Keywords: Chagall, dream, flying
Dedication: To the wonderful people on the IWTB list
The pale gray light from the parking lot stipples the motel room floor and the rain keeps coming—sheeting down, down, down—washing away desert dust, tire tracks, and the last vestiges of two people’s former lives. It’s the middle of the night, hours since he crawled in bed and pulled her to his side.
They’re still lying face-to-face, Mulder’s leg draped across her hip. He’s dreaming, eyes moving back and forth beneath closed lids. Scully’s been awake for a while, watching him, watching over him.
“You’re mine,” she whispers, and loosens the tie of her robe, and starts to push it down and away.
He’s the only family she has now, and instead of grief weighing her down, she’s oddly elated. She thinks about how there was no hesitation in leaving everything behind.
Coming back to her place to wait on the verdict, Doggett had just floated the idea of an ‘extraction,’ with Skinner and Reyes nodding their assent. Gibson never said a word. They all looked at her when she mentioned she and Mulder had hidden extra weapons and fake ID’s in what used to be her hope chest. Buzzing about preparations, the rest of them were oblivious to the presence of Scully’s mother, until the boy cut them off.
Sitting quietly in an easy chair on the far side of the living room. Margaret Scully didn’t flinch as she readied herself to lose another daughter.
Dry-eyed, she showed hidden clairvoyance, telling her she’d known for a long time that her daughter was leaving, that she loved her, to not worry about the rest of it. That she loved Fox, too, and that all that mattered now was taking care of each other. She promised to explain it all to Bill and Tara, to Charlie, to Matthew. It was Scully who started to cry as her mother said her goodbyes to the assembled gathering and let herself quietly out the door. Skinner just shook his head as he followed her into the hall, dreading his return to the base.
Mulder can’t believe how vivid this dream is, how real. They’re the man and the woman in a Chagall painting, in a room drenched in color, and they’re levitating off the floor, kissing, he’s hovering off the ground, and she’s right there with him. You make me fly, Scullery make me fly, he thinks, and the dream starts to slip away. But now there are small, warm hands on his chest, burrowed underneath his shirt.
‘You’re mine,’ he hears and reality pulls him toward waking reality of her robe slipping down from her shoulders as she reaches for him. Part of him still thinks he must be dreaming, too much has happened too soon, but her mouth finds his, her moist, open mouth on his convinces him otherwise.
Her tongue plunders his, she’s amazed at how hungry she is for him. She strokes the ridges of his teeth, drinks in his breath, grabs the sides of his face just like he claimed her in that cell. Then she pulls away to tell him again, to prove to it to herself.
He seems rueful, just a little, but a little is too much. She will not allow it.
“No regrets, Mulder…I mean it.”
“Only that you haven’t told me yet.”
“Told you what, Scully?” He needs final permission to say it, to make it real.
“You. Are. Mine.”
She moans softly as she feels his hands shove the robe aside. Then his hands are cupping her breasts, his thumbs sweeping her nipples. Somehow, she manages to yank off his T-shirt, without him missing a beat. He keeps thumbing her with one hand and then the other, as the offending garment gets unceremoniously pulled off and tossed away. Undoing his fly, she helps him scramble out of his jeans, and then they are both naked in the faint and flickering light.
“What were you dreaming about?” she asks as she takes him in her hand, feels him rise and swell within the curl of her fingers.
“Flying…you and me.” He smiles at her and she smiles back.
“Make me fly, Mulder.”
He rolls on top of her and she guides his cock in between her legs, rubs him against her aching clit. Easing him inside, she pulls and tightens around him, and they move with a purpose. Her legs wrap around the small of his back, and she grips his shoulders as he finds the spot, levers against her and strokes her beautifully hard bud. Her thighs start trembling, she feels it, he can feel it. He starts slowly shuddering, unspooling like a hot ribbon.
“Fly,” he says.
“Fly,” she says.
And the temporary sky in this motel room breaks open, and the two of them soar and up and away.