Twilight’s End – Chapter 7

beta by the lovely sallie

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Chapter 7

“You’re slipping,” she teases him as she opens the door. “I gave you an opening back there and…zip, nada.”

“Just trying to lull you into a false sense of security…” Mulder slips his arm around her waist and ushers her to the kitchen table.

“And then…?” Scully pivots on her heels, making sure she can get a good look at him. This is a serious game they’re playing, after all.

There’s a kind of yearning in her eyes that registers with him, something he understands. For now, they desperately need to ignore the obvious, the inevitable.

“And then, I’ll be workin’ my mojo on you…The mojo, Scully, against which there is absolutely no defense.” He hands her a shot of mescal and snags one for himself, waiting to see how far she wants to take this.

With a grin that shines through her own exhaustion, she chooses her words carefully, making sure the innuendo’s firmly in place.

“That’s a pretty big assertion, Mulder. You sure it’ll stand up under scrutiny?”

Clinking his glass against hers, he’s about a hundred miles past tired, but she’s thrown down the gauntlet. Digging into his private reserve of wolfish charm, he leans in, his voice low and gravelly, “I’m a dangerous man, Scully, don’t make me have to prove it to you…” He doesn’t need to say anything else, she’s laughing now, and that’s enough.

With a deep breath and a flick of the wrist, her mescal disappears in a single swallow. It’s a silky burn all the way down, and almost immediately, she can feel the letting go, her muscles relaxing as the combination of 100 proof and the day’s events claim her. Wiping the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, she’s treated to the sight of Mulder mimicking her, following up with a lick of his lips.

The sandpaper warmth spreads down his throat, expands through his chest, and the knots holding him up start to work themselves loose. Nodding in acknowledgment at the relief in her eyes, he collects their empty glasses and sets them back on the table.

The day’s over. They’re still standing after all that’s been said, all they’ve found out. With what seems like Herculean effort, he walks slowly to the curtained bathroom to relieve himself and splash some water on his face. When he returns, Scully’s gingerly touching the second unit, her fingertips skimming along its edges.

For the first time in his life, he can honestly say he’s seen enough for now. Gently pulling her away, he presses kisses along her wrist, stilling when he sweeps against the subtle drum of her pulse.

Turning to get a better look at him, she sees the resolve deep in the green of his eyes, “Mulder…”

“Scully, it’s time for a pit stop on the ‘Save The Planet’ tour.”

“We need to see what’s in the other unit, get a look at the vaccine.” She doesn’t mention the serum, she doesn’t need to.

“It’ll keep ’til later…C’mon…” With that, he leans over and with one hand, shoves the two units and the assorted weapons to the far side of the table.

Pulling the kitchen chairs away from the table so they face each other; the two of them ease themselves into the rickety seats. Shrugging off his jacket, he lets it drop to the floor; she doesn’t even bother to take hers off. Slumping down low and spreading his long legs, Mulder lets his head loll against the back of the chair.

Scully turns hers backward and straddles it, leaning forward, arms hanging loosely at her side, chin resting on the uppermost wooden rung. Wisps of her newly bobbed hair tickle the corner of her mouth, and she blows them away with a puff of breath. Her eyes slip shut and she starts to drift, but her reverie’s soon interrupted by Mulder and what sounds like a stream of consciousness rant.

“Burned out, dog-tired, done for, done in, drained, finished, flagging, haggard, played out…”

“Mulder,” she tries to cut in, opening her eyes and giving him a look she hopes gets through to him.

He forges ahead unabated, “Spent, wasted, weary, whacked, worn, worn out…” Pleased with himself that he’s got her attention, “Sorry, were you trying to say something?”

“I was going to ask you that, actually.”

“Just trying to describe our current state of being. Feel free to jump in if I’ve missed something.”

“That’s very existential of you, Mulder. But what are we gonna do about it?” She tries to sound pissed, but there’s too much warmth in her voice to pull it off.

“Well, I was thinking we should raid the larder since one of us seems to be experiencing low blood sugar crankiness.” This gets him the official Scully family raspberry. “I’m going to ignore your unladylike gesture. Now, where was I? Oh, right…After we grab some chow, a hot shower and bed.”

“Five minutes,” she drawls, stifling a yawn.

“Now who’s tossing out non-sequiturs?”

“Five minutes of just sitting still, OK? Then we’ll eat, wash up and sleep.”

Slowly draping her arms on the chair back, her eyelids flutter and close again. In her mind, she and Mulder are naked, twined in Montoya’s army-issued cot. Her lips brush against his, teasing them apart with her tongue, his hands are in her hair, her fingertips press against his spine. Warm hands trail down her sides, polishing the curve of her hips. A nascent ache deep inside starts to revive her. Scully allows herself a faint smile, surrendering to something primal and real, something the burden of their secrets cannot touch.

Mulder pushes away thoughts about the future hidden in boxes just feet away. Slowly exhaling, he empties his mind, tracking each and every move she makes. It’s hypnotic, pushing away everything pressing outside the door, everything hovering at the edge of first light. There’s nothing else in the world but her and the way she moves.

His Zen moment is a short-lived one. He fantasizes that they’re archeologists working on a dig in an Anasazi ruin. They’ve spent the day unearthing relics in the dirt, the dust, and the blistering sun, now it’s time to wash off the ancient grime. Images of them stripping down, tossing their clothes into a tangled pile and crowding together in the tiny shower flood his mind.

Montoya’s shower is so small one person can barely fit, but Mulder’s able to improvise in his scenario. Hot water trickles down his chest, down her shoulder blades, across the strong muscles of her arms. He can almost smell the soap as one hand lathers the snake coiled low on her back and other glides across her breast. Hit with a surge of arousal, brief, sharp and piercing, it’s enough to remind him that even though he’s bone-tired, he’s not dead.

Not by a long shot.

They sit for several long minutes in the silence. Mulder’s the first to return from the land of lucid dreaming.

“Scully…”

“Hmmm?” She doesn’t stir as the image of him trailing his way down her body begins to fade. There’s the sound of the chair sliding across the wooden floor and a couple of footsteps coming toward her. When she finally opens her eyes, Mulder’s crouched right in front of her, an amused look on his face, smiling just enough to show her he’s figured out what’s been on her mind.

“You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’, Scully?”

Instead of picking up where they left off with double-entendre and gamesmanship, she surprises them both with the simplest answer.

“Yeah…I am.” Low and husky, her voice sends a little chill down his spine.

“What about food and a shower?”

“Oh, I want that too. But then it’s you, me and that bed.”

“You coming on to me, Scully?”

“If you have to ask…”

Before she can even finish, he’s up and heading to the curtained bathroom. Soon there’s the sound of water running and a loud command, “Get your sweet posterior over here.”

Peeling off her jacket, then scooping up Mulder’s from the floor, she hangs them carefully them on a couple of nails she spies next to the door frame. There are some habits that just won’t die. Now ready for that shower, she walks over, pulls back the separating curtain. A small miracle’s blasting full force, hot enough to make a small cloud of steam rise in the makeshift bathroom. The miniscule set up is far too small for the two of them, so it’s clear Mulder’s elected himself towel boy as a fall- back plan. Leaning against the sink, he’s holding out a well-worn swath of terrycloth and a bar of what looks like hand-rendered yellow soap.

“Madame’s shower is ready.” He’s biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

“And sadly, there’s no room for you, Jeeves.”

She gives him the eyebrow and the once-over, and he has to fight the urge to drag her under the spray and test his capacity for physical contortion.

Unfastening her watch with a flourish, she sets it on the sink. They haven’t looked at the time once since they got here, and she doesn’t bother to look now. Taking the towel and the soap, she deliberately brushes against him as she sets them on the top of the toilet tank. She starts to undo her jeans, and he stops her, slowly running his hand under her t-shirt, along her stomach, his thumbs stroking her hips underneath her waistband.

“Hurry up,” he whispers in her ear. “And save me some hot water.”

“Absolutely. I want you nice and clean between the sheets…” she whispers back, her fingertips trailing up and down the nape of his neck. “After you make me some dinner.”

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Streams of hot water pummel the kinks into oblivion and Scully fully relaxes for the first time all day. The shower is about 4 feet wide and a little more than six feet tall–a jerry-rigged contraption using a huge tin wash tub fitted with a drain, spare pipe, nozzle and bent wire hung from the ceiling to form a circle holding a cheap plastic shower curtain. In a different life, Scully would’ve been off put, but after today she’s in heaven, or at least a reasonable, but temporary facsimile. Keeping her head under the stream, she tries shampooing. The yellow soap lathers easily despite the iron in the H2O, mixing a metallic tang with the scent of herbs. Woodruff, maybe sage, Scully thinks. Taking her time, she soaps every inch of her body, luxuriating in the slick feel, and letting herself conjure up more images of them moving together, making love with a languid abandon.

She doesn’t open her eyes, but she hears Mulder’s footsteps, the area divider whooshing open, followed by the clink of glass against the old porcelain sink, the rustle of clothes, and the divider closing again. Disappointed that he doesn’t pull back the shower curtain to try joining her, even though it’s obvious it’s a physical impossibility, she wants to be touched now. But then she’s able to detect the wafting aroma of food and decides to forgive him. ‘Soon,’ she tells herself, ‘very, very soon’ sighing at the warm throb between her legs.

Emerging from the contraption and grabbing the towel from its perch, Scully sees that her clothes and boots have been removed and in their place is a blue chambray shirt Mulder bought for himself back in Alamosa, plus a pair of soft cotton hiking socks. Poised near the faucet is a freshly filled shot glass of mescal. After drying off, she rummages around in a wooden crate set under the sink and finds an extra towel, which she leaves draped on a hook next to the mirror.

Shimmying into the shirt without bothering to unbutton it, Scully can’t help but notice it skims her mid-thigh and smiles to herself at his choice as she rolls up the sleeves. Pulling her socks on and smoothing hair damp hair down, she takes a quick look in the mirror, feeling a happiness that pushes aside what’s facing them ahead. Pledging not to temp fate, she nods at her reflection, takes a sip of mescal and decides to join him.

She’s treated at the sight of dinner on the table and the wood stove lit and throwing off enough heat so the room is comfortable. And lo and behold, the duffels and the suitcase have been set by the foot of the bed and her used clothes are peeking out of a burlap sack.

As soon as he hears her coming, he hurries to finish what he’s doing by the bed. He doesn’t want her to find out yet, but it’s too late. She slips beside him, peering over at his handiwork, a half dozen wildflowers–evening primrose and wild lavender, hastily tied with twine and resting on the single pillow. “Do I detect the presence of mojo?”

Without turning to look at her, “Guilty as charged.” He’s already had a second shot while heating up dinner, and managed to snatch his surprise from a patch just to the side of the porch. Shifting around, he gets a good a look at her, barelegged in stockinged feet, drink in hand, shirt sliding down to expose one shoulder. Her mojo’s right on target, judging by the lazy roll of heat to his groin, hardening him slowly by degrees. Dipping his index finger in the mescal, he drags it across her lower lip and leans down to kiss her. There’s the slight burn of alcohol flavoring the sweetness of her mouth. She eagerly responds, flicking her tongue against his, pressing up against him, so it’s a surprise when she pulls away, finishing her shot and handing him her empty glass.

“Feed me.” She’s got a sly look deep in her eyes that belies her otherwise casual expression.

“That’s it, Scully? Isn’t there something else you want to say?”

“We haven’t eaten all day. Besides, the food smells delicious.” She heads toward the table, but it’s only a few steps before he grabs her by the arm, whirls her around, so that she’s back where she started. His hand parts open the shirt at the collar, his fingers trace across her collarbone, back and forth, coming to rest at the hollow between her breasts. Licking his thumb, he drags it down and over to the spot just over her heart. It’s drumming, even though she’s standing motionless, eyes half-closed.

“Mulder…” she murmurs, “I think you’re right about that mojo of yours…”

Composing his face into a mask of seriousness as she looks up at him, her pupils wide and black with arousal. There’s nothing like payback.

“Miss Scully, dinner is served.”

Mulder is at his charming best all through dinner, peppering the conversation with snippets of Byron, Neruda, and Rilke; weaving in ancient stories of creation, eternal stories of the man and woman who come together in the darkness and make the world. Scully regales him with tales of her attempt at a bad-girl adolescence, sneaking out with Melissa to joyride on the back of someone’s motorcycle and drinking beer on the beach at seventeen.

They steal kisses as they drink tin mugs filled with cool well- water, flirt shamelessly as they dine on left-over lamb and day- old bread served on mismatched crockery. Hungry people make the best food critics after all, the two of them proclaiming the meal a feast. The fact that they’ve had a couple of shots of the Mexican equivalent of Everclear probably doesn’t hurt either.

They would never admit it to themselves or each other, but at the moment, they are doing all they can to ignore the evidence, what’s happened to them, what will happen tomorrow. The discussion is carefully constructed, the flirtation deliberate, and neither of them look at the other side of the table, at the units or the loaded guns. Right now, denial is their best friend. They can do it, they really can, and they throw themselves into the task at hand.

When the talk turns to past cases, it’s only the funny ones. Forget about history, about lost sisters, lost parents–all of them dead and gone. Forget about murdered children and cut-out fabric hearts, a little girl with starlight hair, killers with cold eyes, demons, lies and conspiracies. Forget about a baby’s blue eyes and full mouth.

“A” is for temporary amnesia, not the apocalypse.

A paper-thin truce with time ticking away.

The initial buzz of the mescal fades, leaving them with a glow that they hope to take full advantage of. When Mulder gets up to shower, Scully whispers in his ear, telling him not to overdress, it seems like mission accomplished. They almost get through the rest of the evening without any mention of the price the future could exact in flesh and bone.

It starts when he’s undressing, when he flashes on images of vials and syringes. But he shakes it off, pushes it to the back of his mind. ‘Just a while longer,’ he asks whatever’s out there, ‘just a little more time.’

He emerges later with spiky, damp hair and a newly shaven face, throwing caution to the wind, thinking that soon he’ll be able to hide in plain sight. Barefoot and gray sweatpants riding his hips, he shoves his clothes into the gunnysack hamper and doubles back to place his watch next to hers. ‘Just like some old couple,’ he tells himself, and the thought makes him smile. Coming back out, it looks like the table’s been cleared.

Scully’s standing with her back to him, but he assumes that everything’s in front of her. He guessed right, as he gets closer, the units are there with the guns are lined up on the side. She doesn’t answer when he asks her what she’s doing. When there’s still no response after the second try, Mulder pulls her away and makes her look at him. Despite how straight she holds herself, he can feel the slight tremble in the line of her shoulders.

The regret rolls off him in waves, palpable, familiar. “We don’t have to do this tonight, Scully,” he whispers, shaking his head. “We’ve made our decision. We can do this in the morning when Montoya gets back.”

Blinking slowly, she’s resolutely dry-eyed. She will not cry; she will not come undone. There are things to be dealt with here, playtime’s over. “No. I want to.” Stroking the side of his face with her fingertips, “I need to. So do you.”

Hands are placed in what’s now a familiar position. Instead of a flash of bright light, there’s a soft, white glow, and then the surface gradually softens and dissolves like before. They find a second box inside, just large enough to hold a couple of syringes, but no one’s ready yet to see what’s inside.

They’re drawn instead to the five shelves of vials, stacked ten to a row. The vaccine is a reddish yellow solution, no more than 10 cc’s. Gingerly picking one up, they each hold a small container to the light. Golden particles swirl and scatter in the crimson fluid, like dust in the wind. Scully wonders what will happen when they add themselves to the mix, how the protein codes will combine, what the final product will look like.

Mulder’s observation’s less scientific, but no less true. “Who knew they were predicting the future at Woodstock? We really are stardust, Scully.”

“Something divine, after all.” She takes the vial from his open hand plus hers and returns them to the top row.

Without saying a word, she lifts the smaller box out of the unit. There are two indentations the size of thumbprints. She looks at him and he looks at her and there’s trust, always trust, the indestructible belief in each other. They are still each other’s touchstones, now more than ever.

Setting his thumb in the groove first, she follows suit a second later. The lid melts away and what’s left are two syringes, 20ml, filled with lead colored fluid. Scully picks one up and rolls it between her fingers. It’s a thick, viscous liquid, they’ll have to use a large muscle group as an injection site. Mulder’s busy examining the other one, oblivious to what’s happening to Scully. The tears have come suddenly and she’s not able to stop herself. She doesn’t make a sound, as they stream down her face, doesn’t stir. If he hadn’t glanced her way, he wouldn’t have noticed. “Mulder, I need you to tell me something.” She doesn’t let him hold her, gently refusing his outstretched arms. Choosing instead to stand tall, choosing to stand down the fear that’s eating away her strength like acid on steel.

His own fear’s got him by the throat; he can’t do this tomorrow if she’s not convinced this is the only way. “There was no other choice. Too many people would be being placed at risk…”

She no longer seems to be standing on bedrock. Whatever she had her back up against is crumbling and crumbling fast. Struggling to breathe, she’s barely able to respond. “I know…I know…”

“What is it, Scully?” He can get close now, cupping her face in his strong hands, wiping the tears away with his thumbs. “Shhhhh,” is all he says, over and over. She can’t see his heart cracking open, the fissures of grief, a world of pain at his powerlessness to protect her. He doesn’t let her know, he only wants somehow to fix this. More tears come. Mulder wipes those away, too, until there’s no more left, until she can speak.

“I want you to tell me you’re not going to die tomorrow.” She needs him to believe, her faith in tomorrow’s outcome resides in him, in the two of them believing together.

Taking her left hand, he kisses the palm, bring his lips to her ring and kisses it too. “I’m a married man, I’m not going anywhere.”

“No jokes, Mulder, please…I need you to say it…Please, for me…”

It’s heartbreaking to hear. Scully, who never pleads, never begs, is asking for this one thing. He has proved that it wasn’t empty talk in that hotel room in Roswell. She needs his faith, his belief in them, in the future.

Pulling her into his arms, he whispers in her ear, “‘Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm.'” Finding her mouth, he kisses her long and hard, obliterating their sorrow. Scully responds for all she’s worth, her hands snaking through his hair as she buries her mouth against his, tastes his very soul.

Stopping only to bring his lips to her other ear, he whispers again. “‘For love is stronger than death.’ You taught me that… I’m not gonna die, Scully. I’m not gonna die.”

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They’re going to get ready for bed, climb between the sheets and make love. On the surface, millions of other couples will do the same thing tonight. But in their universe, their bedtime rituals guarantee to set them apart. Oh, they’ll do things like brush their teeth and check the locks on the door, make sure the stove’s not on. They’ll also given the order to close an extraterrestrial carryall and its cargo, one that holds the fate of humanity.

Mulder grabs the magnetite loaded pistols from the kitchen table and hides one under the bed on his side, the side closest to the door. After checking the clip one last time, Scully stashes hers underneath the single pillow, which luckily for her has been offered up by Mulder as an earlier gesture of chivalry. While he fishes out extra army blankets from underneath Montoya’s spartan set-up, she stows the aluminum suitcase with its combination lock underneath the duffels at the foot of the bed. Scully’s willing to bet John and Jane Doe never have to worry about hiding laptops with mega-encryption programs, discs with MUFON contacts and underground leads, at least a dozen fake ID’s, let alone of stacks of unmarked, untraceable bills.

All done, they pull back the threadbare sheets and blankets and ease into bed. Mulder makes sure she’s on the inside, that it’s his body between her and who or whatever might try to come through the door. Resting on his side, he’s propped up on one elbow, leg thrown across her hip. Scully’s hair ruffles across the pillowcase as she settles closer to him, sighing as his free hand plays with the errant strands. Wetting her fingertip with a flick of her tongue, she traces his beautiful mouth. Taking her time, she makes her way down his chin, his throat, all the way to his collarbone. The contact is enough to make her rub her legs together at the growing swell of her clit, the slippery pleasure.

“You can’t die…” she murmurs, reminding him of his oath.

“I won’t,” he whispers. The heat crowds low in his belly, tightening his groin–his cock’s hard, solid against his leg, He wants her desperately, like the truth. He has to have her, like air, like water. Undoing the buttons one at a time, he pulls her out of the shirt and tosses it on the floor. Reprising the foreplay from before, he licks his thumb and finds her breastbone and drags it down, down, down, When he reaches the rise of her mons, he teases his way through the soft patch of hair, stroking her between her legs. Bringing his fingers to his lips, he tastes her, sweeping his tongue to capture every drop.

“Promise me,” she tells him.

He is fierce and tender, and they kiss until they can hardly breathe. They are never not in contact with one another. Mouths, hands, are everywhere touching. Bringing his head to her breasts, he trails his lips along their curves, sweeps the nipples with the flat of his tongue. The pleasure is so intense, but she’s still able to bite his shoulder in response. There’s the smell of sweat and sage, wildflowers and metal, and desire so raw their bodies are shaking. Together they pull off his sweatpants, her socks and shove them aside. Twining together, naked at last, the emotional charge is almost shocking in its intensity. Licking the sweat from her neck, he pulls back to look at her face. Her lips are parted and she locks him in her gaze as she reaches down to stroke him, feeling him swell and pulse as her hand cradles him, closing around him, urging him on.

His hand covers hers, stills it and he slips away only so that he can climb on top of her, covering her with his long body. Rearing back on his heels, he kneels over her as she opens to him. Finally sliding inside, deep, so deep she gasps, he leans into her, and his arms wrap tightly around her, holding her in place. Clasping her hands around the back of his neck, she arches upward, pressing flush to his groin and he’s moving back and forth, rocking her, hitting her clit just the right way, so hard, each stroke rippling through her. She can feel him everywhere, he’s the only thing, he’s everything. Then it starts, slow waves that take her breath, that pull her under, once and for all. And she moves, moves, moves, undulates with every stroke. She pushes against him, and he plunges again and again into her tight, wet heat. He tries to tell her nothing is stronger than they are, but he can’t talk anymore, can’t do anything but feel. When he comes, it rips through him like lightening. It’s devastating, annihilating. He shudders her name as he lowers himself to rest at her side.

It’s a lifeline, it always has been.

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