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
Prologue
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After a long six months doing background checks, the X-Files are reopened, our heroes are called to investigate a series of vigilante style murders, but all is not what it seems. Oh, and by the way, M and S are involved, living together, actually having quite a bit of sex and it’s not an an angst-ridden mess…well…mostly not.
The Whole Catastrophe Prologue–October 1999—after work–early in the week.
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In a just a few months what was once her organized, unused and uninhabited apartment was now relaxed and generally showed signs of life.
Just like the two of them.
His black leather sofa was now the centerpiece of the living room, and she’d bought two rust-colored overstuffed chairs. Serious negotiation on her part resulted in keeping the end tables, bookshelves and the lamps; although he won use of the dining room, turning it into his workspace. The Salvation Army got a lovely oak dining room set, in a very generous and anonymous donation.
Her computer and desk were still in one corner of the living room and the bathroom had become a sanctuary of music–he’d surprised her with a sound system after the first month. Candles of all shapes and sizes dotted the bedroom and the bathroom, due to a flurry of activity on his part one rainy, Saturday afternoon.
As for the kitchen, it was actually used now since he cooked, and they ate at the kitchen table or on the sofa. Strategically placed stacks of magazines and newspapers dotted the apartment, and much to someone’s relief Scully did not melt down. She’d added to them on a regular basis, telling him he’d have to come up with a filing system.
One night while they were putting away groceries, he’d told her it looked like the apartment of two university professors. Two really attractive professors researching human sexual response, was actually how he framed it. Mulder’s take on it notwithstanding, it did, sort of. She just had to overlook the briefcase full of firearms in the closet, (minus the strategically hidden SIGs and Colt 1911’s) the anti-surveillance hardware, and the high security locks on all the doors and windows.
They did have their first skirmish one night after work about six weeks into this new arrangement, when she’d tried to hide his basketball after he’d left it on the kitchen table. After catching her trying to shove it under the bed, he swooped down to retrieve it, only to knock her on her round little ass.
He’d hovered over her as she’d sat there with her hair a mess, skirt hitched up, and he had every intention of helping her up when she asked, ‘Is that all you’ve got, Milk?’ Five minutes later, with Mulder’s mouth hotly latched onto that soft spot at the hollow of her throat and his hand firmly inching up her thigh, she had proof that he had plenty of game.
It was Tuesday night, which meant that she’d be wooed with an evening of his dazzling domestic skills and dancing, usually selections from his oddly eclectic dietary and musical favorites. Plying her with home cooking, he wheedled her into shaking her proverbial groove thing with him once a week, every week since they’d moved in together.
The first time was after a surprisingly good combination of red beans and rice, bock beer and cherry popsicles. Once he drew her into slow-dancing to Al Green and Bonnie Raitt, her enthusiastic late-night response was all the motivation he needed to keep it up. And as for Scully, she’d come to eagerly anticipate all this wooing, even if it was his own off-center variety.
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Mulder crept through their inhabited kingdom, hoping to sneak up on the love of his life, who’d perched herself on the edge of that aforementioned black leather sofa. She was bent over her partially disassembled service revolver which she’d spread across the coffee table. Unfortunately, a niggling question was causing her concentration to waiver. Inquiring minds wanted to know whether he’d be hauling his gluteus maximus out of the kitchen any time in the near future. If so, she was prepared do a little exploration of the up-close and personal kind.
As she polished the grip of her SIG with a tack cloth, she heard his footfalls approaching. That’s it, get a little closer and I’ll be glad to rub something else, she mused.
The tips of his size 12 Nikes appeared in her peripheral vision, and she was about to stop what she was doing–cleaning and oiling the barrel of her SIG, when a hand gripping a ladle of steaming, fragrant liquid paused just under her nose.
“Close your eyes, Scully…Taste.”
“Shouldn’t you be telling me to open my mouth?”
“I thought that part was obvious.”
“And why should I close my eyes…is that some secret sampling technique I’m not aware of?”
“It’ll taste better…I promise.” He leaned a little closer, pursed his lips together and blew across the hot liquid.
“Must be why I close my eyes when I kiss…Mmmmm….Ummmm.” The banter was ended when the edge of the ladle grazed her lips and she got a mouthful of Mulder’s latest culinary achievement. “Chicken soup…good.” It was rich, delicious, savory. Chunks of chicken, carrot, celery. Redolent with fresh dill, rosemary and basil. Definitely not Campbell’s
“Not just good. This is manna from heaven, a cure for what ails you…Gey gezhundt, meine shayna maidel.”
“Since when did you become ‘meine yiddische Mulder?’ ”
“I’m channeling here, have some respect.” Wiping a drop of soup from the corner of her mouth, he let his index finger skim the curve of her lower lip.
“Unless you’re planning on telling me about your new career as a Borscht Belt comedian, I think I’d rather sit in the kitchen while you dish up tonight’s dinner.”
“Wow. You just want a man all hot and sweaty in front of the stove, don’t you?”
“You don’t have to be in front of the stove, actually.”
“You suggest some interesting possibilities, Scully.” The ladle was dropped unceremoniously on the coffee table, Mulder slid onto the sofa and hoisted her onto his lap. She hadn’t let go of her SIG, though. “It’s a little hard to focus while you’re still holding your weapon, partner.” His hands eased away from her waist, burrowing under her shirt, and he stroked her ribs, a slow, feathery drag up and down, up and down.
The cloth and the pistol found their way to the floor. Moving from sitting across his lap to straddling him, she pressed tight against his hips and wreathed her arms around his neck. She rocked slowly against him and felt an enormous sense of satisfaction as one of his better parts snapped to attention. When he started making that whiskey rumble in his throat, she felt herself slicken and her whole body thrum. “Better, Mulder?” She felt his hands sweep across to her breasts, where he captured each nipple between a thumb and forefinger and teased them slowly to hardness.
“You tell me.” Now his thumbs traced figure eights, and his eyes followed the line of her throat as she swallowed hard and a shuddery breath escaped slightly parted lips.
“Later…quit talking and kiss me.” Her eyelids drifted shut, and she eased her arms from around his neck. Steadying herself with strong, supple hands, she gripped the tops of his thighs and wriggling against his tightening groin.
She was most definitely rubbing him the right way, and part of him really wanted to do what she said but she’d left herself open for a smart-ass remark, “Can’t resist telling me what to do, can you?”
At that comment, she leaned in and licked the side of his jaw, savoring the rasp of his stubble against her tongue, the smell of his aftershave, and the taste of his skin. Then, with her usual deftness, she worked her way along his chin, and finished up by nipping at the corner of his mouth. “Not when you’re so good at it,” she murmured.
“Think so?…Well, as long as you insist … ” He turned his head to make contact and his tongue swam toward hers, making sure he gave her plenty of evidence to back up her assertion.
He leisurely stroked the inside of that sweet mouth, and was almost regretful when he managed to pull away, the very tip of his tongue tracing the edge of her smile. The mole on her upper lip got the same treatment, then there was a shower of tiny pecks on the bridge of her nose, ending with warm brushes of his lips against her cheek. After a momentary pause, he captured an earlobe and softly bit down to the sound of Scully’s ‘Mmmmm……my marvelous Mulder.’ He couldn’t help chuckling at that and it made him relinquish the lobe, and besides, he’d heard her laugh, too.
Leaning back on the sofa, he cupped her chin in his hand, “Ready for the main course?”
“I could eat a little something…More of this later?” She started to right herself, although she wasn’t yet ready to get off his lap.
“I think I could manage that…But first you will dine on a delicious home-cooked meal, prepared with a skill bordering on genius, by none other than yours truly.”
“I see…” Her mouth quirked in a grin which he matched with one of his own. “Is that all?”
He’d put on his negotiator’s face, which bore an uncanny resemblance to his panic face. She doubled down, too. After all, they were at a critical juncture. “Oh, no…there’s dancing with me until the witching hour, during which there will be hours of foreplay… building toward a subtle, but intense crescendo of sensual contact.”
The eyebrow went up at that one. “‘Subtle, but intense crescendo’, Mulder? And here all I wanted was to make out in the living room.”
“I’m spinning metaphor here, work with me, Scully.”
“I see…And just what else happens after this whole ‘crescendo’ of yours peaks?”
“I will, of course, make love to you for a prolonged period of time.” The bargaining face still held, although his eyes glinted wicked green.
“You drive a hard bargain, Agent. But if those are your conditions…”
“They are.”
She shook her head, and huffing out a huge sigh, slumped her shoulders in mock resignation, “Well, you leave me no choice, then…I agree.”
“Not so fast, there’s one last thing.”
She slapped a hand to her head in an impression of wonder and disbelief, “And what on earth could that be…?”
“You’ll have to fuck me senseless. And that may take all night.” Now he arched an eyebrow.
With the barest hint of a smile, she cupped his balls with one hand and with the other, caressed him with long, slow strokes. “A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”
She’d almost derailed him with that move. But he didn’t want to take a pass on the rest of the evening, the ritual of it, the way it made him feel he hadn’t forgotten how to get it right. “Miss Scully, release my testes and dinner will be served.”
She did, and extricated herself from his lap. As he pulled himself to an upright and standing position, Mulder teased, “Thought you had me there, huh?” He snatched the fallen cooking utensil from the coffee table, turned on his heels, and gingerly strode into the kitchen with an odd hitch in his step.
“Once again, you proved me wrong,” She nodded in self-congratulation though, as he walked away from her very, very slowly.
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As they set the table, Mulder waxed theoretical on the significance of the ‘Matrix’, its place in pop culture’s post-digital paranoia, and Keanu’s Reeves’ classic understated acting as a postmodern messiah. Setting a tureen of soup in the middle of the table, he tapped the ladle on its side to emphasize his point. This clever segue also gave him the opportunity to slow things down and prolong tonight’s pleasure. He’d discovered yet another way his experience in delayed gratification was finally going to pay off…
When she turned her back to get the rest of the silverware, he watched the way she skimmed happily across the floor in her stocking feet–jean-clad, white shirt rolled up to the elbows. Leaning against the table, he watched her, breath hitching and fluttering in his chest. Here was Scully, branched DNA and battle scar survivor, healer and warrior, and his heart broke open once again just from the sight of her. There’d never be any way to fully explain how visceral her hold on him was, a basic construct of his reality. She was larger than life, a universal invariant, she was all of eternity he would ever understand.
Sauntering back with a hand on one hip and spoons in the other, Scully caught him with some kind of otherworldly look on his face. She was just about to ask what was up when what looked like an epiphany evaporated and the rant resumed.
“Brilliant, subversive movie making…all from two working-class Polish guys from Chicago. It’s the definitive statement on Everyman’s ambivalence toward a technologic universe, and the hardrive plutocrats it creates.”
She snorted as she fussed with the place settings, “You’re so full of crap, Mulder. What you love about that movie is the super-attenuated kung-fu on the part of the principals, especially the paybacks administered by women in PVC.”
“And your point would be?”
Laughing, she shook her head and sat herself in the closest kitchen chair, “That you’re a whoop-ass-loving, testosterone-driven connoisseur of popular culture…A sex-crazed man of letters, with an unnatural affinity toward John Woo and the Wachowsky Brothers.”
“And that’s a bad thing?” He served up the soup, and passed her some dark rye heaped with butter.
“You’ll get no complaints here.”
He slid his chair next to hers and plopped himself down. “Be nice to me and later I’ll spell some really interesting words with those letters.”
“I’ll remember to ask you about that.” She broke off the end of her slice of bread, and popped it into his mouth.
In a slightly garbled, but still intelligible voice, “I take it we should just eat now.” Then he leaned over and poured them both a glass of the white wine she’d opened.
Smiling, she nodded and shot him the thumbs up, and proceeded to start in on her soup with a relish.
This was one of parts he loved, eating in the kitchen in the hush and the quiet that settled around them, like some an old married couple; it made him feel blessedly ordinary, normal. Contrary to what motivated him for the majority of his life, the pull of the unknown no longer
remained his driving wheel. It was this–the everyday sacred, salvaged from the wreckage of both their lives. He would do what he had to, when it was time, and so would Scully. All the rest of it would come and there would be these shards of normalcy, nights like this that they could both hold onto, nights that they would fight the good fight to have again. He was thinking about the past imperfect and the future unknowable, when she snapped him back into the present by leaning into to steal a kiss.
“Soup’s that good, huh?”
“No. You are.” Scully hadn’t been watching him, but felt the spell of this silence and simple things, and she knew he’d meant it for her. For them.
“I…don’t know what to say.” He startled as if someone had awoken him from a dream.
“Say, ‘thank you Scully’.” She’d peered up her from her bowl of soup, at first bemused. What she saw, she was completely unprepared for. He looked astonished, embarrassed. She carefully laid down her spoon and placed her hand on top of his.
“Thank you, Scully.” His eyes shone bright as he blinked away some unexpected tears.
“Thank you, Mulder. And now that’s makes us even.”
Leaning in, she kissed him again with tenderness and deliberate care, anchoring both of them once more to the quiet of their kitchen and their semblance of an ordinary life.
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The dishes were just about finished, and she was wringing out the sponge while the soapy water glugged its way down the drain.
She was enjoying a pleasantly warm buzz from her share of Pinot Grigio, when it hit her. Something was amiss.
Where was the man with the dishtowel, and why wasn’t he drying the dishes, she asked herself. She twisted away from the sink, only to see Mulder rapidly approaching, waving the towel in one hand and clutching the CD player’s remote in the other.
“Boys will be girls and girls will be boys! Gender will be bent tonight, Scully. It’s Bowie, you know him, you love him.” Throwing the towel onto the dish rack, he grabbed her by the wrist and spun her toward him. Apparently she wasn’t the only one working off a slight buzz.
“Wait, Mulder! We’re not…Whoa!” Scully slid in her stockinged feet and collided with him. Bumping up against his pelvis, she laughed as he got purchase on her around the waist with his free arm. “You’re not going to dry the dishes are you?”
“It will give you scientific proof that water does in fact, evaporate from solid surfaces.” With that, he punched in a track on the remote and flung it on the counter. “This first song was picked with you mind, Special Agent Doctor, D.K.Scully….”
Guitars ripped and growled, and Bowie belted, ‘Let’s dance. Put on your red shoes and dance the blues… ‘
He shimmied her across the kitchen floor, their hips pressed together, pivoting back and forth to the beat. One hand curled around the curve of her waist and the other slowly combed through her hair and teased its way to the nape of her neck.
‘Let’s sway, while color lights up your face.’ They circled their way out of the kitchen and into the living room. He bent his forehead to hers and she could sense him smile.
Mulder’s fingers pressed tiny circles just above her shoulders, “Hours of foreplay, Scully.” Driving her wild with need was too delightful to rush the process. Then almost imperceptibly, he brushed his lips against hers in a slow slide, once, twice, three times. She tasted the wine, and the spark of excitement was almost palpable on his lips.
Yes, indeed, hours and hours, she thought. She felt flushed, but instead of backing away embarrassed, she wriggled her hips with a little more enthusiasm. The sound of his ‘Mmmmmm” underneath the music was all the encouragement she needed.
Bowie pleaded, ‘Let’s dance for fear tonight is all…Let’s sway, you could look into my eyes.’
She was radiant, tossing her head back and leaning into his touch. Both of his hands were in her hair now and he gazed at her for a hot, silvery moment. His heart was beating staccato, but he wasn’t going to yield. He craved more of this, wanted to bring her slowly to the midnight hour.
Leaning in to kiss her deeply, he felt time speeding up and slowing, flowing into the feel of his mouth on hers, savoring the stroke of his tongue between her parted lips. Bowie was just about to reveal the reason Mulder chose this cut in the first place. As the music ribboned all around them, he pulled away and pressed his lips to her ear and whispered along.
“If you say run, I’ll run with you.” Mulder’s voice raspy, his breath warm, “If you say hide, we’ll hide. Because my love for you would break my heart in two.” His strong arm captured her waist, and he eased her backwards. “If you should fall into my arms, and tremble like a flower.”
She shifted in his arms and leaned up to kiss him, still moving to the music, and now brushed her warm lips against his, once, twice, three times. “Hours of foreplay, you said?”
“Hours and hours, Scully…I’m a man of my word.” And he closed the centimeter’s distance between them, made contact, and they stopped listening to music for a minute or two.
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Crooning about serious moonlight had faded away, the two of them, however, were still seriously wrapped around each other. Diamond Dogs barked in the background, and Mulder rose to the occasion when her fingers grazed the waistband of his jeans. He countered with a move of his own, starting the slow descent down her neck, biting down where it sloped into her shoulder. Shoulder, shudder, bow-wow-wow, her panting and his growl–it was all making him lightheaded, which is why he didn’t notice right away. Out of nowhere she’d started laughing, that deep, throaty one that always pushed him over the edge. This time was no different, a realization later and he was rock hard.
A staccato Bowie howled, “Aaah-oooh…aah-ooh…Woof…Woof.’
One of her hands began to move away and he was about to grab it and put it back where it belonged, but it was too late. She’d steadied herself and pushed against him and then they were upright.
“You’re laughing, Scully. Tell me it’s for the right reasons.”
“Like I’m really, really, happy and really, really, turned on? Because I am.”
“Glad to hear it. I, for one, can offer ample proof that you’re not without your charms.”
“There does seem to be a preponderance of physical evidence…” She chewed at her bottom lip, nodded appreciatively at the bulge under his fly . “I’d let you have your way with me, but now it’s my turn.”
“Your turn?” He closed his eyes and held himself very, very, still. Do your worst, he hoped. Or your best. Either. Both. He held his breath.
She stood on tiptoes and whispered in his ear, all smoke and 12 year-old Scotch, “Yeah…It’s my turn to pick the music.”
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‘Ground control to Major Tom…Take your protein pills and put your helmet on,’ a voice from beyond droned.
He was still glued to the spot where’d she left him, but now he was smirking, and when she tapped him on the arm, his eyes opened and his hand flew up and caught hers by the wrist. “You’re funny.”
‘Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven…” The music was steadily building.
“What?” She tried hauling out her ‘Good-Catholic-Girl-Who-Me?’ face, but she could see he wasn’t buying.
“Space Oddity? Really, I’m crushed.” He didn’t really look all that devastated.
“Parts of you still seem pretty buoyant.” Her blood was still buzzing with arousal, just ratcheted a few notches down.
‘Check ignition and may God’s love be with you,’ and the guitars zoomed out into the stratosphere.
A sight adjustment of his jeans revealed that all systems were still go. “I’ll show you buoyant…C’mere.” With that, he snaked himself around her and pulled her flush against him. He cupped her chin in his palm, and pinned her with a look that managed to be both devilish and tender. “But you’ll have to wait, Miss Scully, I’ve got other plans for you.”
She followed his lead with subtle, almost imperceptible touches as they drifted in a slow waltz across the floor. He held her the old-fashioned way, one arm clasped loosely around the waist, the other holding her arm aloft, holding hands, fingers entwined. Her thumb stroked his wrist as his circled the skin above the snake at the small of her back. Their movements flowed seamlessly, like syrup spilling over the edge of a spoon.
As they drifted around the living room, they caught a glimpse of themselves in the window. Gliding together, elegant, fitted to each other. They watched their joint reflection and both wondered if somehow it could be etched into the glass.
That window must have held some magic, because after one last trip around the room, they found themselves slow dancing in front of it again. It was raining, hard enough for the light from the street lamps to streak like fireworks against the inky shadows of the street and the night all around.
‘And the stars look very different today…’
They’d begun to slow and finally still, leaving them standing pressed to the windowpane, looking down at the motionless street below. Scully leaned back, fitting herself snugly to his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, and dipped his head to whisper in her ear. “Happy?”
“Very…and you?” Her smile beamed at him from her reflection.
“More than you’ll ever know. But maybe I could try to show you…” Now his image in the glass was sultry, almost giving off reflected heat.
“Is this the part where you make love to me for…what was it now?”
His hand swept across her chest and cradled a breast.”…for a prolonged period of time, I believe.”
“Hmmm…that seems right.” Now both his hands stroked her breasts. “Mmmmmmm.”
‘Can you hear me, Major Tom?”
A low burr coming from the direction of phone on the end table.
‘Can you hear me, Major Tom?’
“Mulder, I think we should answer the phone.”
The burr persisted unabated.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He sighed as he felt her extricate herself.
“Go answer the phone, and I’ll stay right here and hold your place.” She’d turned around and gave him a rueful smile that definitely telegraphed frustration.
“Right. Be right back.” He spanned the gap in three huge strides, picked up the phone and grunted, “Mulder. What?” She’d gone over to the CD player and turned it off. There was a pregnant pause, during which Mulder tried to regroup. A look of surprise flitted across his face,
“A.D. Skinner. Sorry, sir…I was in the middle of a conversation with Agent Scully when you called…”
Hearing Walter Skinner’s name got her over to Mulder’s side ASAP. Hovering nearby, she bit her lip anxiously as her mental gears started to turn. Skinner. What did he want? Every piece of god-awful paperwork they signed off on had been checked and rechecked, why couldn’t he wait to tell them whatever it was until the morning?
Mulder had been silent, taking in what Skinner was saying, and it was several long minutes before he responded. He motioned to her and slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her close enough to eavesdrop.
“Let me get this straight, sir. There’s been a series of unexplained murders in Chicago, and the local P.D. is at a loss due to the unexplained, bizarre aspects of the killings. The local SAC mentioned us to the mayor, the mayor has friends in the DOJ, who in turn have friends in the Director’s Office, who in turn have now informed you that our valuable skills are now required in the ongoing investigation.”
Scully could hear Skinner’s growl, “Agent Mulder, the X-Files have been reopened, and I believe I’ve made the circumstances of the case clear. Don’t make me repeat myself. Rest assured a sufficient amount of grease has been applied by parties more than experienced with high level reach-arounds. It’s my job to tell you and get you flown out to Chicago.
It’s your job and Agent Scully’s to go there and apply your expertise to assist fellow law enforcement officers. Be in my office at at 0-600 hours for a briefing. You’re already booked on a 9 am flight into O’Hare.”
“0-600 hours? Very military of you, sir.” Mulder could see Scully mouthing ‘Don’t piss him off’ in his peripheral vision.
“Mulder, I suggest you refrain from sticking your dick in a departmental vice for at least forty-eight hours. Can the salient observations about military protocol, and just get your ass in here on time. I’ll assume you’ll make Agent Scully aware of her change of assignment.”
‘Yes, sir.”
“Agent Mulder?”
“Yeah?”
“Welcome back.”
They moved apart so that he could hang up the phone. The atmosphere had definitely been drained of its earlier playful charge, and they stood by the end table, not speaking until Mulder ruptured the silence.
“You heard it all, right?” He made his voice as neutral as possible.
“Looks like we’re suddenly popular again. This is good, Mulder. You don’t belong in the bullpen shoveling papers, and neither do I. Although I would’ve thought you’d be doing handstands after hearing you finally got a reprieve.” She managed a wan smile. “Let’s start packing partner, we’ve got a big day ahead of us tomorrow.”
And right before his eyes she’d changed from laughing and flirting to squared shoulders, and mental prep lists. He stood riveted to his spot while she went over to the sofa and sat down to finish reassembling her service weapon.
She fitted piece to piece, checking alignment and trying desperately to shore up the part of her soul that felt cheated, threatened. He need her to be on point, to be Special Agent Scully, ready for whatever they would throw at them. She tried to organize her thoughts–check weapons, evidence kit, medical bag–pack the laptops and enough clothes or at least a week. It was 10 o’clock now, with any luck they’d be done and in bed by midnight. Looking up to tell him he’d better start packing, she saw that old, familiar look painfully grieve his features. She rested her SIG on her lap, “You’re happy about this, aren’t you?”
The rush of a sadness he hadn’t felt in months hit him, and he made himself quickly push it away, hoping she hadn’t caught it. “Are you?”
“I asked you first.” Now she was trying to be equally opaque.
He shrugged, and stared down at the floor, “Happy that we’re going to do what we have the talent and the insight to do. Not so happy that we’ll be under scrutiny again, that our…” He struggled for the right words, but she finished it for him.
“…honeymoon is over…You think things are going to be like they were before. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“You don’t seem to be having a problem hopping back in the saddle. I mean, you’re getting ready with a vengeance.” He shrugged again, steeling himself for the rift his worst instincts told him was not far away. He saw she’d already pushed away any thoughts of intimacy, tamped them down to get on to the business at hand. He wasn’t sure he could reach her, and didn’t think he could deal with being severed from all they’d built over the last six months. “Be honest, Scully. We have very different, ingrained ways of working. Our approaches have always counterbalanced each other, and that’s made us a successful team. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always valued it, needed it. But it kept us apart, Scully. Seven long years apart, until we broke through it…” His voice trailed off and his green eyes clouded with his need for reassurance.
“Just tell me it won’t happen again, Scully…tell me and I’ll believe it.”
She looked up at up him and for all her effort to suit up, she couldn’t halt the tear that escaped and trailed down her cheek, “Is that what you think?” He brushed away that wet line, wishing he could erase it from her memory.
She sighed at the touch of his large, warm hand against her damp, cool skin. “Listen to me. If you think I plan on acting the way I used to, trying to hold on to some kind of emotional distance…I can’t, I won’t…We can’t go back, Mulder, only forward.” Her blue eyes were lit with a fire he recognized, she wasn’t retreating. But underneath that fire he sensed her inner turmoil.
The fact of the matter was that neither one of them had the vaguest idea as to how balance the changes in personal lives and the demands of the X-Files. The bullshit assignment that Kersh had engineered allowed them to hide in plain sight, saving all their energy for the pair-bonding of new lovers. Now the rubber was hitting the road, and Mulder noted ruefully that they had, in fact, both slipped into familiar patterns. She’d stepped up the plate, trying to cover his back and he embraced his own neuroses without hesitation.
“Sure you want to keep putting up with me?” Now he knelt at her side, hand still resting against her face.
She moved closer and whispered in his ear, “If you say run, I’ll run with you…If you say hide, we’ll hide.” Her voice roughened with the knowledge that they still had so much to prove to each other.
He eased away and cradled her face with both hands, gazing at her with a look hot enough to singe off her clothes. “Let me make love to you…I know we should be packing, that Skinner expects us at 6 am, and that we’re going to have to make up the rest of this as we go along…I’m glad we’re reinstated, Scully, I am… But there is nothing, nothing that I want or need more than you.”
The mundane details of daily living or end-of-the-world theatrics didn’t matter in the end, only that. “You know that promise I made earlier? It’s time I kept it.” In a flash, he’d taken her gun and set it on the table, had her up on her feet, and was marching her to the bedroom. He steered her from behind, hands firmly grasping her shoulders, planning on a quickly arrival at the desired destination, but somehow she’d found away to slow their progress.
“Mulder?”
“Yes, Scully?”
“What about packing?” She tried not to let the tease show in her voice.
“I’ll set the clock for 4.” He was on to her, but played along anyway.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Scully, I’m sure. I’m also sure if I don’t get you in bed soon, I’m gonna throw you down take you on the dining room floor.
“Maybe some other time.” She did file that one away for future reference.
“What about the evidence kit?”
“You’ll call that guy Jake in the lab once we get to the Bureau, and tell him we need a fresh one in Skinner’s office by 7 am.”
“Medical bag?” She was rapidly running out of roadblocks as they crossed the bedroom’s threshold.
“In seven years, I’ve never known you to show up on a crime scene unprepared.”
“Mulder…” She’d started that laugh again…
He picked her up by the waist and set her on the bed and set the alarm. He snatched off his T-shirt, popped open his fly, hurriedly shoved his way out of his jeans and the rest of his clothes. “No more talking shop, Scully.”
His strong, smooth body, the rise of his cock, taut and waiting for her touch did indeed end that conversation. She started to unbutton her blouse, but he stopped her by covering her hands with his, easing her down against the bedding. “No, don’t…I want undress you.” Her shirt fell away, crumpling around her like tissue cradling a gift. Undoing each flat disk himself, he kissed and licked his way down the exposed column of her throat, the ridge of her collarbone. Moaning, the sharp twist of pleasure, the wet, slick burn between her legs kept building, aching and unyielding. “Mulder…” she breathed. “Please.” Palming each breast, he undid the wisps of lace that held them, pushed them away and bent his head to suck each nipple. Roughing them with his teeth, she sighed with relief when he soothed them with the flat of his tongue.
His talented mouth trailed streaks of heat down her stomach, nipping the flesh just above the waistband of her jeans. Instead of undoing those, he rose up and covered her with his body, parting her lips and kissing her hungrily, kissing her very breath away. She arched underneath him, finding his hand, guiding it between her legs. “Don’t make me wait,” her voice wanton and pleading, barely audible.
He drew the zipper down and in one drag pulled the rest of her clothing away, then pulled himself up to straddle her. Her hands trailed up and down his breastbone, coming to rest against his heart.
In the ribbons of light coming from the rain-drenched window, her face shimmered, her hair flickered like fire across the pillow. Bringing his knuckle to her clit, he pressed soft, feathery circles again and again. It was astonishing, her flesh tightening and swelling under his touch, yet liquid, molten. When Mulder drew his index finger against that clit in a slow pull upward, she cupped his free hand to the side of her face. In the depths of her eyes he found everything he’d ever want, every promise. Scully’s gaze never wavered from his, and neither one of them spoke as her legs fell open for him.
Trembling as her hand wrapped around the base of his cock, she slid him inch by inch until he was completely inside her. He took her hands and laced his fingers in hers, then bowed her arms above her head, his own arms arching, holding himself steady. Drawing her toward orgasm, he covered her like a canopy, angling himself forward so the base of his shaft stroked her as he thrust back and forth, the pace slow and sinuous. Agonizing, torturous and exquisite, it was the closest he could come to becoming one indestructible element.
He groaned uncontrollably as she tensed and shuddered all around him, her feet rubbing the backs of his calves. It was hitting her, a helix of pleasure unraveling deep inside her body–he could feel it, pushing him closer to the edge.
Mulder watched her fall beautifully apart, felt himself begin to slip, the tight, sweet heat closing in on him. He wanted to come when she did, wanted to drown, wanted to disappear in her, become her, never leave her. Her hands seemed to fly across his back, his sides, her nails rasping the tender places, sending shivers that drove him fast to the brink. Panting and shuddering, he still had to know, “Tell me…we’ll have this…tomorrow.”
“….Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow…” Her voice faded away, there was nothing else to say, the world was too small to hold them, they were larger than the universe.
He fell toward her, and like always, she caught him.
Their soft lips pressed together and sealed their covenant, and then it was still, so very still.
Sleep steered them toward uncharted territory, they’d make their way in that world when morning came.
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Two weeks Earlier
Alex prayed for strength. The cemetery frightened her. Maybe it was because of what she was about to do, even though it was the right thing, maybe it was because she couldn’t get away from the feeling that got under her skin of so many eggun scrutinizing her, waiting for their chance. Most of all, it was the quiet that set her on edge. How could it be so quiet in the middle of the city, even at this time of the night? It was 11:30, just enough time, but she had to stay focused, release her fears, do what she came to do. It would have to be finished by midnight.
She’d practically ran to her car after her class, cutting off the questions of eager students, students hoping to curry favor, students for which she had nothing but contempt. They were only interested grades and post-doc positions, not knowledge, and certainly, not wisdom. She fervently hoped she’d acquired both, threading bits and pieces of the truth together. She could not fail, she would not fail. She’d risked so much to learn the things she did know, now it was time to see how apt a pupil she herself had become.
Scaling the fence had been ridiculously easy, proving the rightness of her actions. Obatala was surely guiding her, even as Oya prepared the way. She needed no moon nor flashlight, for gravestones led her to the newest section of the cemetery. Here the monuments were of thick, polished granite, rough-hewn on the top if not set flush with the ground. There were no ornate pillars with cloth- draped urns, no 19th century statues of winged angels asking blessings from God, no columned mausoleums inscribed with Latin, all those were at the front where the rich had succumbed in ages past. She left the main road and headed down the 15th row, only the slight swish of grass against the soles of her shoes audible.
When she arrived at his grave, she removed her backpack and withdrew a change of clothing. Everything she needed, and a few things she wasn’t sure of, was in the pack. Preparing for the ceremony had taken most of the past two weeks. A ritual bath every day for nine days.
Meditation before bedtime. Buying twelve tiny bottles, filling three with white rum, Holy Water, and Florida Water, one with black coffee, the rest with spring water. She had a black and white photo of Florinda, and another of Nat when theyhad gone to the Bahamas, his sly grin a prelude to the first time they’d made love. No one had ever touched her that way, no one had ever given her that much pleasure. He’d told her that he loved her, that it was forever, and sealed his promise over and over all through the night. This was the man she came for, it was all for him, these talismans, this ritual. Nine votive candles smelling of white jasmine, and nine white carnations, plus a white, fringed silk scarf to lay it all out on.
She almost removed the photo of Florinda. Her nanny. Alex knew that she would never approve of the risk involved. When Alex was about 15, she found out that Florinda was a priestess of her own House, strong with Oshun. She’d eavesdropped on a conversation between her beloved Flori and a visitor who’d come and left tribute for an intercession.
When she’d asked about it, Florinda bluntly told her that this was not for her to know and that to ever speak of it would enrage her parents. But Alex prodded until Flori told her about the House, her pledge to Oshun, even her true name, Iyalosha. Then with tears welling in her eyes, she begged the young girl to be accept her own path, the life her parents had made for her, and to trust hat Flori was doing what she was meant to do as well. When she came to ask for help in bringing Nat back to her, the older woman quietly said, ‘Do not ask me, mi’ja. Do not do this. There can be no good end in it.’ Still, Alex could not bring herself to remove the photo, telling herself it was good luck, a blessing.
She changed from her pearl gray, tailored suit into the white tunic and flowing skirt of an acolyte. She removed all her jewelry, her shoes, and stood barefoot on the cold, damp ground. As the final step she piled her thick, dark hair on top of her head and wrapped it with white cloth, to show her respect, her complete devotion. She must be humble, do everything to seem worthy of the gift. She didn’t know why the eggungun sought her out, but they had, she was sure of it. What had been intellectual curiosity, became passionate interest, and now was the faith of a zealot. They would all be horrified to learn she’d started following the old ways, that her whole career had become an excuse to learn the ways of Santeria.
Cultural anthropology. Dr. Ruiz-Cardenas. That was respectable. If they only knew. It had been a doorway, one that led her over the the last year to seek The Seven Powers. No babalawo, no madrina, not even Flori would teach her or make an asiento for her, so she was never really touched by the gods, as all true children. She was never fully accepted by any House, but she’d come to believe, and hoped someday she’d have the way to prove her devotion. At least she was able to use her position to dig, to research, to glean from arcane texts and the occasional fallen believer, pieces of the mystery that she wove together. Nat had laughed when he found out, telling her she must have cast a spell on him. Kneeling next to the headstone, it was clear that the dirt on his grave was still fresh. Eighteen days gone. From the moment they lowered his coffin into the ground, she swore she would make things right. She withdrew from her family, her friends, only went to the university when absolutely necessary. They all thought it was grief, a normal response to such a heart-shattering loss, the horror she’d seen. They had no idea she was searching for the truth beyond truth, his death, the catalyst pushing her from their world into the one they foolishly ignored–the one that held what she so desperately sought.
Her fingers caressed the letters carved into the cool marble, Naftali Rene Gonzalez, beloved son, a warrior in this life and the next–1965-2000. Spreading the scarf over the burial mound, she arranged the bottles, the photos, the flowers, the votives in what she desperately hoped was the right constellation. “Alafia. The beginning is important in all things, I begin with a pure heart. Hear me, eggungun. I come to ask for what is mine. Ashe.” Her voice trembled even as the night air carried it into the trees. “Seek Her out for me, beg Her to show Herself . Ashe. I call for Her three times three. Oya. Oya. Oya.” She sprinkled the contents of the bottles around the scarf. “Oya. Oya. Oya. Hear your daughter.” She took the flowers and draped them around the photo of the two of them. “I beg you, Mother of the Cemetery, Guardian of the Other World, bring him back to me. Ashe.”
She lit the votives and bent at the waist, touching her forehead to edge of the scarf. “Oya. Oya. Oya. Do not deny me. I beg you, make yourself known and answer this humble one who would be a yawo.”
She had to close her eyes against the white flash of lightening, the crash of thunder made the ground shake beneath her. It was happening. Oya was coming. She held herself completely still, barely breathing for several long minutes, then she hears the voice.
“Child, rise and face me. Listen to me, I have much to say.”
Alex somehow found the courage the stand, despite the fear twisting her heart in on itself. Looming before her was a woman, tall, elegantly dressed from head to toe in dark purple robes. Black hair blew away from her face like a dark corona, and her wrists and feet were circled with copper bands glinting in the wan moonlight. The night air blew and twisted around them. But Her face was obscured in shadows, Alex knew Oya always hid her face in shadows or wore a mask. She was a warrior as well as guardian, able to take on any guise in battle. The sword she carried was further proof of that, it had the power to kill, to drive someone to insanity, to open the Gates of the Dead.
“Foolish child. What are you doing, little rabbit? Be thankful you have so many ancestors interceding on your behalf.” She made the wind blow hard around the grave.
Alex tried to draw herself up into her full height, to seem sure, confident. But she was trembling uncontrollably in the front of The Queen of the Dead.
” I…Yansa…Mami…You know what I came here for,” she pleaded. “I have prepared, I have done what is required to…”
“Silence! You have threads of the whole and understand nothing. Your colors, these feeble talismans, do not please me. Where is the red wine, the grapes, the purple silk, the eggplant?”
“But you came! Tell me you’ll give me what I seek, I beg you.”
This foolish little girl was trying Her patience, but Something in Her warrior’s heart felt pity for this Lost One. “Do not force my hand. You are not of my House, you do not observe my Ways…and I will tell you only once, little girl…you cannot have what you ask for. No mortal can. It is forbidden.
“Yansa! No! Oh, please …No! …” Alex’s voice was choked with grief, scalding tears bean to streak down her face. All this work, all this suffering for nothing. How could this be happening? She felt herself sink to the ground, onto the grave, and she lay there prostrate, helpless, sobbing. “Naftali…I won’t leave you…I won’t.”
Oya’s voice swirled above her, the wind gusted stronger, as if a storm was moving in. “Go home, little rabbit. Live the life that was meant for you. Leave this life to those who are able. You will be with him in the next world.” Thunder roared in the heavens. “Go now…do not disobey me.”
A flash of lightening so close that Alex flew back in shock, half-sitting, half- kneeling, only to see that Oya was gone, leaving scorched earth where she’d stood. Drenched with tears, she moans Naftali’s name over and over. In her mind’s eye she sees him, across the street from where she sits at their favorite restaurant, walking towards her. She sees the car, the slow motion parade after that. The car window. The hand. The gun. The bullet. And Nat falling, falling, falling to the ground. She sees the blood blooming under his head like a flower.
It is too much.
Somehow she steadies herself and finds her belongings. Her watch. 11:55. There is one thing left to try. She knows it is wrong, that it may damn her to eternal pain but there is no pain greater than the one she has, she tells herself. It is too much. She moves fast as she can, but she feels weak, clumsy. Fumbling in the bag, she pulls out a bone-handled knife. 11:59. Kneeling above the grave, she cuts her left hand, once, twice, smears the blood over her heart, cuts again and lets the blood drip onto the grave dirt.
“Ellegua,” she whispers. “Do for me what no one else will do.”
Everything around her stops. The wind stops blowing, the moon is covered with a cloud, the cloud itself holds fast in the sky. No birds, no animals move. This is the one minute that is not governed by the other gods. It belongs to Ellegua, The Trickster, to do what he will. Most times he does what the other gods will not. He loves chaos and conflict, and will use any chance to remind both man and The Seven Powers he is not someone to ignore.
11:59. Much suffering has been born in this minute.
She starts as a hand clasps her shoulder from behind. Whipping around, she finds a filthy, old man, with ragged clothes and a gold tooth. Grinning and smelling of rum, he’s a beggar, maybe a thief. No, she knows who this is. Ellegua.
“Bonita, you ask, and I came. Ellegua will make you happy.” He pulls her to her feet, takes her hand and kisses her bloody palm. “Tell me what this old man can do for you.” Licking his lips, he savors the taste of copper, the taste of desperation.
“Fulfill my heart’s desire. Give me what I want most of all and what he wanted at the end.”
“As you say, Bonita. It shall be done. Rise up and stand away.” For a minute Alex think she sees something unbearably cold and cruel in those fathomless, dark eyes, but she tells herself she must be wrong. It is too late for fear or doubt.
Ellegua straddles the the top of the grave, and spits on it. “I call you, I unbind you! Naftali Gonzales, come forth and do what you will.” Then with a cackling laugh, he stumbles off to one side, fishes in his tattered overcoat for a half-pint bottle, gulps a huge mouthful, then another, and spits one last time on the mound of dirt. “There! It is done!” He walks over to Alex, caresses her face with a greasy hand. “Bonita, don’t forget to thank me.” He waves his hands above his head and the world moves again.
“Never, Ellegua. I will always be grateful.” Alex’s heart is pounding in her chest, she feels the sweat trickling between her shoulder blades, even in the chill.
“So you say…so do they all. Gratitude for Ellegua’s help is a fleeting thing, Bonita.” He looks her up and down the way a hungry wolf eyes fresh meat. “Naftali is a lucky man. Do this to keep him by your side. Make sure you take a handful of his dirt with you. Every third night, do what you did tonight. And make sure no one disturbs his grave.” Another cackle, and The Trickster flaps his overcoat and is gone.
She closes her eyes, standing still for what seems like an eternity. Then a hand touches her cheek, a hand whose feel is as familiar as her own name.
“Alex, it’s me.” It is him, but not him—tall, strong, beautiful. He’s dusky-looking, dark, almost giving off negative light. Dressed in a black suit, black shirt and long black overcoat. His brown eyes burn, but not with joy or lust. It is something far more feral than that. But she doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. Naftali. Nat. Home. He’s home now.
He kisses her, and even though she wraps her warm body around him, his body stays cold, his lips are cold, but she’s sure that will change later on. He tells her that he’ll stay with her forever, just like he promised, but no one else will ever see him and he can only come to her late at night.
“It doesn’t matter Nat”, she murmurs, “I want you, no matter what.”
As they make their way out of the cemetery, Ellegua laughs again, “We’ll see, Bonita, we’ll see.”
~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x
Chapter 1