dresser and heads toward him. She hopes it seems like she’s still in one piece, even though that’s a lie.The tension pulls her features tight, makes the muscles of her back ache, but she’s holding her ragged self together. He’s got that cockeyed grin and he’s sitting up in bed, rumpled and obviously delighted to see her. She wants to throw herself into his arms, bury her face in the crook of his neck and let rip the litany of what’s eating her soul.
She doesn’t.
She walks to the edge of the bed and just stands there, waiting, for what she’s not even sure. Maybe she’ll just say hello, excuse herself, lock herself in the bathroom and fall apart completely. And in about an hour, once she starts gluing herself back together, she’ll come out and try to let him help her finish the job.
“Hey.” He realizes something’s wrong, and the grin dissolves like ice on hot asphalt. “Bad day, partner?” He reaches for her, but she won’t let him.
Her hands are splayed palm side against his chest, stopping him. “One of the worst. Listen, I need to take a shower. Just…just let me do that, and I’ll tell you about it when I’m done.”
“Scully, you look wrung out.” His hands come around to cover hers, pressing down, warm. “C’mere…Let’s see…” Her face is pale–without a hint of makeup, her eyes tired and clearly showing signs of earlier crying.
“Please, Mulder, I need some time for myself. Can’t you just let me have that?”
The sting of rejection always registers on his face, although he knows that’s not what’s really happening. He can give her space, he’s done it before. He wants to give her what she wants, what she needs. “Sure. Why don’t I go on a food run. You know, something greasy, preferably between two sesame seed buns.” She nods, and he starts to get up, watching her go toward the bathroom. He grabs her key from the dresser and makes for the door.
Before she shuts the door behind her she turns around, “We’ll talk later, I promise.”
At first, he doesn’t reply.
“Mulder.”
He turns to her, and the depth of sadness in their eyes surprises them both. “And I promise to hold you to it.”
~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~~X~X~
He’s out on State Street and he can see a McDonald’s about a half a block away. It’s beautiful fall evening, clear obsidian sky, some stars nascently visible against city lights, not too much downtown foot traffic at this hour, the wind slicing cool, crisp and clean.
He couldn’t care less.
The only thing he’s thinking about is Scully and the fact she’s alone and clearly in pain. He’s not even hungry really, but he said he’d go get food, give her some time alone. But it doesn’t feel right. It’s still not feeling right as he passes under the golden arches, feeling even worse by the time the bright faced teenager –‘Jamal’–asks him if he knows what he’d like to order.
No response.
Mulder feels like he’s ditched her even though she asked him to go. He wonders if he agreed so quickly because part of him didn’t want to see her in that much pain. It’s only recently that she let him help her deal with anything emotionally difficult in daily life. Before, she had to be dying to let him in. Otherwise, he could only get so close, knowing she hid the worst from him. The thought of her, working in the basement, pale and silent as she grieved her father, her sister, her daughter makes his throat burn. That’s how it was with them. Never mind that she’s seen him raving, murderous, stricken–over his father, his sister, his mother. And saved him each time, even though once, it took a bullet to do it.
Scully never turned away. Never.
But when it boiled down to how she felt, they used to adhere to ‘don’t ask, don’t tell,’ seven years of it. They used to do a lot of things that kept them longing for each other, lonely, and apart.
“Sir,” the teen tries again, “Do you know what you want?”
“How ’bout an ass-kicking, he mumbles, “and hold the fries.” He knows where he should be, and is afraid he’s utterly blown it. It knots his gut and without thinking, he’s turned around, pushed aside the two people behind him, and is back out on the street, walking at a fast clip back to the Burnham.
He’s a dick, a possessive sonovabitch, he’s whatever she wants to call him, but he’s going back to that hotel room and she’s going to tell him whatever it is.
Jamal seems a little put out, and moves along to the next in line. “Welcome to McDonald’s, may I take your order?”
~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~~X~X~
He has a close encounter with a doorman, brushes past the concierge, hops the nearest elevator, and before he knows it, he’s letting himself back into the room. All he can hear at first is the sound of the shower, but underneath it another noise emerges. Sobbing–raw–and the sound of her voice, ‘God…help me, dear God.” He moves, crosses the room in seconds, shoves the bathroom door open and sees her.
Scully’s sitting hunched on the floor of the shower, head drawn up to her knees. The water’s pummeling her, she sits there rocking back and forth. She did the same thingthe night Missy died, said the same things, begged the same God for help.
Heaving cries, a wail she tries to smother, her thin shoulders shuddering with their force — the whole image stuns him. She doesn’t hear him when he enters, it’s when he’s kneeling and touches the nape of her neck that she startles and jerks back. It only makes him reach harder for her, and he’s getting soaked and he doesn’t care. Neither does she.
Falling toward him, sinking into him, sobbing like she’ll never stop, hot tears, hot water raining down on them both. He pulls her up, holding her against his chest with one hand, shutting off the water with the other.
“Scully…Scully, please…what is it?”
“Mulder…I…I lost it today…” She haltingly smoothes her hair back, trying to compose herself, but she’s trembling, and he won’t let go of her. Still shaking, she’s able to inch back enough to see his face. “You’re soaked, you should change. Let me get myself together, and we’ll talk. I’m sorry…sorry if I scared you.”
“No.” He grabs a towel, and starts wrapping it around her.
“No?” She’s confused, unsettled. ‘What do you mean?”
“It doesn’t work like that.”
“Like what?” She finishes tucking the towel under her arms, she desperately hopes they won’t have a fight, but she sees he’s deeply upset now, too.
He peels off his soaked trench, his suitcoat, throws them on the hamper, and roughly rubs himself with one of the extra towels. “Remember when we started this?When I still thought it was impossible that you could really love me, knowing how I am. When I thought it’d be better if you left me. You told me no one leaves, that it was too late to run away. That this was it for you…Sound familiar?”
She’s sat down on the edge of the bathtub, “Yes.”
“Scully…you’ve seen me at my worst and you’re still here.” He sits next to her on the lip of the tub, “This is not about having space,” resting his hand on her knee. “It’s about trust…it’s about believing someone wants to be there, and will be there…no matter what.”
“Mulder…” She stops her own feeble protest.
He takes his hand from her knee and cups her cheek, turning her face so that they’re eye-to-eye.
“It’s about believing that someone is me.”
~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~
It looks like his trenchcoat caught the worst of it, although his suit’s also in pretty rough shape. They’re both on a hanger, hopefully drip-drying on the shower rod, and the suit may be salvageable after he sends it to the cleaners. Luckily, he had couple of others packed besides this current waterlogged mess. The tie’s a total loss and the shirt’s draped over a chair in the room.
They’ve moved to the bed and are perched cautiously on the edge. He’s got on navy sweatpants and grey T-shirt, and is currently pressing his heels of his bare feet into the carpet. Sitting with her hands folded on her lap, she’s has her cream-colored robe on, fastened tight and secure.
There more noise to be heard in a catacomb than this room right now. Mulder is waiting because he knows if he pushes too hard, she’ll just wall herself up. Scully’smum because she realizes it has boiled down to trust and belief in flesh and blood, not just God’s invisible hand, and now she’s got to show exactly what kind of real-life faith she has.
“What happened today was inexcusable…”
“Before I join you in passing judgment, how about telling me what actually happened today?” He makes a bold move by inching closer to her and slipping his arm around her shoulder.
She lets him. They both exhale. She starts speaking.
And the whole story gets laid out, every gory, grisly detail, how her unraveling started yesterday before she even touched Coluko. How she’d struggled and temporarily pushed it out of her mind. How it washed over her today, all of it–flashing on unspeakable crimes, losing control. How after fighting today to keep it together–the maggots–the floodgates opening.
Her rage, her craving for revenge so strong, it made her stop in the middle of an autopsy. Ranting and raving like a madwoman, unable to do her job, unable to conduct FBI business. The way the shame and sickness overtook her, making her run to the bathroom and empty her guts, tears steaming down her face. How she swore and shook uncontrollably in the morgue’s icy toilet until she could hardly breathe and her throat tightened, hating herself for what she feels is a fundamental betrayal of her beliefs.
How she finished the day on grit alone.
And how she feels she’s failed herself. Failed him.
All in a voice barely above a whisper.
Then, she turns so she can see his face. She couldn’t look at him before. “What does this mean for our work? How can you forgive me? How can I forgive myself? ”
“Forgive what, Scully? What was inexcusable? His voice cracks, but he swallows back his own tears. “Scully…you haven’t told me about anything other than a human response to inhuman circumstances.”
“Mulder, I’m charged with a responsibility…”
“For Crissakes, listen to yourself.” She tries to get up, but the way he says one word, ‘Please,’ makes her stop.
Makes her take a leap of faith.
She does something he wasn’t expecting. She says, “Hold me…”
And he does, and the quiet gets punctuated again with the sound of their breathing. He can feel her crying again, but not like before. Barely moving, her tears blotted by his soft cotton of his shirt.
He wants to get this right, wants to say the words that will mean something, heal something. For as many times as she’s healed him, physically and emotionally, and finally, in the most complete way, he’s desperate to give her the same. He will tell her the things he knows to be true above all else.
“You could never be a failure, Scully. Not to me. You are the most dedicated, the most moral person I’ve ever met…Listen to me, there’s no one else I’d ever want at my side…No one I believe in more than you.”
Now he’s whispering. “You’ve seen and experienced and lived though things that would’ve killed someone else. And the fact that today, some of it caught up with you, I’m sorry, Scully, I just don’t see it as an indictment of you who are. Who you’ll always be, no matter what.”
“Mulder, how do I get through this? How do I deal with if it happens again?” She sees how he looks at her, another object lesson in love on a daily basis.
He eases her down and until they’re lying the wrong way on the bed. “I think it’s time you cowboy up to all that tough talk, hypocrite.” He says this, and kisses the palm of her hand.
“What did I say?” For the first time since this morning she can feel her body relax.
“How soon we forget. Last night. The lobby. I believe the phrase ‘We take care of each other’ was what you said. For starters, maybe you can tell me when something first happens, maybe you can let me carry my share of the weight.”
“Your share?” She bring her hand up to his face, rests it on his cheek. Her lips begin to curve upward and she sees him mirroring it back.
“Yes, Scully. My share. And why, you might ask? Well, it’s pretty simple. Te amo. Je t’aime. Te quiero. Are you getting my drift?”
~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~
They’ve slid around and at least now they’re under the covers and lying the right way in bed. By the hushed tones, a person overhearing might think it’s strictly pillow talk. It’s actually Scully’s review of her findings, with Mulder trying to connect the dots.
“Played a hunch, Scully?”
“Acted on intuitive rather than empirical data, Mulder.”
He rolls onto his back, and laces his hands behind his head, nodding as he looks at the ceiling “Dear Diary, I am beside myself hearing that Agent Scully embraced unorthodox methods today. The grasshopper snatches the pebble.”
She scoots over and presses up against him, lying on her side. “Are you going to keep gloating, or can I finish?”
“Please…go on.”
“OK…the bottom line here is that I can pretty much say the County coroner did his job, but there were anomalies that never got addressed. The listed causes of death, I would say, are accurate–all pointing to foul play. However, in what seemed initially to be a fatal fight between Weinhoft and Coluko, I saw evidence to support a possible attack by another party…The amount of damage to the bodies and the victims’ impairment due to drug and alcohol use, I think support my hypothesis. Weinhoft was also given a crude hysterectomy, at a point at which Coluko had to have been extremely debilitated.”
Her voice trails off for a second as she collects her thoughts. “Then there’s the presence of rum on the skin, Mulder…I can’t begin to tell you how it got there. The scent was so faint, it’s not hard to see how it could’ve been missed. And despite variety of substances having been found in the stomachs, including narcotics, sedatives, cocaine, PCP, beer, and vodka, the tox samples show no evidence that rum was ingested by any of the deceased.”
“So that would mean…”
“That it couldn’t have been emitted through sweat prior to death. Supporting further hypothesis that the skin was somehow imbued or infused post mortem…” She hesitates for a second.
Mulder caught it immediately. “Too late to stop now, Scully. You’re on a roll.”
She can hardly believe what she’s going to say next. “Lastly…there’s the presence of the maggots. Flesh flies aren’t indigenous to this area, but to tropical and semi-tropical locations. How they got in the bodies post-mortem, reproduced at an incredible rate is anomalous, to say the least. And the fact that they stripped the bodies in less than a half hour defies explanation.”
“Do you have any idea how much hearing you say that turns me on?”
“No, and frankly I’m too tired to even try to respond.” She’s laughing at him as she says it.
“I knew I could finally wear you out.”
“Uh huh. By the way, you don’t look so energetic yourself.”
“Maybe you wore me out…Maybe I’m gettin’ old.’
“Well, Gramps, what’s your take on all of this?”
“Ow. Thanks for that last one, Scully. Despite your obvious lack of respect, I’ll tell you what we’ve got. From the outset, there was the ritualistic pattern of the kills–one every three days. We knew the murders were done by someone with knowledge of the crimes of the deceased…Pretty wide field if we consider how much information about our bad guys were disseminated, making it easy to replicate the original crimes as a means of murdering the murderers. The CPD ended up with us because forensic evidence doesn’t show anyone else present at the deaths besides the deceased. ”
He stretches both arms and legs and let loose a huge yawn. “Your findings and the crime scene data supports the assumption that overall, a person or persons of tremendous physical strength committed all the crimes. We’re in agreement with the coroner’s findings except for Coluko and Wienhoft. The coroner dropped the ball on our couple–their intoxication would have made doing that amount of damage to each other impossible. I agree there’s no way they could have leveraged that kind of attack on each other–they were both too far gone. The whole thing screams third party.”
Another yawn, even larger than the first. “Jesus…I am wiped….” He pauses to roll his neck before he continues. “So, do you concur, partner?”
Slowly, she gets up to sit crosslegged next to him. “I’d say so far we’re on the same page…C’mon, up you go,” and starts yanking on his T-shirt.
He scrambles up into sitting position and she slides herself behind him, snaking those small hands underneath his T-shirt and begins rubbing his shoulders. “Now, let’s get some blood going here…Go on, finish.”
He’s unbelievably tired and can only imagine how wiped out she is, but the fact she’s touching him is irresistible. He should stop her, but it feels so damn good. “OK…the new evidence further supports the possibility that a supernatural force is responsible for the killings–an entity able to exert incredible force on its victim, apparently leaving no traces. There’s no evidence of forced entry, latent prints, anything to indicate that there was someone else with any of the deceased.” He sighs as she works the trigger points at the base of his neck.
“When I accessed some files this morning, I came across research concerning certain outlawed Santeria practices. These indicate the possibility of the raising of the deadin order to exact revenge. In these instances, victims show post mortem traces of herbs or other substances, including rum. This undead entity marks its kill, either at the moment of death or directly thereafter. There’s also anecdotal data indicating such victims having also been marked as targets of retribution by the appearance of insects post-mortem.” Now she’s kneading up and down his spine with a supple touch. He can’t help it, he groans with pleasure and hears her chuckling from behind. If she keeps it up, he’ll be a quivering mess before he can finish.
He decides to hurry.
“You noted the insects you saw didn’t come from the environments in which the killings occurred, that the amount of maggots present, the rapidity of consumption doesn’t fit any known description. I’m thinking it’s another indicator that divine punishment had been dealt. A woman I interviewed today gave me reason to think there are people who could enact the ritual that could cause these things to happen…And that woman knows Alex Cardenas. And speaking of our favorite cultural anthropologist–C’mon Scully, her attitude yesterday was not one of a woman who just lost the love of her life. The good professor is not a just a student of an occult religious practice, she’s a believer…Yesterday she said she was trying to keep Gonzales close to her. Maybe she told us more than she meant to. It would explain her refusing to allow the CPD to exhume the body…Scully, I bet there’s nothing in that casket and that Gonzales is meting out justice from the afterlife.”
“I don’t suppose you’d consider perpetrators emulating those practices to cover their tracks.” Her fingertips find the last knots of tension in his shoulders and work them out. She smiles as he leans into her touch.
“Nah…not when I can go out on a limb and try to take you with me.” He starts groaning again, this time softly, as she rubs his temples. “I’ll give you a week to stop that…Oh…God…that is so good.”
“Uh huh…it’s the special doctor training…What about this contact…are you saying she’s an accomplice?”
“No, what I’m saying is that she’s had a long connection with this woman, who just also happened to have been her nanny. That this woman might have unwittingly been a point of access for Alex to find individuals who know of this practice, possibly enacting a ritual for her. This woman, Iyalosha is trying to find out who those individuals might be. As a matter of fact, I’m hoping she calls me with some leads.”
“Are you really saying that the dead have been raised to kill killers?”
“You aren’t going to try to tell me that is impossible, are you? Scully, you blasted the gray matter of some zombies last New Year’s…”
“You realize we’ll have to investigate your theory on our own. This is not going to please Lazarov, the SAC or our superiors, Mulder. And I don’t imagine the CPD would assign manpower to track down the undead…”
“But you wouldn’t expect it to go any other way, would you?”
“No,” she sighs, but I can dream, can’t I?”
“Sleep. Perchance to dream…Sounds like a plan, Scully. Tomorrow we figure out how to best corner the good Professor and get the answers we want.” He’s deliberately left out something, wants to see if she’ll notice.
“Uh, there’s one last piece of business.”
“What? Do we need to call Skinner?” He might be half dead, but he’ll still try to goof on her.
She knows all his little games. “Nooooo…what about my turn?”
“Oh, I see. You want a backrub, too?” He feigns exasperation, huffing and chuffing. “Well, move it so I can get at it, Scully.” He can’t help but laugh when she clambers off the bed like a ten year old and motions him to the edge.
“C’mon Mulder, get over here and get busy.”
As soon as she says that, he dredges up the mandatory leer her opening requires. “OK, Wild Thing, but you’ll have to give me a minute first.”
She has to groan after that one. “The backrub. I meant the backrub. You couldn’t possibly have the energy for anything else.”
He leans toward her so that their foreheads touch, “And I better do it now ’cause old ‘Gramps’ here is gonna pass out soon.”
They both yawn, then smile at each other.
She eases herself between his legs and he moves back enough so that she can sit. Her head lolls forward and he can see the implant scar. Taking his thumb, he strokes it, then bends forward, resting his lips there.
He whispers, “Feeling better?”
Much, much better,” she whispers back. “Thank you for tonight…for taking care of me.”
He kisses her there, and thinks he’s the luckiest man on earth. “Thank you for letting me.”
~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~
The backrub was brief, but he hit the right spots, eliciting enough sighs of pleasure to make him think he’s still got the magic touch. Unknotted and unkinked, they’re in the bathroom, brushing their teeth. And this is where it hits him.
They’re standing at the sink. Scully–with her particularly thorough and energetic approach that literally make her upper torso shake. She’s busy, she’s oblivious–it makes him smile to watch her in the mirror. As he’s spitting and rinsing, he idly thinks of his first year at Oxford and his colloquium on classical Greek theater. He has no idea why he’s remembering this now, but Aeschylus’ reference to marriage comes to mind.
The whole catastrophe–for the first time he thinks he understands.
The day she blew into the basement, insect bites and candlelight, graveyards–more than he can count, clawing through mounds of dirt and deception for signs of Samantha, abductions and miraculous returns, blood stains, burials, a man face down on his living room floor with his face blown off, faceless aliens, cancer, chemo, gashes, stitches, exit wounds, restraints and padded cells, more pain and sorrow and loss than any two people should ever have to know.
And batting practice, Apollo key chains, years of rock and roll and innuendo, a truly horrible serenade in a Florida forest with a thousand stars blinking overhead, the feel of her warm mouth on his stubble, devotion that leaves everything tainted and corrupt in the dust, her eyes watching him as he enters her body for the first time, the way the hollow of her throat tastes sweet, grocery shopping and fighting over who does the dishes and who drives and signs of the apocalypse.
He knows. This is what he wants. All of it–the sacred and profane, the exquisite, the banal, and in the least romantic situation possible he couldn’t love her more, minty foam at the corner of her mouth.
Ask, he tells himself, ask her now.
She’s wiping traces of toothpaste away with the back of her hand, after carefully laying both their rinsed toothbrushes side by side. She looks over at him, and there’s an amazement, a wonder that’s taken over his tired face. This intrigues and amuses her.
“You know, I do this every night.”
“I do know…Listen, I have to ask you something.”
She thinks it’s about the case. “C’mon Mulder. Bed. It’s late. You can ask me all about it in the morning.”
“No. It won’t wait. Just…stay there. Don’t move, I need to get something.” The look on his face tells her this is important and she can’t bring herself to argue.
Fishing around in his damp jacket pocket, he finds it, walks over to her, takes her left wrist and ties it on. “We both have one now.”
Two cords, red leather wrapped in gold thread.
“I noticed you wearing it before.” Things begin to fall into place, all of a sudden she thinks of his remark on the plane and last night’s meditation on mating and she realizes in an instant what this is, what he’s about to ask. Whatever she told herself about not being sure she even wanted to get married anymore has been ditched by the wayside. She may never have what other women have, but she wants him, every part of him, whatever life they can make.
Ask me, Mulder, she wishes, ask me now.
“I got them from the woman I saw today…they’re a kind of amulet. I was told they bind the wearers together, protects them whatever may come.”
“Why are you giving me this?”
“The short answer? I want to get hitched. To you.” He doesn’t move to kiss her, but his hands close warm around her wrist. “Marry me, Scully.” His voice is soft, soft when he says it, but his eyes burn into hers, alive with a thousand promises, and a hunger for one answer, and one answer only.
It seems like the air’s being rapidly sucked out of the room because she has a hard time gathering enough breath to speak. Her free hand came to rest on the side of his face. “My God…”
“I was hoping for something a little more definitive as a response.” He’s trying to defuse things, trying to cushion this awkwardness with a joke, although she can feel his jaw clench underneath her fingertips. “I realize that I don’t have anything to offer you, anything like what you’ve hoped for, what you deserve…”
“Stop right there.” She covers his mouth with her hand. “What I hope for Mulder, is a life with someone who’s brilliant, driven, exasperating, fallible. A fighter. A man who won’t quit, no matter what. A man who will tax me, challenge me, fight with me, fight for me, make me laugh. A man with whom I can have passion and purpose. There’s only one name that comes to mind. Yours.”
She moves her hand away and rests it over his. Hand over hand, they look like they’re getting ready to stroll down the garden path.
Now he’s the one having a hard time breathing. “But you have to answer my question.”
“You mean the one you just asked, that one?” She’s giving him the full-wattage smile.
“Scully, let me remind you I have a history of psychiatric hospitalization. So, yes…before I start raving out, answer the question I just asked you.”
“Well, since your mental health’s in the balance…Yes. Definitely, yes.”
With that, he dips toward her, his mouth finding hers for a slow, soulful kiss. Their hands find their way around each other’s waist, and they stand in a hotel bathroom,sealing the bargain. It’s heartbreakingly tender, it’s wonderful, it’s the stuff that memories are made of, it’s cut short by enormous yawns coming from bothof them.
“What was that thing you mentioned before?’
“Bed?”
“That’s it. I think it’s time we head for the Great Unconscious.”
“Can’t you just say ‘let’s go to bed?’ ” It’s slurred when she says it, because she’s yawning again.
“It’s part of that whole exasperating…” Huge yawn. “… thing you’re so fond of.” His hands on her shoulder, turning her face forward, guiding her to bed from behind.
As they settle in, Scully’s head resting on his chest, their legs twined together, he whispers, “You know, in my mind I’m making love to every inch of you right now.” His eyes close against the sensation of her kissing him softly through the cotton of his shirt.
She tells him, “Shhhhh. Celebrate tomorrow. Sleep now.”
~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~
It’s that sliver of time between two worlds–neither night or day, the light coming through the window dappled deep violet and gold. Blinking slowly, he wakes up to find her lying on her side, propped up on her elbow. She seems younger, almost as young as she was their first night together in an Oregon motel.
He doesn’t move, taking in the play of light on her face, her shoulders, her breasts, the swirl of auburn hair between her legs. Her robe’s been discarded in an ivory pool behind her. She pushes away the sheets, then reaches over to stroke his wrist, running her fingers along the thin band of leather.
His eyes meet hers. He sees something deep as eternity. He lets himself fall in.
Giving him a broad, relaxed smile she wants him to know she’s happy–unguarded, utterly so.
She pulls his hand to her lips and he sees something else glinting in her eyes that make his blood stir. Forcing himself to keep still, he lets her work her way around his wrist, planting one kiss after another, pausing to moisten her lips, then pressing sweet heat over and over against his smooth skin. She find his pulse, brushes her slightly open mouth back and forth over the spot, flicking her tongue in tiny circles where she feels the echo of his heartbeat. His whole body is humming now–a head rush–a rush to his groin–his erection poking through his clothes
He won’t be still much longer, but Mulder loves it when she makes the first move.
“Someone’s trying to sleep here,” he tries to growl.
“I’m so sorry.” She draws out the words as she leaning in to return to her busywork.
“Just what do think you’re doing?” He’s slid arm over her, pulling her slowly on top of him.
Scully’s skin is the color of parchment, warmed by the light, and soft as down. She’s got him on his back, holding onto his arms, swaying very slowly, brushing his chest almost imperceptibly. Her nipples harden, her voice lowers as if she’s telling him a secret.
“Celebrating.”
That one word answer melts whatever tantric discipline he was trying to practice. In an instant he’s flipped her onto her back. Gathering both of her hands with his, he raises them above her head, pinning them down on the pillow. His mouth finds every tender spot, kissing her–nibbling her–everywhere he can think of. She smells of sleep, and soap, and her body opening to him.
Trailing down her arms, the crown of her head, marking her temples, her brow, the tip of her nose. Devouring her full, delectable mouth, Mulder’s tongue parts her lips, plunders her tongue. He knows how wet she’s getting and whispers her name. Her little moaning sounds are music to his ears.
Moving beneath him, she wrangles her hands free and pulls off his T-shirt.
Their arousal surges between them, a closed arc, charging them like particles, fueling them to find release.
“You,” she says, breathless, and begin to slide his sweatpants off.
He rears back onto his knees and finds a way to remove the offending garment, tossing it to the floor. He’s naked, she’s naked–he slowly begins to lower himself back onto her. That mouth of his finds her nipples, licks them, laves them, sweeps them with the flat of his tongue, nips them until she’s breathing his name like a mantra. Then unexpectedly, an idea seizes him. He starts a downward slide, kissing her ribcage, her flat belly, coming to rest at her navel, his hands holding her by the hips.
And starts tickling her. Shrieks of laughter coming from both of them, she hurls herself up and into him. Now she’s on the attack, ribs, underarms–all fair game. They wrangle around in bed, giggling guiltily like two teenagers and loving every minute of it.
Then she grabs his face, holding him still until they’re just tangled up in bed, face-to-face, sweaty and breathless. And she tells him, “You.” She’s said this word her whole life, a million times, but in this instance, he knows what it means.
You are my everything.
“You,” he replies, telling her the same.
She reaches down until she finds him, wrapping her hand around the hard length of his shaft. Dragging the pad of her thumb up and down, he thrusts into her curled fingers when she traces the veins near the tip. Circling the sensitive, round head, she spreads the moist beading over the velvety skin. He draws a deep uneven breath, shudders it out. She has an urge to kiss him there, to wrap her lips around him, so she starts to slide down.
“I need to be inside you.” he says, shaking his head earnestly. “I want to feel you come while I’m inside you.” Pulling her up, he kisses her again, but whisper-soft this time. It undoes her a little, tears slipping down the side of her face before she realizes it.
He tenderly guides her so that she’s below him, brings his body down to hers and she parts her legs for him. He cradles her face in the palms of his hands as she reaches for him and begins to slip his cock inside her. “More,” he says as his head finds her hot and slick. Not his most articulate moment, but it’s succinctly descriptive of what he craves.
Scully bites down on her lip, wincing as she tightens around his swollen shaft, pulling on him as he plunges into her–it’s a paradox of pleasure she feels–aching and ecstatic as she tightens and releases. She can feel the torrent inside her building, she’s wound tight, she’s so ready. “I’m…” she breathes, “I’m…” It’s going to happen soon, she’s dying to have it happen, never wants it to end.
He is so sensitive, so utterly at the brink of flying apart, a hair’s breath from rushing headlong into the depths of her body. Looping his arms underneath her knees, urging her legs around his waist, he has to keep her near him. He levers himself so that he can slide against her beautiful bud of a clit.
Bringing a hand to her mouth, she kisses her fingertips and touches him right at the base of his shaft. He groans at her gesture, leans in to kiss her hard.
Then it happens. Long, slow waves of pleasure so intense they start laughing together–they’ve done something amazing for them. There’s no bonding of soulmates here–none was needed–no sorrow buried in a frenzied knot of limbs. This was for the sheer joy of it.
They get to have this, too.
~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x
He promises to buy her a bagel and a Starbucks as they finish dressing. He’s wearing the navy suit, and she’s dressed in steel grey, fitted slacks and jacket, with those high-heeled boots that add an extra three inches and communicate a ‘don’t-fuck-with-me’ attitude. She checks her weapon, and strides over to her suitcase, gets out the extra clips, tucks hers in her pocket and tosses him the ones for his Colt. She makes sure her handcuffs are secure on her belt.
The plan was to drive down to University of Chicago, check the class schedule for the dear professor, wait for the first break, and proceed to escort her to the confines of 11th and State, where they hope they can get the skinny on how she’s done what she’s done.
And how to stop her.
But they need to hear from Iyalosha, her contacts are needed to pressure Cardenas. It’s almost nine, and there’s been nothing yet.
They’re both pacing the room–they’re charged up and it’s time to go. Mulder cracks a joke about getting her two bagels to fatten her up, now that she’s officially his betrothed. “Nothin’ wants a bone but a dog, Scully. Gotta put a little meat on my woman.”
She’s about to illustrate her understanding of the proprietary nature of marriage, as well as indicate where he can stick that extra bagel, when she’s stopped by his cell ringing.
Lucky for him, it was in the inner pocket of his jacket, so he’s actually able to take the call. His face rapidly loses the relaxed look of earlier, his brow furrowing. Wincing, he’s able to get a few remarks in edgewise. This is not good.
“Mulder, who was it?” Scully can feel her heart speeding up–maybe there was another murder last night.
“That was SAC Mitrovic.” He purses his lips together and blows out his frustration.
“Jesus, what does he want?”
“Well, Lucy, looks like we got some ‘splainin’ to do.”