<![CDATA[
Wonderland IV
"Joining the Dance" (1/4) NC-17
by Karen Rasch
krasch@earthlink.net
home.earthlink.net/~krasch
Shhhhh! Don't tell Rachel. I'm playing hooky. =:-0 She was
gone for the holidays, and this story had been on my mind for
awhile now. So I figured, 'What's the harm?!' I can dash off
<insert laughter here> this little ditty before she returns, and
no one will be the wiser.
Yeah, . . . So, here we are--well into 1998--and I'm only now
finishing up. Sorry. Try though I might, I just can't write it
if it's not there.
Now, having made my feeble excuses, I also feel I need to 'fess
up on one more important point--I'm really not certain how
necessary this particular tale is. After all, it takes place in a
universe that is no longer entirely valid. Scully's cancer has
blessedly gone into remission. So, an angsty MSR involving
Scully-with-tumor and Mulder and their first time *probably*
isn't what you'd call topical. <g> Yet, the story has been
gnawing at me since I finished "More Than Nothing," and I've
had a few people asking after it. And it's the first solo NC-17
I've tackled in a time. Wouldn't want to get out of practice. ;-)
CLASSIFICATION: MSR
RATING: NC-17 (sex and language)
SUMMARY: A continuation of the Wonderland series. This
picks up almost immediately after "More Than Nothing."
Mulder and Scully are on their way back from the seashore.
The weather changes for the worse, and they're forced to take
shelter in a roadside motel where they have nothing to do but
consider the recent changes in their relationship.
DISCLAIMER: These characters don't belong to me. Fox,
1013, and CC own 'em. DD and GA bring 'em to life. Long
may they reign. No profit is being made. I hope no offense has
been taken. Archive wherever, as long as my name remains
attached to the story. Discuss, if you like.
Happy 1998, Everyone!
**************************************************
Rain sheeted against the windshield, refracting the
glow of oncoming headlights so that the cool, colorless light
splintered into a dozen dazzling hues.
"This is bad."
The heavy thwap of the wipers kept time like a
metronome, tirelessly pushing the relentless downpour to the
side.
But only for an instant.
Then all was water once more.
"This is beyond bad. Can you see?"
Dana Scully sat behind the wheel, hunched in
concentration, her lips thinned, her focus fixed determinedly
on the road.
"Yeah. But not very well."
Beside her, Fox Mulder nodded, his posture tense, his
jaw set. "Well then, you're doing better than me. Because I
can't even make out the center line anymore."
"I'm trying to--"
Suddenly, without warning, a pair of taillights blazed
to life little more than a car's length ahead of the agents' sedan.
"Shit!" Scully muttered, stomping the brake peddle to
the floor.
Mulder braced his hand against the dashboard. Their
seatbelts strained. The car shimmied and whined. Yet, in
apparent defiance of these dramatics, the Taurus ultimately
slid to a smooth stop inches from the Nissan before it.
For just a moment, the pair sat there, engine running,
pulses pounding. Their Ford going nowhere. The only sound
echoing through the vehicle's cabin was the static-filled murmur
of the radio. Her jangled nerves irritated by its incessant hissing,
Scully leaned over and silenced the hum. Then, realizing the
danger they were in, she shakily guided their automobile onto
the shoulder and threw it into park. Soon after, the Nissan
disappeared into the storm, melting into the raindrops, its
passengers seemingly uncaring that a crisis had seconds earlier
been only narrowly avoided. The mystery of why they had
stopped left unsolved.
Good one, Dana, Scully wordlessly chided herself as
she struggled to corral her runaway heartbeat. That's certainly
one way to get rid of that pesky cancer problem. Death by
automobile accident. A slight improvement, she supposed.
Messy. But quick. The only thing was--she really didn't feel
much like dying. Not by any method. True, in the end, she
might not be given any choice in the matter, but that didn't
mean she planned on helping the process along.
Not when she had so much to live for.
She glanced over at her partner. He seemed as
unnerved as she, yet thankfully also unharmed. Bending
forward slightly, he ran both hands through his hair.
"Thank God for anti-lock brakes," he wryly remarked.
She nodded.
"You okay?" he queried.
"I'm fine. You?"
"Shaken. Not stirred."
She chuckled weakly. He smiled just as wanly back
at her.
Momentarily closing her eyes, she tipped her head
back against the seat and let loose a long, slow sigh. "I didn't
even realize we were tailgating like that. I had no idea. I
couldn't see--"
"Scully, don't beat yourself up," her companion gently
advised. "Nobody can see anything on a night like this. That's
the problem."
Lifting her lashes, she turned to look at him. "So what
do you want to do?"
He considered for a beat, his gaze locked on hers,
before murmuring, "Well, I realize we're probably only an hour
or so outside of DC, but the guys on the radio have been saying
that this storm is going to last into tomorrow. And I don't know
about you--but I =really= don't want a replay of what almost just
happened."
Ruefully, she shook her head.
"So, I think it might be wisest if we find ourselves the
closest motel and bunk down for the night."
Having said his piece, Mulder waited for her approval,
his expression mild, his features composed. All but his eyes.
In them, Scully saw the same unspoken knowledge restlessly
churning its way through her own consciousness.
If they did decide to spend the night in a motel, they
would be doing so in the same room, the same bed.
Of that, she was certain.
And she couldn't quite decide how she felt about that.
Oh, not about sleeping with Mulder. That wasn't the issue. At
least half the reason she had been driving as aggressively as she
had was her impatience to get home. So that she and her partner
could finally do what they undoubtedly should have done years
ago.
Express their love for each other in a way that didn't
involve death-defying deeds and hospital room vigils.
It was ridiculous really, when she stopped to think
about it. While she understood, on the one hand, the necessity
of restraint, on the other, she viewed it as nothing less than a
miracle that the two of them had managed to stifle certain
impulses for as long as they had. After all, the relationship
Mulder and she shared could, in many ways, be viewed as four
years of foreplay. It was more than that, of course. Far more.
Yet, there was no denying the spark that had crackled between
them since day one. And whenever she sought to relate how
that awareness, that energy manifested, foreplay was as good
a word as any to describe what went on between them.
And what was foreplay if not seduction? A preparation
of sorts for the actual joining of bodies. The sexual act.
Well, she couldn't speak for Mulder, but the time she
had spent working beside him had more than readied her for
such a union. She had been attracted to him from the start, had
admired his physical beauty; his moody hazel eyes and wide,
soft mouth. She had been aroused by his intelligence; by his
fervent dedication to his ideals, his passion for his work; by his
admittedly quirky sense of humor. But their courtship, as it were,
could by no means be considered traditional. Her partner had
won her not with roses and candlelit dinners, but with blood
and sweat, and sorrows shared. Like some sort of badly
tarnished knight, he had proven his worth by illustrating time
and again his commitment to her and their relationship,
regardless of how one chose to define the word. No more than
she, he wasn't perfect.
But that didn't keep her from wistfully wishing that
their first time together could be.
The desire was stupid and outmoded, and fueled by
way too many soft-focused romances. Yet, she couldn't help
herself. Four years was a long time to build anticipation. And
more recently, as her health had declined and her resolve had
stiffened, a sense of nearly crushing urgency had been added to
her yearnings. They had waited so terribly long, Mulder and
she, that they weren't going to enjoy the luxury of getting to
know one another. In that sense. She didn't know how much
time she had. She felt good now. Her energy was okay and she
hadn't suffered a nosebleed in weeks. But that could change;
now that the tumor had metastasized, it inevitably would.
Soon. And she simply refused to leave Mulder with nothing
but memories of tentative, fumbling, mediocre sex. He
deserved more. They both did. In fact, as far as she was
concerned, right about now anything less than fireworks and
cymbal crashes would be anticlimactic.
So to speak.
And somehow she doubted the ideal setting for
such a momentous event would be some nondescript motel
stuck just off the interstate. At least in her own home she
could trust the sheets were clean.
"Where are we anyway?" she inquired at last, craning
her neck to see if she could catch sight of a highway marker.
"I'm not really sure," Mulder admitted sheepishly.
"Somewhere in Maryland. If I had a road atlas, I could
probably narrow it down for you some."
"Sorry I can't help you out," she murmured.
"Right back at'cha," he said with a lop-sided smile.
The corners of her lips lifted in reply.
"I do have some good news though," he assured her.
"What's that?"
"Just before our near fender-bender, I saw a sign that
said 'Motel Next Exit'."
Scully peered into the rain-soaked gloom. "And where
do you suppose that exit might be?"
"Can't be far," he said with a shrug. "They usually
position those signs only a mile or two from the turn-off they
refer to."
She nodded a trifle warily, her lips pursed. "Well,
traffic appears light enough. I guess we can chance hydroplaning
for another mile or two."
"You want me to drive?"
She quickly shook her head. "No, it's okay. I'm fine."
Mulder looked at her long and hard, his eyes searching
her countenance. "All right. If you're sure."
And then, because he was trying so hard to be brave,
to allow them both to pretend she was well and their time
together was endless, she decided she needed to reward him.
Saying nothing, she stretched across the seat separating them,
and hooked her hand behind his neck. Tugging ever so slightly,
she drew his face to hers and kissed him, her lips parted. He
resisted only for an instant, his reaction most likely due to shock,
she silently mused. After all, this sort of thing was rather newly
minted. They were both still getting used to all the lovey-dovey
stuff. Yet, almost immediately, he yielded to her, his mouth
relaxing and shaping itself to hers. Swallowing a groan, she
couldn't help but notice the perfection of the fit. But, much as
she was tempted, she didn't give in to the need to deepen their
kiss, to mold herself to Mulder's lanky frame and make long,
lingering love to that pair of lips.
Hell, a no-tell motel was bad enough, but a late-model
Ford was beyond consideration.
"I'm very sure, Mulder," she murmured after
reluctantly pulling away. She didn't go far. Her hand still
caressed the nape of his neck. "About a lot of things. I told
you."
His lips were damp from their contact with hers. It
was all she could do to keep from inching forward to taste that
moisture with her tongue. His eyes had turned sleepy with
arousal. His lids drooped, his gaze smoldered. Taking his
thumb, he traced the bones in her face; her cheek, her jaw, her
brow. "I don't want you to have any regrets, Scully. I don't
want you to do something--even something I freely admit I
want--for the wrong reasons."
Smiling softly, she blinked back tears. How like him.
How utterly like him. For all the times he acted selfishly--had
assumed her acquiescence, or had stupidly left her behind in the
hopes of somehow sparing her--Mulder would, every so often,
balance things out with moments such as these. Instances
where his integrity and his concern for her outshone all the
other inconsequential nonsense.
"I see nothing wrong with our loving each other,
Mulder," she told him simply. "We've both admitted that the
emotions are nothing new. As long as we trust in them, in
each other, I think we'll be all right."
They sat, heads close together, their hands still lightly
caressing, the touches shared not so much sensual as reassuring.
Finally, Mulder muttered dryly, "Just be gentle with
me, okay?"
Scully rested her forehead against his and smiled
broadly, her eyes alight. "Sorry, bud. I'm making no promises."
***************
As it turned out, Mulder's estimate was right on the
money. In little less than a mile, they happened upon the
proper exit. Following the signs, they cautiously made their
way along the rain-slicked road to the motel. It was located
perhaps a quarter of a mile from the highway and opposite a
sprawling neon-lit gas station whose chief customers appeared
to be interstate truckers.
"The Coronet?" Scully murmured as they pulled into
the establishment's gravel drive and saw that name pulsing in
a garish red. A small cock-eyed crown perched atop the sign;
it, too, glowed crimson.
"Fit for any 'King of the Road'," Mulder mumbled in
reply, a bemused smile on his lips.
The place itself was single-storied and built of russet
colored brick. Its three sections formed a hard-angled U which
opened up onto the frontage road. Peeling white paint trimmed
the windows, venetian blinds hid the rooms' interiors from view.
The weather didn't seem to have helped business too terribly
much. Only a few cars were parked in the rapidly flooding lot.
"I'll go in and register," Mulder offered as Scully
steered the Taurus in the direction of the sign marked 'Office'.
"Seems silly for both of us to get wet."
She pulled up as close to the door as possible and let
him go. Not because she was tired or lazy, but because he was
right. It didn't require two of them to secure a room. The
process didn't take long; Mulder was in and out in a matter
of minutes.
"Well, from the sound of it, I think we made the right
choice," he said as he slipped back inside the automobile.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"I was talking to our friendly neighborhood desk clerk,"
he explained as he raked his fingers through his damp hair.
"The poor guy is trying to watch 'Dr. Quinn', but the show
keeps getting interrupted by weather bulletins."
She frowned. "Why? What's going on?"
"Apparently, even bigger storms are rolling in behind
this one. They're forecasting thunder, lightning, high winds,
maybe some hail."
Scully looked out at the deluge sluicing off the roof of
the motel to pool on the ground below. Shaking her head, she
murmured, "This place is looking better all the time."
Mulder smiled. "Maybe you should hold off on your
assessment until we actually see our room."
A few moments later, she was forced to acknowledge
the wisdom of his suggestion.
Their accommodations were located almost directly
across from the office, in one of the structure's two shorter
wings. Other rooms flanked theirs. But seeing no light inside
them and no cars without, Scully guessed the chambers were
empty.
Their key clutched tightly in his hand, Mulder
proceeded her to the door, his leather jacket draped over his
head, his big feet splashing sloppily through the puddles. A
quick turn of his wrist and they ducked inside. Blindly
stretching out her hand, Scully searched for and found the
wall switch. A bedside lamp flickered to life.
"Well . . . ," Mulder commented succinctly.
Never had he been more eloquent.
The room was an earth tone nightmare. Avocado,
brown, harvest gold, and rust colored every available surface;
from the plaid upholstery covering the two window-side chairs,
to the quilted floral bedspread, to the deep shag carpet at their
feet.
"So, when do you suppose the last time was this place
was decorated?" she muttered, her mood plummeting.
"Sometime during the Nixon administration."
She nodded slowly as she surveyed their surroundings,
her brows lifting with a kind of amazement. She wouldn't have
been at all surprised if Mulder was right. Although everything
looked neat enough, their lodgings had obviously seen that kind
of wear and tear. The upholstery was faded; the bedding, pilled.
"It's clean," Mulder noted in an overly cheery voice.
"It is," she quietly agreed, searching for a way past her
disappointment. Clean was good, no doubt about it. But
tidiness alone wasn't enough. Not for them. Now. God, what
she wouldn't give for a little ambiance! It just wasn't fair. Some
couples make love for the first time in one wildly exotic locale
or another, some in an elegantly appointed bedroom or in front
of a roaring fire.
Mulder and she were going to do it in a room that
looked as if it might have been decorated by someone Mike
and Carol Brady would have hired.
The two agents stood there for a moment on the room's
well-trod welcome mat, side by side, water dripping steadily
from their soggy persons. The day hadn't been balmy to begin
with, and with the rain, the temperature had dropped even
lower. Without thinking, Scully quietly sniffled.
"Are you cold?" Mulder asked instantly, his hazel
eyes shadowed with concern.
She smiled up at him, her hands shoved in her
windbreaker pockets. "Maybe a little."
He crossed away from her to the chamber's heating
and air conditioning unit. Flipping open the control box, he
fiddled with a couple dials, then stretched his fingers over the
vent atop the apparatus. A small smile of satisfaction pulled
at the corners of his mouth. "There. This should warm things
up pretty quick."
"Great. Thanks," Scully said as, looking for something
to do, she toed her boots from her feet and lined them up neatly
on the edge of the mat. She was lucky, she absently mused,
wiggling her toes; her sox had somehow remained dry. Looking
up from her perusal of her feet, she saw that Mulder was in the
process of removing his boots as well. Hand braced against the
wall, his head bowed, he wrestled with the damp laces, muttering
under his breath. Leaving him to it, she turned to investigate
their accommodations.
The room was much like any of a dozen other such
motel rooms in which she and Mulder had stayed. Built-in
dresser and desk. Queen-sized bed with a nicked wooden
headboard. Two night stands. A table and two chairs situated
in front of a single wide window. She stepped inside the
bathroom and flicked on the vanity light. Shower stall. No tub.
But, like its counterpart, this room also appeared reasonably
clean. There was a fresh bar of soap and small bottle of what
looked to be shampoo. Plenty of towels. Things could have
been worse. Much worse. She should have been pleased, or
at the very least, content.
Yet, Dana Scully was neither.
"Do you want me to see if there's a Coke machine?"
Mulder called from the other room. "Or are you hungry or
anything?"
They had stopped only a couple of hours before and
eaten an early dinner at a roadside diner packed with weekend
travelers. While she hadn't wolfed down a burger, fries, and
chocolate malt as her partner had, she had managed to finish
the soup and salad she had ordered. Mulder knew this, of
course. They had sat at the same table. However, she had a
sneaking suspicion his questions weren't really about hunger
or thirst.
They were about nerves.
Hers were a bit on edge themselves.
Mustering up a faint smile to hide those jitters, Scully
returned to the main room with two towels in hand. Tossing
one to Mulder, she rubbed the other vigorously over her tousled
hair. "I'm not really hungry. But if you want something, I'll bet
that gas station across the way sells snacks."
He mimicked her actions, wiping down his hair and
face with his thin, terry cloth rectangle. His posture was
slightly bowed, his eyes averted. "No, that's okay. I just thought . . .
you know."
She nodded, straining to widen that smile. "Yeah.
Well, . . . thanks."
He smiled back, his effort forced as well.
So they stood, eyes locked, their towels still clutched
in their hands, their cheeks flushed, their hair spiked like
porcupine quills.
Neither saying a word.
Well, isn't this romantic.
This wasn't going at all as she had planned.
Planned, Dana? she wordlessly challenged herself as
she retreated from their silent stare-down to at last shrug free
of her windbreaker. Did you really have some foolish fantasy
concocted around how you and Mulder would be together?
Stilling mulling that one over, she gave the man opposite her
one more tight smile, and settled her coat over the back of the
desk chair.
Actually, she had, she mutely admitted as, checking
her appearance in the mirror, she wiped a few errant raindrops
from her hairline. Again, Mulder followed her lead. Carrying
both his towel and leather jacket, he walked past her to the
room's closet where he hung his coat. "Be right back," he
mumbled as he disappeared into the bathroom with the towel
and closed the door, leaving her with nothing but her reflection
for company. But, maybe that wasn't such a bad thing, she
thought. She could use a minute to herself.
Hmm. Nearly all her make-up had worn away with the
hour and the rain. Thankfully, what was left of her mascara
hadn't pooled beneath her eyes. Yet that tiny concession to
vanity was about all in which she had to rejoice. Unlike Mulder,
she hadn't bothered to pull her coat over her head when she had
scampered in from the car. So even with the brisk toweling she
had given it, her auburn locks hung limp and glossy from their
dousing. Add to that her pale skin, sunken cheeks, and
oversized eyes, and she looked like an urchin straight out of
Dickens.
"Please sir, I want some more," she mumbled sotto
voce as she gazed with disgruntlement into the mirror. Oh
yeah. What a babe. She could certainly understand how
Mulder had resisted the urge to ravage her.
Is that really what you had hoped he would do, Dana?
she asked herself as, draping her towel on top of her jacket, she
turned her back on the looking-glass and flopped bonelessly
onto the bed. Did you envision Mulder sweeping you up in his
manly arms and carrying you off to his lair? she silently queried
as she studied the stucco ceiling overhead, her arms lifted and
curved so they framed her head.
Lair? No. After all, she had been inside his apartment.
Numerous times. And she had never once thought of it as a den
of iniquity.
Despite the porn videos.
But the sweeping her up in his arms thing . . . .
Mulder had actually done that. Once. It had been
late and she had fallen asleep. And when she had awakened,
it had been in his embrace, in the rain. Part of her had
protested, had felt vaguely embarrassed about exhibiting such
weakness. Especially in front of him. After all, she wasn't a
child or an invalid. She could walk quite well on her own,
thank-you-very-much. She had no need of her partner's
misplaced gallantry.
But another piece of her had reluctantly allowed it,
had reveled in the sensation of him effortlessly supporting her.
She had laid there, her cheek on his shoulder, her arms twined
around his neck, and quietly memorized the feel of his body
flowing and shifting against hers as he moved. She had basked
in his heat, his strength, his care; his warmth enough to melt
no small measure of her reserve.
And finally, when she had laid in her bed, her habitual
restraint eased by drowsiness and Mulder's seemingly limitless
affection, she had taken a chance. She had reached out to the
man she loved.
And been rejected.
So, is that what this is? she wondered to herself now.
Is that why ever since they had stepped out of the car and into
their motel room she had felt as ill at ease as if the two of them
had only just met? Did she worry that Mulder might, for some
reason, get cold feet?
She didn't think so. The two of them had reached a
kind of understanding on that rock. She had forced him to face
up to certain truths, and painful though the confrontation had
been, they had emerged from the ordeal stronger for it, more
fiercely united.
As if such a thing were possible.
At last they knew where they stood with each other;
how they felt, what they wanted. How absurd that two people
so intensely dedicated to the truth should find it so difficult to
accept certain aspects of it, she mused.
Believe in aliens from other worlds? Sure.
Put your faith in your partner's love . . . .
In the abstract, it's terrific.
But try to pin it down, give it form and voice. . . .
And the whole thing goes to hell in a hand basket.
Chuckling ruefully, she lolled her head upon the
faded bedspread, slowly turning it from side to side, capturing
bits of hair in her eyelashes, the corners of her mouth. This
was crazy. For goodness sake, you'd think that neither she nor
Mulder had ever before done the deed, she wordlessly groused.
While she freely acknowledged that it had been awhile for her,
she hadn't utterly forgotten how to go about it. And even though
she assumed Mulder's videos operated for him as a sort of
substitute for the real thing, she felt fairly positive he too had
practical knowledge of the subject. That barracuda, Phoebe,
definitely pointed to a certain degree of hands-on experience.
Then why is this so =hard=, she wondered with a sigh,
her brow crinkling with chagrin. They had been doing so well
up to this point. They had shared any number of sweet, hot
kisses on the beach at Assateague. When they had journeyed
from her rock back to the car, they had done so holding hands.
They hadn't spoken. Not much. But that silence had been
different, the antithesis of the polite yet awkward void that
currently yawned between them.
What had changed? Scully asked herself as thunder
softly rumbled outside their room. How had that afternoon,
singular and magical, transformed into this?
All at once, she closed her eyes and slid her fingers
through her hair's cool, slick strands, clenching them in the
damp auburn softness. Of course. That's exactly it. Singular.
Magical. Unique. She herself had told Mulder how that rock,
the stretch of sand and sea, felt to her sometimes as if it were
somehow set apart from reality. Perhaps it was that she
journeyed there so infrequently. Or maybe it was because, until
that afternoon, she had always visited there alone. But regardless,
she looked at her special place as being removed from the
commonplace, from the normal workings of her life. She had
just never realized she viewed the things that happened there
as being separate as well.
And how does one weave the fantastic into the fabric
of a person's everyday existence?
Mulder must have felt something similar, she thought,
her arms flopping flat upon the bed once more. When he had
made that cryptic comment about how overwhelmed he was by
the reality of their situation, she had chuckled fondly at his
angst. But now, as she struggled with her own version of it,
she better understood his reaction. It's one thing when a movie
couple confesses their love and the screen goes to black; it's quite
another when the cameras keep on rolling and the audience is
forced to watch the lovebirds muddle ineptly through the rest of
their lives.
Mulder and she had completely redefined their
relationship. No wonder they felt a trifle clumsy. Who wouldn't?
For four years, they had slowly yet surely learned all there was to
know about each other. But as friends, partners. Not as lovers.
Neither really knew what the other expected or even wanted.
Not in that sort of relationship. It was the same for all couples,
true. However, not all couples had the sort of history Mulder
and she shared. The same expectations. It all went back to
that initial phone call, the first time she had admitted to her
partner how at sea she felt in the wake of her illness. She had
tried to explain to him that night how it sometimes felt as if
she were playing a role; one in which she had cast herself, but
one that at times seemed as if it were slowly smothering her.
Now here it was again, her leading lady persona, coming back
to haunt her.
How would Dana Scully--the cool, intelligent, tough
federal agent/doctor--behave if she was in love?
Would she be aggressive?
Flirtatious?
Would she scream her lover's name as she clenched
around him?
Or would she softly whisper her feelings for him, the
words breathless and needy?
And would this new version of her old self please the
man whose opinion most mattered to her?
Oh God, it's all so simple, she shouted inside her head,
an odd giddiness bubbling up from the bottom-most reaches of
her belly. Here she had been worried about things like flea
market quality motel furnishings when all she really should
have been concerned about were her own insecurities.
Since when had she deliberately changed or edited
herself for Mulder's benefit? When had she ever been any less
than utterly who and what she was? Certainly, there were days
when the title 'Ms. Congeniality' eluded her. She recognized
that, without meaning to, she was sometimes cold or distant,
inflexible. But never had she been false with her reactions,
never stooped to telling her partner what he wanted to hear
when he wanted to hear it. If she thought he was wrong, she
made damned sure he knew about it. Without question, she had
become a different person since working with Mulder. Grown,
evolved. As had he with her. But it had been a natural process,
one borne of two fiercely independent beings butting against
each other, like two pebbles tumbling in the surf. Battered this
way and that until their edges had worn away, their fit made
smooth by friction and time.
Mulder loved her. She believed that. Knew it as
gospel.
In spite of all the fights, and absences, and enemies
within and without.
So chances were pretty good that she wouldn't drive
him away by making love to him.
It hadn't been =that= long for her.
Lightning zig-zagged its way through the blinds,
flashing sharp and white against the room's shadows. Attracted
by its flicker, Scully swiveled her head and watched the hard,
cool rain wash the world, a contented smile now curving her
lips.
"Scully?" Mulder whispered her name, low and
yearningly. And soft, as if he feared she might have dozed off
while he was in the other room. She turned back to gaze up at
him, answering his call. He stood, framed in the bathroom
doorway, his hands in his pockets, his shoulder braced against
the jamb. Apparently the mirror over the sink had been put to
use as well. His hair had been tamed, its disarray put to rights.
But there was still a messy quality to his appearance that
she found immensely appealing. He looked rumpled and
young. Unsure.
Time to erase that doubt.
For them both.
"Come here," she murmured, her voice husky, though
not purposefully so.
The corner of his mouth pulled up at her tone, faint
amusement shining in his eyes. "And where is it exactly you
want me to go?"
"To bed," she said. "With me. It's time, Mulder.
Seems to me, you and I have waited long enough."
* * * * * * * *
Continued in Chapter II
"Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the
dance?"--(The Lobster-Quadrille) Lewis Carroll, "Alice's
Adventures in Wonderland"
Wonderland IV
"Joining the Dance" (2/4) NC-17
by Karen Rasch
krasch@earthlink.net
home.earthlink.net/~krasch
Disclaimers and such are back in chapter one. The sex starts
here.
**************************************************
Mulder pushed away from the door frame and walked
towards her, slowly, deliberately, his hands still shoved deeply
in his jeans pockets. She looked up at him from the bed,
watching his leisurely progress and thinking, 'The room feels
as if it's suddenly doubled in size. It's taking him forever to
get here.'
The mattress was as old as everything else in the
chamber and had undoubtedly seen the most use. When
Mulder at last sat beside her, his behind even with her thigh,
it shifted, tipping her slightly towards him. Gazing up at him,
she lifted one arm from alongside her head and caressed his
shoulder, his arm, before stretching a bit higher to graze her
fingertips against his chin. He waited, his body and hers
resting against each other at the hip. Otherwise, he made no
move to touch her.
"Here I am," he said quietly, his eyes the same
delicious shade of brown as his sweater, his expression tender.
"So, now that you've got me, what are you going to do with me?"
"Come closer," she murmured playfully, responding
to his teasing air, her fingers poised at the corner of his jaw
ready to help guide him to her.
"Like this?" he mumbled, obligingly leaning down so
that his face hovered inches from hers, his hand at last settling
upon her middle, where it rubbed lazy little circular patterns
against her cable-knit.
"Closer," she demanded, the smile in her voice
finding its way to her lips.
Again, Mulder complied, halving the distance
between them. Yet, ultimately, he refrained from giving her
what she wanted. And that simply wouldn't do. Not when
she was feeling so unrepentantly bossy. Lifting her head, she
captured her partner's full lower lip between her teeth and
nibbled, tugging his mouth to hers. He chuckled softly and
followed where she led.
"Yes," she breathed as at last Mulder surrendered
fully and sealed their lips together, his hand easing up from
her waist to bury itself in her hair.
Once the kiss began in earnest, Mulder immediately
took the lead. Cradling her head in his palm, he tilted her
face, angling his mouth first one way then another. Sliding
his lips over hers, sucking, nipping. Bonding firmly, then
pulling away at leisure. Sampling her taste and texture the
same way a greedy child might devour a dessert tray. Moaning
her approval, Scully wrapped her arms around his neck, holding
him to her, urging him on.
Yet, seemingly, Mulder didn't require her
encouragement. As with most things, once committed, he
set himself to the task with abandon. His tongue swept inside
her mouth, wet and warm and curious. Searching within her,
seeking out all her most sensitive spots, urging her to twist
sinuously atop the bed, her body suddenly unable to lie still.
He stroked long and slow over the slick, hard edges of her teeth;
the soft, spongy underside of her cheeks. His breath harsh, his
lips open and hungry, he at last rubbed along her tongue with
his, caressing it in greeting. She eagerly returned the hello.
Then, groaning his pleasure into her mouth, all at
once, he pulled away and lowered her head to the mattress, his
eyes sulky with arousal, his face flushed.
"I love your mouth," he muttered as, almost helplessly,
he pressed his lips to hers once more, the contact deep and
lingering. "There have been times, Scully . . . I swear to God . . .
I've missed entire conversations daydreaming about your lips."
She gazed up him, bemused. Despite the need painted
plainly on his face, he appeared somewhat embarrassed;
sheepish, in a way that suggested he hadn't really meant to
blurt out this particular secret. Yet despite his discomfort,
she was charmed by his candor, and couldn't resist ribbing him
just a touch. "Oh, so now you're trying to tell me that it's =my=
fault when you don't pay attention to me."
"Don't pay attention to you?"
"Well, I'm assuming that I was a participant in
*some* of those unheard conversations," she said with a wry
lift of her brow.
"You really think I don't pay attention to you?" he
asked with a measure of concern, his former chagrin forgotten.
Oh, no. She wasn't going there. "It's okay, Mulder,"
she assured him soothingly. "You seem to be doing pretty well
at the moment."
He looked down at her for beat, weighing her words,
his fingers stealing through the fine hair bordering her face.
"*Pretty* well?" he challenged finally, mock
indignation ringing in his tone.
"What do you want?" she teased before shamelessly
attempting to distract him with a kiss. "A written endorsement?"
He chuckled at that. "No. It's all right. I trust you."
Still smiling, he dipped his head and nuzzled her brow,
dragging his lips softly over it. The gentle caress was repeated.
At the corner of her jaw. Her chin. Her ear. Pride banished,
Scully arched beneath him, baring her throat in submission.
He smiled wider and took what she offered, his hands braced
against the bed as he bent over her.
"I'll make it up to you," he murmured against her
tender skin.
Her hands moving restlessly over his shoulders, she
frowned. "There's nothing to make up for. I was teasing."
"Oh . . . you can tease me anytime," he whispered
hoarsely, as he traced the length of her throat, the path
descending. "Just don't ever believe I take you for granted."
"I don't," she protested, her legs rubbing against each
other in a kind of erotic turmoil. Her neck was so sensitive,
like one great big erogenous zone. The skin there seemed
almost painfully thin, as if it were unable to adequately protect
the nerve endings hidden beneath it. "Honestly."
"Honestly?" he echoed before tugging her heavy
sweater to the side and suckling lightly on her shoulder.
She weakly hummed her pleasure, feeling the white
hot currents of it shoot through her body to pool at her groin.
Upon hearing the rough, ragged sound pushed from between
her lips, Mulder increased the suction, scraping over her muscle
with his teeth.
She whimpered brokenly, hushed and throaty. He
smiled against her skin.
"I *honestly* plan on paying very strict attention to
you tonight, Agent Scully," he told her heatedly as he lifted
his head. His arms were planted on either side of her head,
his eyes burned down into hers. "I'm going to make it my
business to learn everything there is to know about you . . . ."
He dipped his head once more and kissed her, his
lips like velvet against her swollen mouth.
"Your body . . . ."
This time, he captured only her upper lip, pulling on
it slightly before letting it slide, wet and warm from his mouth.
"And what exactly it is you like."
He paused, his breath shallow as he loomed over her,
his hair slipping down over his brow. His eyes locked on her
mouth, he gently rubbed his thumb over it, tracing its shape.
The gesture was slow and filled with a kind of regret, almost
as if he'd love to spend more time with that plump bit of flesh,
but was forced to move along.
He had more discoveries to make. More territory to
conquer.
"What is it that =you= like, Mulder?" Scully asked
quietly, shaping the sentence against his caressing finger.
"This," he told her flatly, the word solemn and all-
encompassing. He looked down at her for a beat longer, his
gaze filled with an odd mixture of wonder and pain. Then,
with a visible force of will, his mood eased, his face
brightened. "I like this a lot, Scully," he admitted with
boyish enthusiasm.
"Me too," she said, her fingers brushing against his
cheek.
"But you know what I'd like even more?" he queried
gruffly, his focus drifting away from her face to somewhere
below her shoulders.
"What?" she asked, thinking she would give him
absolutely anything if it meant he would never again be
plagued by the emotions that had troubled him a moment
earlier.
His fingertips trailed slowly from her mouth to her
chin to her throat to her chest. Flattening his hand, Mulder
rested his palm between her breasts, its heat warming straight
through to her heart.
"If you would take off your sweater for me."
Hesitating for not more than instant, she nodded
and reached down to grab the hem of the garment. Pulling
and wiggling atop the mattress, she drew the bulky knit over
her head, and onto the floor. Tousled to begin with, her hair
now tangled about her face, wisps of it obscuring her vision.
Mulder's fingers joined with hers to smooth the strands to
the side. Once she could see more clearly, she noticed her
partner's eyes had drifted south, where they widened and
stared. Seeing this, she allowed herself a tiny smile of
satisfaction. Good. It appeared that last month's Master
Card bill had been worth it after all.
Beneath her sweater, she wore a silk camisole.
Apricot in color and trimmed with rich ecru lace, she had
bought it thinking its softness would be just what she needed
to protect her skin from some of her scratchier winter wear.
And hoping that it might one day evoke exactly this
reaction from exactly this man.
Slowly expelling the breath he had been holding,
Mulder worried the slippery bit of lingerie between his fingers.
"It's pretty, Scully," he murmured, his brow furrowed, his eyes
trained on his fingers.
"Thank you," she said, laying on her back, her arms
at her sides, granting him tacit permission to touch her where
and when he would.
For a time, he continued studying the peachy silk,
slipping and sliding it between his thumb and forefinger as if
surprised by its fluidity. Finally, he raised his head and met
her gaze. "It's funny."
"What is?" she asked.
"I had no idea . . . I mean . . I had wondered today
. . . and before . . . what you wore beneath . . ."
His voice trailed off, and she wondered if in some
unexpected way this particular lingerie purchase had confused
or even disappointed him. Had his stillness not been evidence
of desire, but rather of a kind of shock?
"But this," he began again, his voice soft, his fingers
gliding lightly over the camisole, doodling nonsense. "This is
perfect."
"It is?" she queried, marveling at the tears pushing
insistently behind her eyes.
He nodded. "Yeah. Especially when you wear it
under something like that." He gestured in the direction of
her discarded sweater.
She shook her head, utterly confused. "You've lost
me, Mulder."
A gentle smile curved the edges of his mouth. "That
sweater reminds me of the Scully most people know."
She arched a brow.
His smile broadened, but remained tender. "It's a
classic. Durable, strong. Not flashy, but attractive."
"Well, I suppose it could be worse," she muttered
with an exasperation that wasn't entirely sham "You could be
comparing me to a sweat sock or a jockstrap."
"Let me finish," he chided lightly, his hand pressed
flat against her middle once more.
They looked at each other. For a moment. Maybe
more. In the silence, the sound of the rain battering against
the window seemed amplified; its tone deeper, its rhythm
quicker. Another jagged streak of lightning flashed wild
and wonderful just the other side of the blinds.
"Go on," she prompted at last, unable to maintain
her pique. Not when he was gazing at her with eyes the color
of the sea. Beautiful eyes, knowing and sad.
"This," he said, his voice husky and low, his palm
rubbing slowly over the silk, petting it, "is more like the
woman I've always suspected you were."
She hadn't been certain it was possible, but Mulder
had somehow managed to turn the whole comparison around.
"And what kind of woman did you suspect I was, Mulder?"
He pondered her question for a minute before
answering, spending the time dragging his hand over her
camisole. He brushed along her belly, her ribs; he even
traced the wide lacy straps with his fingertips. Yet, he
pointedly refrained from touching her breasts; from circling
their rounded slopes, teasing her aching nipples, urging
them ever more erect.
Which, of course, meant Scully longed all the
more for him to do exactly that.
"Soft," he began thoughtfully, his gaze focused
away from hers. "Not delicate . . . but warm, tender."
He looked at her then. "You're pretty good at all the
tough guy stuff, Scully. But every once and awhile, you let
your guard down."
She nodded.
"Not as often as I'd like . . ."
She frowned at that. "You want me to be weak?"
"No. No, that's not what I want," he hurried to
assure her.
"Then what do you want?" she asked him, not at
all certain she was going to like his answer.
His hand lay still again, resting heavily just below
her breasts. "I want . . . I'd like . . for you to need me. Not
all the time. Just every once and awhile."
Now she really was going to cry. Or throttle him. At
that point in time, she really couldn't decide which course of
action was preferable. "Mulder, I need you. You know that.
I told you so."
He shook his head. "It's not the same. I mean . . .
yeah, there are times you turn to me. When you let me in. But
if I wasn't here, you'd do just fine. You wouldn't fall apart or
break down. You'd carry on. I know you would. You're strong,
Scully. You're the strongest person I've ever known."
And all at once it felt as if crying had gained a
marked advantage. He was so sincere with his praise, so quiet
and sure, she knew he believed what he was saying without
reservation. And that was so unfair. To them both.
She reached up and framed his face in her hands.
Tugging gently, she drew him down so that he lie against her,
over her, his weight balanced on his forearm, his one hand
still centered on her torso. "You forget something, Mulder,"
she told him softly yet firmly. "I know what it's like to try
to live without you."
He didn't make the connection immediately. A frown
of confusion crinkled his brow.
"New Mexico," she said, reminding them both of that
awful time not so long ago. "I thought you were dead. It was
nearly a week before you found your way back to D.C."
"You told me that you knew I was all right," he
murmured, his breath stirring her hair.
"I did," she admitted, her voice throaty and low, her
thumbs moving lightly against his temples. "But not at first.
Not for several days. When I saw that smoldering boxcar . . .
Mulder, I believed your remains were trapped inside."
Damn it. Remembering what had happened outside
Farmington, and later what had occurred in D.C. with Missy
and the DAT tape, always did this to her. The tears were
winning. She could feel them stinging her eyes, could
sense the moisture gathering, poised to spill over her lashes.
Great. Now, she'd have a red nose to complement the
ragamuffin persona she was already cultivating. Terrific.
Just the look she was going for. Bozo the Waif.
Angry now, both at Mulder and her own treacherous
emotions, her eyes blazed up into his. "I remember how I felt
when I thought you'd died. I haven't forgotten, Mulder. Any
of it. How lost I was. How alone. So don't tell me I'd be fine.
That if one day you suddenly weren't here, I'd get over it.
Because I know better. I've lived with that kind of pain. And
believe me--I don't ever, =ever= want to go through something
like that again."
He was looking down at her, nodding slowly, his
expressive eyes mirroring hers. Both pairs were awash now
with tears. Seeing his reaction to her tirade, she knew that
without meaning to, she had resurrected in Mulder memories
similar to hers. Feelings of desperation and dread. Guilt and
abandonment. After all, he also knew what it was like to lose
a partner.
And three months is a very long time.
He didn't speak. Not at first. Instead, he gathered
her to him, wrapped himself around her; his embrace so
tight that she had to struggle to catch her breath. He roughly
plunged a hand into her tangled tresses while the other ranged
free beneath her camisole, caressing her back's tender plains.
His legs imprisoned her hips. She could feel his erection
prodding hard and needy against her softness.
Yet he made no move to assuage his desire. Rather,
he simply buried his face in hair, and held her. Very still and
very close.
They stayed that way for a time, unmoving. Until at
long last, he whispered brokenly in her ear, "Scully, I'm so
afraid."
And with that, her tears at last poured forth, hot and
salty, running down her face in rivulets. Hugging him back
with all the fierceness she possessed, she murmured, "You
can't give up either, you know."
He pulled back to look at her, his cheeks as wet as
hers, his voice likewise waterlogged. "What are you talking
about?"
"You told me, . . . on the beach, . . . you said you
wouldn't let me give up."
Grimacing, Mulder nodded, visibly struggling to get
himself under control.
"Well, I'll make you a deal," she offered, her tone as
tattered as the room's upholstery. "I'll keep fighting. I'll keep
hanging on. I'll keep doing all those things it's been getting
so damned hard for me to do."
Lips pressed thin, he nodded again.
"Only . . . you can't start mourning me until after I'm
gone," she whispered.
"=What= . . .?" Her partner appeared horrified that
she would think him capable of such a thing.
"If we begin grieving now, we'll cheat ourselves out
of whatever time we may have," she said reasonably, her voice
cracking just a touch.
"Scully . . ."
"And I =want= that time, Mulder," she told him, her
small hands squeezing his shoulders for emphasis. "I want
every last minute of it. For it to be joyous and full of life."
He looked at her. Thunder boomed and grumbled
its disquiet outside their motel window.
"Not just a countdown to my death."
Lightning crackled ominously, zapping the room with
an eerie silver flash.
Taking a deep breath, he nodded one last time, slowly
and solemnly. Then, his hand trembling only slightly, he
traced the shape of her face with his fingertips. "I love you."
"I know you do," she said with a small, bittersweet
smile. "I love you too."
"I'll try, Scully," he whispered, watching the path of
his hand rather than her eyes. "I'll do my best to give you that
time. To make it all you want it to be."
"That's all I ask," she assured him. "That you try."
"I may forget sometimes," he warned.
"I'll remind you."
Now it was his turn to smile. "And how exactly do
you plan on doing that?"
She pursed her lips in faux consideration. "Guess
I'll have to kick a little ass."
Chuckling, he drew her into his embrace once more,
and rocked her, very tenderly. "Who are you kidding, Scully?
You like my ass too much to kick it."
"It would break my heart," she admitted with sham
sorrow, her head tucked beneath his chin. "But a girl's gotta
do what a girl's gotta do."
He pulled her to him, his arms tightening, his hands
moving slowly and soothingly over her slender frame.
Tilting her chin, Scully nuzzled softly against his
neck, rubbing her nose just below his ear, pressing her lips
gently to the corner of his jaw. Mulder's breath caught, then
released on a ragged sigh. Upon hearing it, she smiled.
"Are you ticklish, Mulder?" she whispered, her hands
coasting lightly along his sides, a plan formulating.
"No," he mumbled, craning his chin up and away,
mutely encouraging her actions.
"Are you sure?" she breathed, dropping tiny, stinging
kisses along the side of his face, her fingertips now skimming
up to trace his ribs.
"Scully, trust me--the last thing I want to do right now
is laugh," he muttered, his eyes slipping shut.
"Ah, but maybe that's your problem," she murmured
silkily, her hand trailing downwards in the direction of his navel.
"What's my problem?" he queried hoarsely, his legs
shifting restlessly atop the mattress.
She took his lobe between her teeth and delicately
nibbled on it before answering; gnawing, then gliding along
its curve. Mulder groaned in response and arched his neck,
his hands clenching on her back and hip.
"Simple, Mulder. You need to rethink your priorities."
With that, she abruptly curled her fingers, burrowing
them mercilessly into his vulnerable mid-section. "You see . . .
as far as I can tell, laughing is the *first* thing you ought to
do."
Mulder reacted instinctively to her surprise assault,
sucking in his stomach and letting loose a short yelp of
laughter. Scully beamed with delight, and moved in for the
kill.
"I'm tired of all the doom and gloom, Mulder," Scully
informed him tartly, taking advantage of his discomfiture by
rolling over to sit astride him, her knees on either side of his
hips, her wicked fingers busy still. "You and I could both use
a good laugh."
He let her have her way for a breath or two, a smile
stretching his mouth, rusty-sounding chuckles rumbling forth
from between his lips. He squirmed to avoid her attack, but
was seemingly more amused at her effort than the actual
tickling itself.
"Laugh?" he finally echoed as, grabbing hold of
her wrists, he wrestled her beneath him once more, ending their
light-hearted skirmish. They rested for a beat, both breathing
hard, her arms raised and pinned, his groin resting hotly in the
cradle of her hips. "You want me to laugh, Scully?"
"I wish you would," she said in a low, hushed voice,
her chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the silken camisole.
Something in her tone seemed to transform his gaze
from heated to tender. "Why?"
"Because you have the most beautiful smile, Mulder."
Hearing her praise, spoken softly and simply, he
grimaced for a moment, then ducked his head, his hair
obscuring his eyes from view. Scully wondered if, when he
looked at her once more, a blush might be staining his cheeks.
"I know we haven't had a lot to smile about lately,"
she said, stretching up to press a kiss to his temple. "But today
. . . here, now . . . I think our luck may be changing."
Letting go of her wrists, he lifted his chin. No blush.
But his tentative smile was enough to melt her heart. "You
tellin' me you feel lucky, Scully?"
Her smile simmered to life with a bit more spice
than his. "What if I told you I want to *get* lucky?"
He tilted his pelvis, pushing himself provocatively
against her mons. "I'd say I might be able to help you out
with that."
"Thanks, Mulder," she murmured as she rolled her
hips in answer, relishing the way his eyes darkened as she
did so. "I'd appreciate the hand."
Dipping his head, he lapped delicately at the hollow
between her collarbones. Stifling a moan, she mumbled, "And
any other body part you might be willing to spare."
* * * * * * * *
Continued in Chapter III
"Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the
dance?"--(The Lobster-Quadrille) Lewis Carroll, "Alice's
Adventures in Wonderland"
Wonderland IV
"Joining the Dance (3/4) NC-17
by Karen Rasch
krasch@earthlink.net
home.earthlink.net/~krasch
I know I've been threatening NC-17 for two chapters now, but
this time it really is. Or at least the beginnings of it . . .
I swear!!
**************************************************
"My entire body is at your disposal," Fox Mulder
murmured against her skin as he nuzzled softly just above
the neckline of her camisole, tracing the deep vee with his
nose.
"Yeah?" Dana Scully queried breathlessly, her hands
furrowing his tousled hair.
"Absolutely."
She smiled. "Then let's see a little of it."
He lifted his head, a lopsided smile now pulling on his
lips too. "I beg your pardon?"
"Lose the sweater, Mulder."
Hearing her brusque directive, the man resting between
her legs pulled back to sit on his haunches, his hands on his
thighs, his expression distinctly amused. "You want me to take
off my sweater, Scully?"
Lifting a brow, she looked up at him, her auburn
hair wild upon the pillow, her legs sprawled on either side of
him. "For starters."
She could feel the heat of his gaze as if it were pure
flame, warming her skin, melting away her inhibitions. A few
of those same barriers seemed to be going up in smoke for
Mulder as well. When he spoke, his voice came out low and
rough, little more than a grunt and a grumble.
"Then take it off yourself."
It was strange really. She could practically feel
the dynamic between them changing, their relationship
metamorphosing from platonic to sexual almost as they
themselves watched it happen. The very air seemed denser
somehow, making it difficult for her to breathe. Her limbs
were heavy too, and clumsy. When she tried to push herself
up from her reclining position, she fumbled awkwardly at
first before at last succeeding. Mulder made no move to
assist. He just waited in the center of the bed, watching her,
half his face in shadow.
Finally, she scrambled upright and crawled to kneel
before him, their knees touching. She paused for a moment
to look at him, taking in the taut lines of his face, the tightly
drawn muscle twitching restlessly at the corner of his jaw.
He was holding back, she realized, letting her set
the pace. Clinging almost desperately to his control.
Oh, Mulder, she longed to whisper. If there is one
thing I've learned it's that control is highly overrated.
"Lift your arms," she murmured instead.
Silently, he complied. She leaned in close, grabbed
hold of the sweater's hem and drew it over his head. Showing
the same regard for his pullover as she had earlier for her own,
she then carelessly tossed it on the floor. Mulder didn't appear
to object. Arms lowered, he sat as still as a T-shirt clad Buddha,
his cheeks flushed, his eyes hooded and intent.
Lightning sizzled outside, their bedside lamp flickered
within.
"Sounds like it's picking up out there," she commented
as she ran her fingertips lightly, almost experimentally, across
his chest.
"Seems like the same thing is happening in here," he
mumbled, his mouth inches from her bowed head. She smiled
in voiceless agreement.
Her gaze still averted, she found his nipple through
the white cotton. Softly, she traced the small brown circle,
scratching at it delicately with her nail. "This feels so decadent,
Mulder."
His breath stutter-stepped its way from between his
lips, ruffling her damp hair. "What does?"
"To be able to touch you this way," she said, finding
the nipple's mate and lavishing on it similar attention.
His hands clenched on his thighs; balled, then released.
"You haven't really even touched me yet."
"What do you call this then?" she asked as her small
hand trailed down his middle to land heavily at the apex of his
legs. Raising her eyes to his, she just let her fingers lay there for
a time, challenging him with her regard, her caress. She could
feel his hardness jutting against the denim, his pulse pounding
powerfully against her palm.
Then, she squeezed.
Very carefully.
Mulder pressed up into her hand, his head snapping
back upon his neck as if in agony, his mouth open, his lashes
sliding shut. Ruefully, he chuckled before whispering,
"Torture."
"Should I stop?"
"No . . . please."
Heeding her partner's plea, Scully continued working
him through his jeans, rubbing the heel of her hand firmly
along his length, wrapping her fingers around his circumference
and sliding them slowly up and down. He lifted and lowered
his hips, pumping in time to her ministrations. Smiling at his
reaction, she deepened the pressure, almost as if striving to
breach the thick cloth barrier separating her hand and his cock.
Mulder sat spellbound, his head lolling loosely on his neck, his
breath hurried and harsh.
"Take off your shirt," she directed quietly.
Moving in one single fluid motion, he tipped his face
downward to meet her gaze, his eyes glittering with a dangerous
kind of arousal, and roughly tugged his T-shirt over his head.
She thought she might have heard a seam rip as the garment
twisted passing over his broad shoulders. But such trivial
considerations soon fled from her mind. The man she loved
sat opposite her, naked from the waist up. His chest shone
faintly golden in the room's muted light, its expanse smooth
and finely muscled.
"Thank you," she murmured in satisfaction before
inching closer to press a soft, wet kiss to the center of his
torso.
Mulder tunneled his fingers through her hair, holding
her to him. "You like this, Scully?"
"Hmm," she hummed in the affirmative as her mouth
made its leisurely way across his breast, discovering in its
travels a light scattering of hair and warm, satiny skin.
"Good," he sighed unevenly, cupping her head loosely
in his palms.
"Yes," she whispered, nibbling carefully on his nipple.
It was.
"God," he groaned, his hands tightening in her hair.
She smiled once more at the sound, her fingers gliding
softly over the long, lean planes of his back as her lips suckled
just as gently at the small, puckered nubbin.
Mulder writhed before her, arching helplessly.
"What about you?" she asked seconds later as her
mouth dragged open and slow down the middle of his frame.
"What do you mean?" he mumbled, caressing her
shoulders, her upper arms.
"Do you like this?"
He laughed quietly, the sound rumbling beneath her
kisses. "What's not to like?"
"Just checking," she murmured, reaching for his belt
buckle.
But Mulder stopped her, his hand closing over her
wrist.
"I would like to make one *small* request."
Scully looked up at him through her lashes. "What?"
He didn't answer immediately, choosing instead to
slip his index finger beneath one of her camisole's lacy straps.
Sliding the back of his digit along her skin's sensitive slope,
he eased the strip of fabric from her shoulder.
"Tit for tat, Scully."
Doing her damnedest to hold back a smile, she
arched her brow at his choice of words.
Apparently unrepentant, he shrugged, the corner of
his mouth pulling upwards. "In a manner of speaking."
Holding his gaze for just a moment more, she finally
nodded, her fingers drifting to the hem of her undergarment.
Yet as she did so, the smallest flicker of apprehension skittered
fast and frantic across her peace of mind.
Intellectually, she knew Mulder found her attractive.
But with her illness, her body had undergone so many changes.
She sometimes didn't even feel like herself anymore, that rather
her essence had somehow become trapped inside another's form.
One that had grown pale and weak, and was ultimately not to
be trusted.
Not like the man waiting patiently before her.
"I'm thinner than I was," she told him, her voice
hushed, her eyes trained on his as she worried the satiny fabric
in her grip.
His expression turned tender, telling her wordlessly
he understood her fear. "You always were a skinny little
thing."
She recognized Mulder was teasing; his tone was
gentle, his eyes warm. But this particular concern of hers
was deep-seated, and tangled with such tricky things as
identity and self-worth. The quip stung, even though she
knew that hadn't been its intent. Hating herself for being so
sensitive, Scully struggled valiantly for an off-handed drawl.
Yet, even as she spoke, she feared her words revealed far
too much. "Well, when you sweet-talk me like that, how can
I refuse?"
With that, she bent her head and began to lift the
camisole up and away, thinking to simply get it over with.
But she had bared little more than an inch of skin
when his hands landed on hers, impeding her progress.
"You think I was sweet-talking you, Scully?"
He had murmured the question from just above her
ear, his breath puffing hot and honeyed against her hair. His
nearness was wreaking havoc with her composure. She so
wanted to avoid a repeat of the tears she and Mulder had
earlier shared. But the husky, intimate timbre of his voice
was making it difficult for her to refrain.
"I mean . . . I realize I may not be the smoothest
guy you're ever going to meet. But even *I* can do better
than that."
The wind rattled the room's window in its frame,
whipping a mixture of gravel and raindrops against the glass
so that it rat-tatted like fingernails against a tabletop.
Still, she refused to look at him. "You don't have to,
Mulder. I don't need that kind of thing."
He sensed her misgivings. She knew it. And that
was the last thing she wanted. To be looked at as needy or
vulnerable. Please don't pity me, Mulder, she silently pled.
Not when I'm wallowing in it already. Don't treat me like I'm
dying. You'll ruin this for me if you do.
His hands lifted to frame her face, to cradle it warmly
in his palms. Tilting her head carefully, Mulder brought her
eyes to his. Scully didn't know what he saw in hers, but his
shone candle bright and welcoming. Longing was there, and
a nameless kind of compassion. But not pity. Not a trace of
it. She took heart.
"You don't think I'm up to it," he said softly, the
slightest hint of humor leavening his voice. "You don't think
I know what to say to a beautiful woman."
She smiled wryly, responding to his tone. "I look
like a drowned rat, Mulder. And a skinny one at that. Believe
me--chances are you could talk my ear off."
Slowly, he shook his head, incredulity wrinkling his
brow. "What mirror have =you= been using?"
"The one behind you," she replied dryly, gesturing
with her chin in that direction. "Far as I can tell, it works
just fine."
"That's just glass. Try using this one instead."
Easing one hand away from her cheek, he pointed towards
his face. "See yourself through my eyes."
"Mulder . . . ." God damn the man. He seemed
determined to make her cry.
"I mean it, Scully," he said with an urgency he had
only hinted at previously. "I can't believe . . . My God--don't
you have any idea what you do to me?"
She wasn't stupid, and despite all her current
insecurities, she hadn't entirely forgotten how this man had
turned into a twitching, moaning mess the minute she had
applied a little pressure to a particularly sensitive portion of
his anatomy. Still, she couldn't help but be curious. Their
attraction had always been something that had been hinted at;
intuited, but never spoken of. Mulder seemed in the mood to
change all that, to lay bare his feelings for her like a
penitent at confession. She would be a fool not to hear
him out.
So, she shook her head, her gaze still locked on his.
Slicking his lips with his tongue, the man kneeling
before her took a deep breath. And began.
"Yeah. So you've lost a little weight," he murmured,
drawing his fingertips lightly along the edges of her face. "I'll
bet you don't sleep as well as you used to, and you probably
don't have enough energy these days to put in time at the gym."
Lips pressed tight, she shook her head once more,
striving hard to maintain eye contact.
"And when you look in the mirror, you see what this
disease has cost you. You catalog all the ways your body has
found to betray you."
Her head bobbed, the movement subtle and quick.
"But, Scully . . . you haven't changed as much as
you think," he said earnestly, both palms again bookending
her face. "The woman you've always been is still there. She's
just been pared down a little. Distilled."
"Mulder . . . "
"It's true," he insisted, holding her captive in his
gentle hands. "Believe me. I, of all people, should know."
Lightning crackled just outside their window, its
flash nimble and brilliant.
"Your eyes are same shade of blue they've always
been," Mulder said, leaning in close, staring down at her
intently. She couldn't look away. "I don't know what you'd
call the color exactly. But they're very light. Almost gray
sometimes. I'd say they were ice blue, but that's misleading."
He bent his head and kissed her just beneath her
brows. Delicate, butterfly kisses. Her lashes fluttered shut.
"Your eyes aren't cold, Scully."
Thunder boomed, its vibration shaking the very
ground beneath them.
"Except when you catch me doing something really
stupid. Then it's like they're shooting icicles at me."
She smiled at that, her lids lifting. He looked back
at her, mimicking her grin.
"Then there's your mouth," he said, his fingertips
brushing gossamer light against that particular feature. "I've
already told you how I feel about it."
She nodded, bemused by his seeming obsession.
He kissed her, the caress chaste, but lingering.
"Mmm," he murmured afterwards, savoring the contact, his
eyes slumberous and dark. "That hasn't changed. It's the same
shape, the same softness. For years, I'd imagined what it
would be like to kiss you. Years. I wasn't disappointed, Scully."
"No?" she asked.
"Uh-uh," he said solemnly.
She smiled yet again.
"And you still do that walk thing."
God, it felt as if her emotions were spinning like a
top. One minute she was battling back tears, the next it was
all she could do to keep from guffawing. "What 'walk thing'?"
"That strut you've perfected over the course of our
partnership. The one that tells anyone within eyeshot you're
a force to be reckoned with."
Okay. Now she really did have to laugh. With
indignation if nothing else. "I do =not= *strut*!"
Mulder took his hands from her face and rested them
instead on his hips. Cocking his head, he gazed down at her
with scarcely concealed amusement. "Call it what you like,
Scully. I know what I've seen."
He was baiting her. She understood that. Trying to
get a rise out of her. But she was having too much fun at that
moment to call him on it. "And what exactly do you think
you've seen, Mulder?"
He hesitated for a beat, his lips pursed, his eyes
narrowed, almost as if he were sizing her up. "How can I put
this . . . ? Let's just say that when you move, you send out a
very contradictory message."
"What are you talking about?"
"From the waist up you've got something entirely
different going on than you do from the waist down."
She hoisted her brow as high as it would go. "Pray
enlighten me."
Mulder grinned at her withering tone. "You hold
your shoulders really still when you walk. They don't budge.
It's like you've got a board strapped to them."
She wrinkled her nose in mock disdain. "You know,
I think I liked it better when you were just calling me skinny."
"No--it's impressive," he assured her, his hands
spread wide before him as if in apology. "It really is. The
whole look is very much 'don't fuck with me'. You walk into
a room, and it's like you own it and everyone in it."
"Even you?" she queried softly, her chin raised.
"Especially me," he replied just as quietly.
They looked at each other, the room silent save for
the rain pounding outside for entrance.
"But it's your hips that make it a strut," he continued
after a moment or two, his voice low and knowing.
She rolled her eyes disparagingly. "I'm not even going
to--"
"You work 'em," he said, leaning into her, merriment
dancing in his eyes. "Snap 'em from side to side. Under all
those straight-lined skirts . . . . It's mesmerizing. Why do you
think I'm always hanging back, opening doors and what-not?
It's not manners, let me assure you."
Vaguely embarrassed by his apparent scrutiny of her
body and its motion, Scully shoved at Mulder's chest, her small
hands landing squarely at its center. "You are *such* a liar!
You don't hang back for anyone. I'm always running after you,
worried you're going to leave me behind."
Placing his hands on her shoulders, Mulder gently
pushed her back against the bed clothes, more guiding than
forcing her. He followed her down, and came to rest on his side,
one leg thrown over hers.
"What if I promised I wouldn't leave you behind tonight?"
he whispered between kisses, his lips pressing soft and warm
against her cheek, her temple, the corner of her mouth. "That
I'd make certain you went before me."
"Went before you?" she murmured, her eyes sliding
shut, her hands roaming restlessly down his back's sculpted
slopes.
"Came before me," he mumbled against her mouth,
his hand in her hair.
"I'd settle for came with you," she told him, nipping
at his lower lip.
"Deal," he said, and crushed his mouth to hers.
* * * * * * * *
Continued in Chapter IV
"Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the
dance?"--(The Lobster-Quadrille) Lewis Carroll, "Alice's
Adventures in Wonderland"
Wonderland IV
Joining the Dance (4/4) NC-17
by Karen Rasch
krasch@earthlink.net
home.earthlink.net/~krasch
Thanks for your patience. Here we go.
***************************************************
Lightning pulsed behind Dana Scully's lowered lids
as her lips pressed and sucked and slid over Fox Mulder's
full, soft mouth. Their tongues caressed each other like
fondling fingers, tangling and stroking, soothing and arousing.
Mulder hovered over her, his upper body supported by his
forearms, his lower body resting solidly on hers. Almost
mindlessly, his groin rhythmically nudged against the juncture
of her legs; small thrusts, even smaller retreats, teasing her with
hints of what was to come. Restlessly, her hips began to lift and
drop beneath him, picking up his cadence. Her hands tightening
in his hair, she hooked her leg around the back of his, urging him
to fulfill his promise. Responding to her plea, he ground his cock
against her mons, turning in tight, fierce circles, and raised his
head to lock his gaze on hers.
"Let me see you, Scully," he muttered against her
cheek, plucking at the strap of her camisole as if he were
considering ripping it from her torso, his eyes dark and
unfocused with desire. "Let me see you. I want to see you."
"Yes," she breathlessly agreed, her former demons
slinking off to cower in the shadows, banished for the time
being.
Their hands collided at her lingerie's hem, fingers
fumbling to grab hold. In the end, she just let him do the work,
allowed him to skim the slippery bit of fabric up her supine form,
tug it over her head, and drop it heedlessly on the floor.
Her chest now naked, pale and delicate and vulnerable
upon the bedclothes, Mulder paused for a moment as if to take
it all in. He lie beside her, their legs still entwined, his palm
flattened on the zipper of her jeans. He wasn't touching skin.
Not a bit of it.
But she wished with everything she had that he would.
"You were afraid to show me this?" he murmured after
a time, his gaze focused on her breasts.
"Not afraid exactly," she said quietly, her hands by
her sides. "Ashamed maybe."
"Ashamed?" he echoed in amazement, his eyes finding
hers.
"I want to give you the best of me, Mulder," she said
softly, striving to come up with a way to make him understand.
"The best?" he asked confusedly.
"Yes," she said with a tiny nod. "The best of who I
am. Inside and out. Not only for you. But for me too."
He just looked at her, his forehead wrinkled, wordlessly
asking for clarification.
"I've never been willing to come to a man as anything
less than an equal," she said in a hushed, throaty voice. "Not
even to you."
He hung his head, evading her gaze. "Do you think
I treat you as less than my equal?"
"Sometimes," she replied honestly, her expression
betraying no anger, no hurt at the notion. "But I don't think
you do it purposely."
"I don't," he said hoarsely, the words puffing against
her shoulder.
She reached up and lightly stroked his chin. "I know.
But it happens every once and awhile just the same."
He sighed, and slid his hand upwards where it at last
met flesh. Softly, he rubbed his thumb against her suddenly
ticklish middle. "So what has any of this got to do with your
wanting to make love for the first time lights off, eyes closed?"
She chuckled, her fingertips weaving through the hair
on his brow. 'Make love'. She liked the sound of that. "We've
waited a long time, Mulder. I wanted this to be . . . special. I
still want it to."
His eyes turned tender, his mouth gentled into a ghost
of a smile. "And you think the loss of a few pounds is going to
keep that from happening?"
She shrugged a tad sheepishly. "I worried that it
might. Yeah."
"Stop your worrying, Scully," he mumbled as he
dipped his head once more. "Let me assure you--I've got no
complaints."
"Good," she whispered with a smile of her own.
Then his mouth closed over her nipple.
And her smile transformed into a grimace of delight.
"Oh!"
Mulder cupped her breast, lifting it slightly. His
lips clung tightly to its rosy center, pulling at it, cheeks
hollowed with the effort.
"Oh God . . . . ," she whimpered, her back arching,
her lashes fluttering shut.
His fingers flexing carefully on the soft, rounded flesh
nestled in his palm, he snaked his other hand beneath her torso,
balancing her body on his forearm so it bowed, thrusting her
chest upwards towards his eager mouth.
For a time, he simply fed on her, nursing like a
hungry infant, his tongue rubbing slowly and firmly over her
swollen flesh. Then, at last, he drew away, stretching the
ripened peak with his lips before relinquishing it completely.
"Did that seem like I wasn't enjoying myself?" he
muttered as he nuzzled her breast's sensitive under-slope,
brushing against her tender skin with the bridge of his nose.
"Did it feel to you like anything less than 'special'?"
"It felt wonderful, Mulder," she murmured huskily,
her eyes still closed, her fingers clenching and releasing in his
tousled hair, kneading the silky strands like a cat exercising
its claws. "As I'm sure you're well aware."
"We aim to please," he mumbled in between kisses,
his mouth tracing a circular path around one breast before
languidly making its way to the other.
Thunder crashed and boomed just outside their motel
window.
Scully's pulse pounded and roared just behind her
eyes.
"And seeing as you seemed rather 'pleased' before,"
continued her partner, her previously untouched breast now
cradled in his work roughened palm, his thumb sweeping
over its tip, coaxing it to harden, to reach for his mouth, "why
don't we do it again?"
She mewled her approval.
Yet, that apparently wasn't good enough.
Not for Mulder.
"Do you want me to, Scully?" he asked, his tongue
slipping forth to lap gently at her nipple; teasing little strokes
that made her twitch and start in his arms. "Would you like
that?"
"Yes," she urged, the single word harsh and needy,
shamelessly offering herself up to him, pressing back with
her shoulders, tilting up her chin to bare her throat in
surrender. "Please . . . "
Saying nothing more, he answered her entreaty. His
mouth descended upon the stiffened bit of pink, covering
it with moist heat. Suckling hard, he drew on her nipple,
laved it with his tongue. Crying out her enjoyment, she
twisted her head fitfully upon the pillow, her breath expelling
in short, ragged gusts.
"I like the taste of your skin," he told her some minutes
later, lifting his head to nudge and nip at her breast, his voice
little more than a mutter. "I like the feel of it, the smell of it,
the way it glows even with only that tacky lamp for light."
He pressed his lips to her, dotted her chest with a trio
of quick, soft kisses; one on each nipple, another directly
between her breasts. Bracing himself over her, he smiled down
into her flushed face, his eyes trained on hers.
"What can I tell you, Scully?" he murmured with a
lift of his brows. "I'm a happy man."
"I bet I know a way to make you happier," she retorted
blithely, her fingers reaching for his zipper.
But before she could lower it, a mammoth bolt of
lightning cracked wickedly just outside their window, startling
them both. Almost immediately, its attendant thunder bellowed
its fury, and before either agent could comment, the room was
plunged into darkness.
"What the--?" Mulder mumbled, turning his head
towards the window. The rain continued unabated, the wind
howled and moaned. Yet, although they lie in shadows,
something pulsed bright and golden through the blinds.
"Hold that thought," he instructed with a noisy kiss,
and leveraging himself off her smaller form, he slipped from
the bed to pad mutely to the window.
"What is it?" Scully queried, pushing herself to a
sitting position and running a hand through her tangled locks.
He twisted the blinds open to their fullest and chuckled.
"The gas station across the way. They've still got power."
"While we don't?" she asked even though she already
knew the answer
"It doesn't look that way," he replied, peering intently
through the rain slicked glass. "I don't see any lights on this
side of the road at all. On the other side, however, it's
business as usual. That great big neon arrow is working
just fine."
"Leave the blinds open then," she instructed quietly,
kneeling now on the bedspread. "No one is going to be playing
Peeping Tom on a night like this."
He looked over his shoulder at her, his face largely
hidden from view, swallowed by the room's murkiness, his
silhouette backlit in starts and stops. "You want me to see
you, Scully?"
She wet her lips, aware that Mulder could discern
her expression far better than she could his. Yet, she didn't
need to look in his eyes to know what she would see there.
It was the same thing she felt certain shimmered in her own.
Need.
Both physical and emotional.
"Yes," she said softly, scooting backwards so she
now stood as well, facing Mulder, the bed between them. "I
want you to see me."
He turned to regard her more fully, his feet planted
shoulders' width apart, his hands at his sides. A black outline
of a man, still and forbidding.
Whose every inch was known to her, memorized years
before.
Loved and trusted.
As no one else on earth.
"Show me," he whispered.
She nodded.
Head bowed, her hands found the button at the waist of
her jeans. A quick flick of her thumb and index finger, and it
slipped from its hole. Grabbing hold of the zipper, she eased
open her pants, slid her hands inside the gaping fabric and
pushed the denim to the floor. Clad only in her panties and
socks, she paused.
"All of it," he directed, his voice rumbling like an
echo of thunder.
She bobbed her chin again, and bracing her hand
against the bed, yanked first one sock free, then the other.
Straightening, she aimed her gaze where she imagined his
must be. With the yellow neon flashing honey-colored bars
across her skin, she took hold of her bikinis, pulling them
over her hips, shimmying just a bit when they stretched across
the fullest portion of her anatomy. Bending over, she kept
her eyes focused on the man watching her, tall and lean, and
silent as snowfall, and guided her panties down and away.
Naked, she stood once more, proud and slim, a silent
challenge issued now that her clothes had at long last been
shed. This is who I am, she wordlessly told the man studying
her so intently. During the time we have worked together, the
years you have stood by my side, you have to come to know
what's inside of me. The way I think, the values I hold dear,
what makes me laugh or moves me to tears.
This is what houses all of that, Mulder. This is what
is left of my physical self, the part the cancer has not yet
ravished.
Is it enough for you?
"God," he breathed after a moment or two, the word
properly reverent.
And yet, not truly directed heavenward.
Smiling, Scully knew she had her answer.
Saying nothing, she climbed atop the bed. Crawling,
breasts slightly swaying, she came to just before him. Remaining
mute as well, he crossed the few steps to meet her. She sat back
on her heels and looked up at him. This close, she could just
make out his face, although night cloaked it still.
"You know, the more I think about it, the more I like
your reasoning, Mulder," she murmured, her fingers finding
his belt buckle and pulling the strip of leather free.
"That's a first," he muttered under his breath.
Brow arched at his quip, she reached around and
pinched his behind. He yelped, but didn't seem to overly take
offense.
"Behave yourself," she directed quietly, bemused in
spite of herself.
"With you naked and your hand on my fly?" he retorted,
absently rubbing his palm over the seat of his pants. "Not a
chance."
"And here I was commending you," she said, popping
the button at the waist of his jeans and grabbing hold of the
zipper tab beneath it.
"Don't let me stop you," he mumbled soft and low, his
fingers combing lightly through her hair. "Please . . . continue."
She smiled at the double meaning inherent in his plea,
and followed through on his request. "All I'm saying is I've
come to realize there's something to be said for full disclosure."
"Full disclosure?" he queried as she slowly peeled
open his jeans.
"Looks pretty full to me," she replied cheekily, cupping
his erection through his boxers, weighing him in her palm.
He chuckled, the sound rough and rueful. "Thanks. I
think."
"My pleasure," she whispered, slipping her hands inside
his shorts and easing them and his pants to just above his
knees. His penis rose swollen and hard from the joining
of his legs, bobbing towards her beseechingly. Gently, she
stroked it, smoothed her fingertips along his hot, silky
length.
Mulder swallowed a groan and curled his fingers,
tangling them in her auburn tresses. His eyes slid shut.
"Why do I have a feeling it may be mine as well?"
he mumbled, his body beginning to quiver beneath her delicate
caress.
Scully looked up at him, peered through the darkness
to witness the intensity of her partner's pleasure, the near
rapture her simple touch wrought.
His lips parted, swollen from their kisses.
His lashes feathering over the hollows beneath his
eyes.
Every sense, every smidgen of attention focused on
her. Poised and yearning. Longing for more. From her.
And her alone.
Lucky for him she was in a generous mood.
"You always were one for hunches, Mulder," she said
as she adjusted her position on the bedspread, and brought her
face nearer to his straining cock. Closing her hand firmly
around the root of his maleness, she guided it towards her,
stretched it away from his belly. Bowing her head, she gave
him a friendly swipe of her tongue.
"Scully . . . . ," he moaned, swaying in her grasp.
"Looks like this particular premonition of yours was
right on target," she murmured, softly rubbing her cheek along
him, loving the slide of skin against heated skin.
With that, she took him between her lips, slid him
slowly inside her to rest upon her tongue. For a moment, she
just held him there, imprisoning him sweetly in the warm,
wet confines of her mouth.
"Oh God, Scully," he whispered helplessly, keeping
his hips absolutely still. "My God . . ."
She could smell the muted, musky scent of him,
taste the salt on his flesh, feel his need shuddering through
him with nearly the same violence as the storm battering
their motel. It was heady stuff, she thought, to be the one
who could either fulfill or deny Mulder's dearest, deepest
desire. He wanted her now. Desperately. She knew this
unequivocally. But he wouldn't take her. Wouldn't force
or coerce. Even now, with sweat beading on his forehead,
his eyes screwed tight with concentration, he was waiting
on her. Letting her choose whether he should be allowed
relief.
As if she could gainsay him anything.
Keeping her lips sealed tightly around him, she
pulled her mouth upwards until only the rounded tip of
him remained secreted within. Holding him there, she
traced his circumference with her tongue, licking lightly
around the crown.
Mulder whimpered. But did not move.
Smiling around his width, Scully did.
Her hands stealing around to bracket his hips, she
pushed her face to his groin, then away. In and out, she
slid over him, the pace measured, the pressure unyielding,
her tongue stroking him relentlessly. Gradually, the man
in her thrall began to tilt his pelvis, forward and back, the
movement subtle, tightly reined.
Yet almost vibrating with the depth of his arousal.
"You don't know . . . " he murmured brokenly, his
voice scarcely audible above the tempest. "You can't . . .
you can't know."
But she could. And she did. She understood the
wonder of it, the beauty of it. Knew how fiercely intimate
the act was, how powerful, how wondrously erotic. Looking
up at his tortured face, she would have liked almost nothing
more than for this man to find completion in her mouth, to
spill inside her while she took nothing for herself other than
satisfaction for a job well done.
But, despite his obvious enjoyment, Mulder wasn't
willing to let her be so selfless.
Taking a deep, wrenching breath, he all at once
knotted his hands in her hair, and pulled her from him
with far less care than she would have taken on his own.
Cradling her face in his palms, he gazed down at her,
his eyes ebony-dark in the neon shadows.
"Not like this, Scully," he whispered gruffly, his
thumbs circling her temples. "Not the first time. That's
not what I want."
"What =do= you want, Mulder?" she queried, her
fingertips resting lightly on his wrists, her behind setting
squarely on her heels.
"You."
Lightning dazzled her for just an instant. An instant
later, Mulder's lips were covering hers. She met his kiss
hungrily, angling her mouth beneath his. But she only
allowed them the briefest measure of contact before pulling
away to tumble back atop the bed. From there, she looked up
at him with soft, slumberous eyes, her arms framing her face,
her legs splayed with a kind of wanton abandon.
"Here I am," she whispered, consciously echoing
his earlier words. "So, now that you've got me, what are you
going to do with me?"
His patience apparently at an end, Mulder roughly
shoved his pants and boxers to the floor, shucked his socks
from his feet, his gaze never releasing its hold on hers. "I'm
sure I'll come up with something."
"I'm sure you will," she assured him quietly,
mesmerized by the play of light and dark on her partner's
lanky body. The way it brought into sharp relief the
elegant construction of his frame, highlighted the supple
curvature of his muscles.
"Count on it."
At long last naked, Mulder crossed from the foot
of the bed to even with her waist. Stretching out his hand,
he traced one long, lean finger up the inside of her turned-
out thigh, slowly trailing it from her knee to just shy of the
wiry copper curls guarding her sex.
His eyes following the path of his hand, he swallowed
hard, his expression oddly grave. When he spoke, the words
sounded bumpy and small. "You're probably not going to
believe this, Scully."
"Try me," she urged.
He smiled at her turn of phrase before his face
turned solemn once more.
"Right now . . . here . . . with you. I don't think
I have ever wanted anything more in my entire life."
What was there to say to that? He already knew
the feeling was mutual.
So instead she opened up her arms to him, wordlessly
inviting him into her embrace, her body; reminding him of
the place he already owned within her heart.
And carefully lowering himself over her, Mulder
came inside.
Lightning flickered like a battalion of fireflies outside
their window. Coming together for the first time sans clothes,
the pair on the bed groaned one right after the other, the rough,
urgent sound seemingly taking the place of thunder.
Sucking in a quick breath, Scully tensed for an instant
as Mulder slowly pushed between her legs, not so much in pain
as in a kind of surprise.
Hearing her, he instantly held utterly still. "You
okay?"
Nodding, she said softly. "It's just been awhile, that's
all."
He bent his head to brush a kiss to her ear. "You know
what they say about riding a bike, Scully?"
"Seems to me I've heard it before," she murmured, her
hands stroking restlessly across his taut shoulders and back.
"It's the same thing," he muttered, nibbling her lobe.
"I promise. You'll be surprised how quickly it all comes back
to you."
She chuckled, lolling her head on the pillow, his breath
tickling her in ways she had never dreamed possible. "Do you
speak from experience?"
"Wouldn't that actually be an oxymoron in this case?"
he countered playfully, nuzzling her hairline.
"Who're you calling a moron?" she grumbled in mock
indignation, gradually relaxing now as her body adjusted to
his presence.
"Not you, Dr. Scully," he assured her soothingly,
anointing her face with kisses. "Definitely not you."
Grinning up at him, she twined her arms around his
shoulders. They could do this. They could most certainly do
this. "Hey, Mulder?"
"Yeah?"
"Take me for a spin."
Smiling down at her, his hair falling across his
brow to tangle in his lashes, he pressed forward with his hips.
Filling her inch by inch, he stretched the delicate, humid tissue
sheathing him until at last he was buried to the hilt.
Moaning with his own enjoyment, Mulder dropped
his head and mumbled into her shoulder, "Are we good?"
"We're great," she whispered back, her eyelashes
drooping.
Lifting his head from the crook of her neck, he softly
pressed his lips to hers. "You know, I think we are."
Withdrawing slowly, he surged forward once more.
Smooth and hard and hot.
Scully sighed.
This was more like it.
Moving with an easy sort of rhythm, Mulder began
to slide in and out of her, one arm beneath her shoulders, the
other helping to support his weight. At first, he watched her
eyes, seemingly intent on sparing her any unnecessary discomfort.
But as soon as it became evident such fears were unfounded,
he returned to burying his face against the side of her neck, his
breath warm and moist against her skin.
"Perfect," he mumbled into her hair, his hips rising
and falling with ever increasing urgency. "This is . . . God,
Scully, . . . you feel . . . "
She locked her heels around the backs of his thighs,
dug her fingers into the firm, rounded globes of his ass, holding
him to her with a ferocity that surprised even her. "I know . . . "
"Hang on . . . hang on to me."
"Yes . . . "
"Don't let go."
"I won't."
Onward, he drove, moving steadily, fluid and
quick within her hot, slick walls; gliding endlessly over the
swollen knot of nerves hidden away within her folds, glancing
at it from first one angle, then another. Over and over, he
stroked across the center of her sensation, exciting it the same
way a musician fingers a guitar string, drawing from it a similar
music. A simple sort of note, lovely and pure, resounded within
her, echoing from one end of her small frame to the other,
deepening in tone and intensity the longer it played.
She wanted to scream with it, to wrap her body around
Mulder's like second skin and shout her song to the heavens,
challenging the thunder and the wind with the power of her
voice. But she wasn't ready. Not yet. Not judging by the
faint moans and gasps trickling feebly from between her lips.
No.
The crescendo was still a ways off.
Still, that didn't mean she couldn't help it along.
Hitching her one leg a bit higher, she hooked it around
Mulder's waist. He ran his hand down the side of her thigh to
her knee and back again as if approving of her action. He then
trailed his fingers up her middle, kneading her breast, tweaking
her nipple. Scully shuddered, arching her back, her teeth closing
on her lower lip.
"You like that?" he asked hoarsely, his groin slapping
against hers, his passion-clouded hazel eyes now boring down
into her equally foggy blue ones.
"Yes," she told him softly. "Yes, of course,"
"What about this?" he queried again, gnawing lightly
at the spot where her neck met her shoulder, skimming over the
sensitive slope with his teeth.
She undulated helplessly beneath him, her chin
tipped towards the ceiling, her hips pushing off the mattress
to buck against at his. "Yes. Yes . . . I like all of it."
Nodding, he probed deeper inside her, his cock pumping
fast and furious now, straining as if to reach past her womb.
Sweat poured down Mulder's back, slicking his skin, making
it glisten in the intermittent neon sun. His body felt almost
feverish in her arms, hot and shaky, the restraint he was
exercising nearly palpable. It was as if he were trying
somehow to control what lay within him. To keep under
wraps all the tumultuous emotions, all the terrible memories
that haunted him, the disappointments, the fears. As if he
were attempting master them all. To once and for all bring
them to heel.
Even though he had to know such a quest would
be doomed from the start.
Scully could feel her own body readying, could
sense the quickening of her blood, her breath. She could
almost picture in her head that spring inside her tightening.
The one that would finally launch her skyward ratcheting up
twist by twist, bit by bit, until the poor delicate scrap of metal
couldn't take it anymore. Until the tension became so dreadful,
so absolutely, perfectly awful that the coil reached its breaking
point and . . .
. . . *BOING*
With a cry, she catapulted towards the clouds. Soared
there, floating. Drifting through the atmosphere, weightless,
relaxed, and sun-warmed. Never again wanting to set foot
on the cold, dirty ground.
Or ever leave Mulder's embrace.
The moment she began to clench around him, to
writhe and moan and clutch blindly at him, her nails scratching
his shoulders and back, marking him, he followed her in flight.
Pistoning between her spread legs like a wild man, his arms
crushing her to him, he gave out a low, harsh groan and collapsed
atop her breast, his hips moving still, his body emptying inside
hers.
They rested against each other for what could have
been hours, but was more likely mere minutes. Scully thought
she might have dozed, yet she couldn't be certain. Everything
was just too fuzzy. She couldn't speak. She was exhausted.
Her muscles were already beginning to pipe up with complaints,
though she had none herself. She hadn't felt this good in she
couldn't remember how long. Every single square centimeter
of her tingled. She felt as if one of the many lightning bolts
dancing outside their window had somehow pierced glass,
kissing her with an electric caress.
At last, Mulder rolled off of her, moving slowly and
clumsily as though rousing from a deep and drugging sleep.
She thought he would pull her to his chest, and was already
anticipating what a fine pillow his shoulder would make,
when she realized that instead of adjusting them both to face
each other, he had maneuvered so that his chest was pressed
up against her back and her head was tucked beneath his
chin.
Wondering at this, she lie there quietly, nestled in his
embrace, until Mulder whispered softly, "You can't leave me,
Scully."
She tightened her hands on his arm. "Mulder . . ."
"Not after today."
She tried to turn and look him in the eye, but he
wouldn't allow it. He pressed his cheek to her hair, keeping
her still. Rain exploded against the window, the wind
shimmying it in its frame.
"You can't show a man heaven and then ask him to
do without."
With his words, she could feel her eyes fill, but the
emotion pouring through her wasn't the despair she had felt
before. It wasn't fear of her impending death or the helplessness
that came with knowing her disease was supposedly without
cure.
It was hope.
Tender and fragile as a rosebud.
But beautiful too. And just as full of promise.
"What if I told you I had decided I might live?"
she asked in a hushed voice.
He went completely still, his very breath suspended.
"You what?"
Taking advantage of his sudden inertia, she tried again
to turn and face him. He didn't even attempt to stop her. Once
settled, she looked up, searching his eyes. Tears shone there just
as they did in hers.
"I've thought it over," she said, dragging her fingertips
soothingly across his breast. "And I've realized that maybe things
aren't quite as dire as I'd feared."
"They aren't?" he croaked, his hand skimming gently
over her hair.
"No," she replied, her voice husky but brisk. "I don't
think so."
She touched his chin, his cheek, a shaky smile pulling
at her lips.
"Don't get me wrong, Mulder," she murmured. "I know
I'm sick."
She balled her fists and pounded them once against his
chest; lightly, for emphasis.
"But I'm not dead yet."
He thinned his lips, his hand reaching out to cradle
her face. "Scully--"
"I'm just saying that all this acceptance stuff is fine.
But when you get right down to it, I still have to live each day
as it comes."
He slowly nodded.
"And I want to live each fully," she said, salt water
dribbling down her cheeks. "With you. Fighting every step of
the way. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
He nodded again, quick and hard, his tears now
overflowing as well. "I love you."
She smiled for him as best she could. "I love you too."
Suddenly, lightning lit up their room, momentarily
outshining the pulsing neon. When thunder grumbled after, low
and surly, a thought occurred to Scully unexpectedly. One that
brought a genuine smile to her lips. Rolling over once more,
she presented Mulder with her back, fitting herself to his larger
form so that the two of them were cuddled close, both facing
the window.
"You know what, Mulder?" she softly queried.
"What?"
"I just thought of something."
"Hmm?"
"Did you ever notice how a really good thunderstorm
can remind you of fireworks?"
"I guess so," he murmured sleepily, drawing her nearer
still. "I never really thought about it."
"I did," she said dreamily, feeling warm and cozy and
so terribly loved. "And for tonight, that's exactly the kind of
thing I had hoped for."
* * * * * * * *
THE END
"Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the
dance?"--(The Lobster-Quadrille) Lewis Carroll, "Alice's
Adventures in Wonderland"
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