Pocket Fable by diehard
Classification: MSR, Post Theef/post-ep. A response to a BtS challenge and the gauntlet thrown by one lovely sallie.
beta by sallie, too, so it’s no accident that this is dedicated to her
Most people visiting Marin County California, get their fill of Big Sur, surf, Highway 1 and the good life–not revenge-filled fathers, poppets and being struck blind.
Mulder and Scully weren’t most people.
So far, this year’s been filled with brain salad surgery, execution of a necro-fetishistic demon, con-men magicians, and a less than memorable appearance on television which did nothing to enhance the reputation of the Bureau. The most recent entry fits perfectly with the collection– conjure rattlers following the orders of Bible-toting snake handling cultists.
‘All and all, pretty typical,’ Scully thought. Seven years in, and the stuff that usually would have her unable to sleep without the lights on even a few weeks ago, now just left her wishing for a hot shower and some strong Irish whiskey. She deliberately tried to overlook being soaked to the bone and covered with mud.
Equally typical, was the sound of Kersh’s voice reaming out her partner, who was sitting on the edge of her bed, wringing wet and filthy, giving his explanation of why they’d missed their flight out of San Francisco. She could hear the dressing down as she searched for more than just a single, threadbare towel in the bathroom of their typically dingy digs. They were stuck in Parsons Corners, in the Wayfarer Inn, to be exact, and this motel pretty much resembled everyone they’d been in since the start of their road show.
How they got there was a particularly horrible upshot that happened just after a decent moment of downtime in a roadside diner. After shocking her partner by ordering the cheeseburger, he pleased and amused her by performing the reappearing quarter trick for a little red-haired girl, her parents and her wailing baby brother.
The family, all wearing party hats, had just finished dishing out birthday cake, when Mulder caught the girl’s eye.
“Ready for a super-special birthday trick?” he queried. The child wouldn’t look at him until her mother leaned down and whispered something that made her grin. Little Ms. Birthday then scrambled out of the booth and scampered over to him. After a majestic wave of his arm, a coin mysteriously emerged from her left ear.
The girl giggled, Scully smiled, and Mulder smiled back, and it was clear by the look on his face that his partner was the only audience that mattered.
Scully asked how old she was. “Seven,” the girl yelled as she ran back to her mother’s side.
“Must be a sign, partner…seven’s our lucky number.” Mulder whispered as he slid closer to her and waived the waitress over for the check.
They drove off, and both of them felt unusually bold in the silence of the car. As the county road unfolded before them, Mulder snuck his hand across the seat, and wrapped it around hers and she wondered what else luck had in store for them. Unfortunately, they were preoccupied with the soft, warm feel of skin touching skin or they would’ve noticed the roll of black storm clouds coming toward them in the rear view mirror.
They only got a couple of miles down the road when they were hit with the mother of all thunderstorms, with sheets of rain so dense that Mulder had to slow to a crawl along the waterlogged blacktop. They could’ve made it at that speed, gotten to the airport eventually and taken the red eye. But a bolt of lightening, a skittering doe, and a nosedive into a ditch had pretty much determined where they were right now. That, combined with an unavoidable climb out of the passenger’s window, being forced to drag themselves out of the little culvert, and having to break open the trunk of the rental to get their luggage.
And who would want to forget the coup de gras, the three-mile trek back to town? At least they found a motel waiting for them in a back lot across the road from the diner. The only other good news in all of it was they were otherwise unscathed, save for an almost nonexistent cut above her partner’s right temple.
After slowly trudging up to the front desk, they stood silent for what seemed like an ungodly amount of time. The person behind said desk was apparently too absorbed in his cup of coffee and the paper. When they didn’t get any response, Mulder started tapping his fingers on a clock with a cracked LCD display, matching the screen of the TV perched in the front of what could be charitably called the lobby. The place was run-down all right, but clean, and frankly, that was enough. The lack of response, however, was beginning to piss him off.
“Rooms. Now. And I mean right now,” he barked.
The clerk took one look at them–a small, sopping wet, redhead, dressed in what seemed to be a black pant suit and maybe an olive blouse, holding her muddy shoes in one hand and her suitcase in the other. Standing next to her was a tall, dark man who’d just kicked his luggage, wearing a waterlogged suit whose color he couldn’t even make out. A man who definitely looked like someone who was not in the mood to be fucked with.
Hurriedly, the motel guy got them registered into the last available adjoining ones–which brings us to the present moment.
Unbeknownst to her, Mulder’s watching her the whole time he’s on the phone to D.C, aware enough of what his boss is saying to know Kersh is handing him his nuts on plate. The missed flight tonight means they won’t be at the quarterly departmental budget review tomorrow morning. Mulder gets the gist from the other end, despite not really listening. What’s got his attention is a bedraggled, filth-encrusted force majeur scurrying around a tiny second-rate motel room. Scully’s silently declaring victory as she spies two folded towels on the chair next to the dresser, unaware she’s the subject of scrutiny.
He’s mentally filing this image away, intently focused on the sway of her hips as she stalks spare linen, when she busts him. Just like in the diner, she smiles, he smiles, and he turns off his cellphone, tosses it on the dresser, and starts to make some room for her next to him on the bed, but she speaks before he can cajole her over.
“Something good from Kersh?”
“Only if by ‘good’ you mean another write-up for my personnel file.”
“Mine, too, I’m guessing….”
“It’s the price you pay for the company you keep…” Mulder’s flip rejoinder couldn’t keep her from seeing regret wash over his features. Kersh never mentioned it, but as soon as Scully spoke, it hit home. There’s no way she’d ever get off without a reprimand. He glances away, but not before she catches something sad deep in his eyes.
Leaning against the pseudo-walnut furniture, Scully slowly smiles, feeling something vast as history shift, crumble, and fall away. Seven years has eroded something, what was surprising was how easy it was to walk over to him, and kneel down so they’re face-to face.
“I wouldn’t change a thing.”
Without thinking it through, without hesitating, he captures her around the waist and pulls her on top of him, ruining the bedding, the two of them becoming a horizontal soggy, dirt-laden knot of arms and legs. “Scully,” he whispers, as that old sorrow evaporates, “I could be wrong, but I think this is the part where I kiss you.”
He doesn’t give her a chance to answer.
Softly, so softly, his lips brush back and forth across hers. Then it’s so still, he waits for her waits to see if he’s read the signs, if it’s really, and finally their time. Pressing her mouth to his, warm, willing, lips slightly parted, she answers his silent question for both of them.
Cupping her face in his hand, he effortlessly learns the taste of her; it’s the easiest thing in the world. Languidly tracing her mouth with his, he’s memorizing every breath, every slip of her satiny mouth.
Scully pulls back a hairsbreadth, slipping her fingertips between them, stroking his lower lip.
It’s unbelievable, it’s an out of body experience, but somehow she’s able to murmur, “Wait, stop….”
His heart’s drumming against her chest, and one of her hands is still woven through his damp, messy hair. Aroused, his cock’s pressing against her hip, and it’s amazing to both of them that he in fact, does stop.
“What, Scully, what? Tell me. Just don’t tell me this was a mistake.”
“It’s just…I don’t want it to be like this.”
Sliding his head down to curve of her neck, stilling himself, he tries to say what he’s sure she’s thinking. “I know you deserve more than this…a fleabag motel…”
Scully smoothes his hair, and stops him before he can finish…”No, Mulder, what I was trying to say is that I’d like to not resemble a dirt devil the first time we take each other to bed.”
Talking into her shoulder, he smiles into the heat of her skin, “Are you saying you want to have your way with me?”
“Eventually. After stripping off these filthy clothes, after a hot shower for both of us, after you pull back the sheets on that nice, clean bed in your room. Yes, Mulder, sex. Sex with you, sex with the one person I can’t imagine myself without. Is that clear enough?”
“Cleanliness is vastly overrated.” He starts nuzzling on a soft spot near the base of her throat, pushing aside the sodden and dirty collar of her blouse.
A luscious laugh bubbles up from her, “Mulder, ” she drawls, ” You’re not helping…”
Nipping and kissing her collarbone, “You sure, Scully? This seems…extremely helpful…”
Several long minutes pass and he makes a streaky, messy daisy chain up and down the vee of her neckline. It does cause her to reevaluate the whole hot shower idea, but drawing on inner resource, she rallies. “Mulder,’ she breathes, turned on but determined, “Get. Up.”
It’s the well-placed swat to the back of the head that does it.
Hauling himself up and off the bed, he pulls out his shirttail, yanks down his tie, and starts ambling toward her bathroom. Scully’s on her feet like a shot and wedges herself in the doorway, stopping him just as he starts undoing his belt.
He’s not really planning to take it any further, but he’s dying to see how she’s going to deflect this one. Mulder knows she needs a little time and space, and asks himself what’s a few minutes more after years of waiting.
“I think you’re headed the wrong way,” pointing to the adjoining door with one hand and pressing firmly in the center of his chest with the other.
“Is this not the bathroom, and did you not say a shower was in order? This indecision of yours is surprising.” Despite his efforts to plaster an unknowing, innocent look on his face, the glint in her eyes tells him she’s already seen through his ruse.
Enunciating slowly as if she was explaining something to a five-year-old, she lays it out for him. The last time she used that tone of voice, he was tanked on narcotics after being fished out of the Sargasso Sea. She plans on revisiting his bedside confession though, once she’s firmly situated in his bed.
“Be a big boy and go to your room and take a nice, hot, shower, OK?” It’s a soothing, singsong delivery, dredged up solely for his benefit. “And while you do that, I’ll take a nice, hot shower, too. Then I’ll come see you in your room.”
Biting the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing, she waits to see how he’s going to try to weasel his way past her.
“SculIy, I’m right here, and the shower’s right behind you. It’s not very logical to try and stop me. Who knows what could happen if I lose momentum now?”
“I plan on doing some deeply private, personal, female things.”
“You’re not making your case, you realize that.”
“Need I remind you that I’m still wearing my service weapon?”
Throwing his hand up like a suspect, he walks backwards until he bumps against the connecting door. “Killjoy.” Wearing a sly grin, he slowly turns and fishes for the doorknob, and lets himself out.
Scully peels off her ruined things, tossing them into a pile, sighing as she drags her suitcase on top of the dresser. Catching a look at her naked self in the mirror, she gives a Mona Lisa smile to the dirty, disheveled woman who just finished necking with her partner. Daydreaming about where the rest of the evening will take them is interrupted by her phone ringing. Walking over to the nightstand, she gives him credit for his impeccable timing.
Picking up the phone, “Yes?”
His voice, rich and warm, like eighteen year old scotch, “Hurry up.”
About forty-five minutes later, she’s squeaky clean, smelling of Ivory soap and the faint tang of iron in the water. All the little rituals have been completed–teeth brushed, hair towel dried, and lotion applied in even, long strokes. Today’s clothes have received their proper burial in the wastebasket, and after slipping into a pair of soft, cotton pajamas, she starts for the door. Before she can make it all the way, she notices his trench coat on the floor by the bed. Scooping it up, something falls out of his inner breast pocket. As soon as it tumbles to the floor she recognizes what it is.
The poppet. Her poppet. Not sealed in an evidence bag, not tagged for the local PD or Quantico. It was hidden away, the nearest thing to his heart. He took it for safekeeping. For keeping her safe. Protecting her the only way he knows how, the only way their world will allow.
Her throat tightens with something she can’t express in words. She doesn’t want to talk anyway. She wants to show him, to give him something else to keep.
Leaving his coat on the chair in her room, she hides the tiny figure behind her back. With her free hand, she raps softly and the he yells, “C’mon in…I’m as decent as I’m gonna be.”
When she opens the adjoining door, he’s sprawled on his back in bed, wearing gray sweats and T-shirt. Glancing around as she ushers herself in, she spies cans of soda in a flimsy plastic ice bucket chilling on the night stand, bracketed by mini bags of chips and candy bars. Barely audible are the muted sounds of the TV as blue images flicker along his torso.
“Hey,” he says quietly as he pats the bed, not making eye contact, pretending to watch the screen. “Never let it be said that I underestimate the importance of foreplay.” He’s joking, trying to cover that part of him secretly convinced she’s come to her senses. This gives them a safe way out, and he’ll figure out a way to hide his heartache if he’s right.
Without saying a word, she pulls out the doll, then places it carefully next to the bounty next to the bed. Still silent, she climbs in next to him, takes the remote from his hand and turns off the TV.
Before he can say anything, make a joke, she wraps herself around him, takes his face in her small, strong hands and brings her lips to his. It’s a tender, exploratory kiss, and he lets her tease him, lick the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t know how long it lasts, but when she’s done, she whispers, “Now it’s your turn.”
He doesn’t hesitate, he doesn’t hold back. The tip of his tongue flicks against her lower lip, and he hums low in his throat as she draws it into her mouth and nips at it. Soon, his tongue’s polishing the ridges of her teeth, and hands are stroking the nape of her neck, and she’s making a little moaning sound that must be the most erotic thing he’s ever heard. Despite how much he loves what he’s doing, he pulls away and kisses a trail along her jawline, down the curve of her throat. He wants to know her, every inch, he wants to feast on her, and when she pulls his head up so she can bite his earlobe, he knows he’s on the right trail.
His hands are under her pajama top, and the heat swirls over her breasts, and his silky mouth is grazing her collarbone, and she’s lost in the scent of him, the feel. She’s whispering in his ear as her hands slide underneath his waistband, and she grips his hips, thumbs the solid ridge of bones.
She’s telling him everything, everything, and she’s so wet now, and he’s got to know how she feels, what he’s doing to her, and she can’t wait, she has to touch him. Her hand slides down, finds him, strokes the length of him, and now he’s saying all the things he thought he could never say, slipping back and forth in the cradle of her palm. Moisture starts beading at the tip of his cock, and he wants to close his eyes against the sensation, but he wants to see her more.
Soon, one of his hand’s trailing down her belly, rasping against that thatch of hair, teasing open that cleft, spreading her apart, swirling over her clit. The feel of her, slippery, slick with want is unreal. It can’t be real, nothing is this good, can be this good. But it is, she is, he’s feeling all it and he sees her, the way she breathes his name over and over, the way she tenses and moves against his fingertips.
“Mulder…” she rasps, her breath shallow and thready.
He already knows, “Too many clothes?”
She nods her head, “Hurry….”
She doesn’t have to say another word.
It’s a blur, it’s clothes being peeled away and tossed aside, piling alongside the two of them, dropping on the floor.
At last. All sweet, naked skin, a tangle of limbs, they fall into each other, fall back into the bed. They don’t talk, their eyes say everything now, burning hot with pleasure, saying whatever was left unsaid, once and for all.
He’s on top, and licking his fingers, he draws a trail from the hollow of her throat to where her legs are slightly parted. Ruffling the hair at the nape of his neck, she then takes her fingertips, stroking down, down, down to the base of his spine. Angling himself on his knees, he lowers himself and her hand comes around to guide him inside. He’s there, sliding in, sliding down, and she closes around him. Wrapping her legs around his hips she feels each perfect stroke as he surges into her.
“Love, Scully,” he whispers, “Love.”
It’s a verb and a noun, and it’s what she is to him, what they become together.
“Yes,” she whispers back, “I do.”
Then things speed up, the room expands, and the cosmos blinks–they’re a newly born constellation. He comes fast, comes hard, pulsing into her like light, like a revelation. She’s right behind him, bursting with starlight.
Hours later, in the newborn universe, the two of them tell stories in the dark, salt the bedding with spent secrets, and finally, dream of charms that protect and the ties that bind.