Second Thoughts by Flynn E-MAIL ADDRESS: flyn121@yahoo.com Website: www.geocities.com/cratkinsonflynn DATE: June 17, 2001 E-MAIL ADDRESS: flyn121@yahoo.dom DISTRIBUTION:H Ask and you'll receive. I read that somewhere once. FEEDBACK: Please let me know if you like it. Or if you don't. I'm easy. RATING: NC-17 for language, adult acts of affection. TIMEFRAME: One week after the events of "all things", although not strictly a post-ep. KEYWORDS: MSR, Smut DISCLAIMER: As always, characters belong to Carter. Initial lovefest kudos go to Anderson. No money involved here. SUMMARY: Things have been a little tense since the much-anticipated consummation. Special thanks to Christine the Faithful and Willing To Read And Re-read And Re-re-read. She gives new meaning to the word Patience. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Second Thoughts by Flynn ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~M~~~ Whoever said silence was golden never met Dana Scully. Which was a pity, because she had so much to offer. Well, normally she did. Now? Disheveled and pissed off from the long, rough flight, angry that he'd dragged her so far north on what, it was now evident, was a nothing case; and then sitting for so long on the roadside on the outskirts of a shitwater town with the car mired up to the windows in snow as more fell around them .... Silence was not golden. It definitely was not golden. In fact, if it had any color at all, it would be scarlet. Flaming, throbbing, you're-in-such-shit-now red. Red like the pain the time Samantha slammed your hand in the car door when you were eleven. Red like the uniforms of those unlucky guys on Star Trek, the ones you KNEW were going to get their asses kicked, the ones that were destined for the glue factory simply by virtue of the shirts they were wearing. Not that he could personally attest to having actually having SEEN the color red. Not as such. Being color-blind did limit one's perspective. But he knew the shade of gray that indicated the presence of red. God knows, he'd seen enough of it leaking out of them both to be able to spot it without much difficulty. An hour of stony silence, sitting there freezing his ass off because she wouldn't let him run the car enough just to keep the engine warm. Carbon monoxide poisoning, she'd pointed out in that flat, rational, how'd-I-ever-get-stuck-with-someone-as-dense-as-you tone of voice. God, he hated that voice. He hated how she could load each syllable with contempt until the vowels fairly dripped with venom. He hated the way she refused to look at him, the way she told him without words that any apology on his part would be nothing short of whining, and that any defense of his actions or his professional speculations would be viewed as mere excuses. Real men didn't offer up excuses. Real men were stoic. Real men were silent and took what was coming to them. Oh, that was rich, wasn't it? SHE was stoic. Did that make HER a real man? Not like any he'd ever slept with, that was for damn sure. And what about that? It wasn't just the silence sitting between them in the frigid car like a third person. A week, and nothing. A week since she'd climbed into his bed, a week since she'd turned his life on its ass and his heart to mush; a week since she'd stolen his breath away and hadn't yet given it back .... and nothing. No repeat performance, although to be fair, they hadn't exactly had a whole lot of personal time since then. All right, but there hadn't even been a passing reference to what had been, for him, the best night of his sorry life. Hell, she hadn't so much as touched his arm or straightened his tie in days. Nothing. He glanced at her, huddled in her own seat, arms folded tightly around her, her gaze resolute out the front window, and he tried for the umpteenth time to divine her thoughts about that night. Her expression was a blank mask; if she noticed him looking, she did not react. Dammit, she didn't regret it, did she? It wasn't the first time that thought had plagued him, of course. Waking up alone in the morning had dealt his ego a real knock, and not the kind that she typically inflicted. This wasn't professional. This wasn't a question of evidence or tangible proof she could put in one of those fucking field files he knew she kept. That he was used to. THAT he could deal with. This was personal. Sighing, he turned and looked out his side window. How long had it been since he'd called for the damned tow truck? How long had they been sitting there, listening to nothing but the sounds of their breathing, watching as the gentle snowfall inexorably buried the whole damn car? Dammit, so much time together here, SO many things they could be doing that would both pass the time AND keep them warm .... and were they doing any of them? Were they shedding clothes in the back seat, their limbs entangled, the heat from their sweaty bodies fogging the windows and blanketing them in perfect anonymity? Shit, were they even holding hands? Would they be doing .... well, anything .... if they hadn't bickered over the case? If he hadn't called her hard-headed and myopic, if she hadn't proven herself to be the daughter of a sailor and told him to shut the fuck up .... if he hadn't taken his eyes off the snowy road for that one fateful instant, looking at her in shock at the words he KNEW she had to think from time to time but had NEVER actually said .... if he HADN'T driven the car off the road and squarely into a huge snowdrift which, during the summer months, was actually the front pasture of one Lars Anderson, dairy farmer. Jesus, he was tired of reading that mailbox. Where would they be? Back in town, smoothing ruffled feathers over a bland but serviceable steak dinner - well, steak for him and probably something like stir-fried bean curds and alfalfa spouts for her - and then a night at the Holiday Inn where they already had reservations for adjoining rooms. Maybe she'd leave the door ajar and he would get up in the middle of the night to take a leak, and she'd hear him and ask if everything was okay, and he'd stand at the open door and smile as he looked at her, and maybe she'd beckon to him with her hand or her voice or maybe just her eyes, and they'd spend the rest of the night lying there talking, or watching the tube and NOT talking. They wouldn't horse around, of course, even if she DIDN'T regret having done the deed with him, because they were on a case and they were professionals. But he didn't care; watching her sleep was watching her sleep, regardless of whether she was wiped out from the day's work or utterly spent from playing London Bridge beneath the long, full, warm press of his body. She didn't regret it, did she? Damn if he could keep his thoughts from coming back to that one point, picking at it as if it were a scab that just wouldn't heal. He didn't think she did. After all, SHE'D initiated the whole thing. And she'd clearly enjoyed herself. He could still feel the pressure of her arms and legs latched onto his body; could feel her moving and writhing, hear those sweet little sounds she made despite her obvious effort to be quiet. He could feel her mouth, so warm and mobile, licking and biting his neck and his shoulder, and doing a damned good job of raising goosebumps on his goosebumps. Oh, hell. Despite the miserable bite in the air and the bone-deep ache in his extremities, SOMETHING was beginning to stir at the delicious memories. Shit - time to redirect. He glanced at Scully, determined to break the stalemate, wondering what he could say that might sound decent and halfway clever, but not brittle and snotty - but then she turned her head away, and he knew, he KNEW, that she had been watching him from the corner of her eye and had deliberately looked away so he couldn't engage her. Indignity swelled in him. Fine. She liked the silence? He could do silence. He could draw the battle out just as long as she could. With a soft huff that he KNEW she would catch, he turned away and looked out over the white expanse. A dark something, moving slowly, caught his eyes. A cow, of course. Can't be a dairy farmer without the appropriate animals. He watched it with the interest born of extreme boredom. Flat back. Slow, ponderous steps through the slowly accumulating snow. That thing that hung down in back. How did it do it? How could such a hideous phantasm produce a substance that made coffee taste so damned good? God, he really was starting to lose it, wasn't he? Another movement caught his eyes. Another dark something, this one much larger and much, MUCH faster than a cow, complete with flashing yellow lights and swinging chains, and thank God if there is such a being, the tow-truck is finally, finally, FINALLY here .... ~~~S~~~ Mulder could be such a damn pig. Not for the silence he'd thrown at her. After all, she was the one who'd told him to shut up. Couldn't fault him for following orders. For once. And he wasn't really a pig for calling her names. After so many years, her being myopic was just a given. He wasn't even a pig for being pissy about this case. Case, ha! Non-case. They'd had no business even getting on that plane. What was it with Skinner, anyway? How had this 302 even gotten past him? What, was he actively TRYING to get them audited again? Was he going through some bizarre personal crisis that affected his judgement? Or WAS there even a 302? She was beginning to have her doubts. Wouldn't be the first time her bastard partner had hustled her out of town for no other reason than to alleviate his boredom. Not that they'd found much diversion up here in the Great White North. Missing person. Philandering husband. Nothing unique, and certainly nothing supernatural. Had it been the vengeful and ghostly lover from the creep's past, as Mulder has posited? Had his understandably pissed off wife actually dispatched him in his sleep, as his other woman so firmly attested? Hell, had the bastard driven off a bridge and drowned in the murky waters of the Madison river as he plied the distance between women? No. He'd turned up alive and well and thoroughly unrepentant in the bed of yet another woman, this one the manager of the Quickie Lube over in the neighboring town. The cheater cheats again. Case closed. The only thing that had died that weekend was Scully's appetite, and THAT was from the horrible plane ride into this God-forsaken town. No, it wasn't Mulder's fault that the plane encountered such severe turbulence, or that Scully had used up every airsick bag they could get their collective hands on. What damn well WAS his fault was the fact that they were there in the first place. And now he had the balls to pout because the case had fallen apart? He was punishing her after HE messed up and nose-dived the damned car into a snow-drift the size of Kersh's ego? HE was chafing over the simple fact that they couldn't run the heater? Was that HER fault if the practice was dangerous and more than occasionally fatal? Hell, was ANY of this her fault? Pig. And what the hell was wrong with him, anyway? He hadn't been himself in days. Not since that night in his apartment. Was it because they'd made love? What, had he built it up so much over the past eight years that the reality just couldn't compare to the fantasy? Was that it - was he disappointed? That didn't speak well of his regard for her, did it? Did he regret sleeping with her? The thought was troubling, to say the least. No, that couldn't be it. Sitting next to him, first on that hideous plane ride and then on the drive from the airport - before all hell broke loose in the manager's apartment - he'd given off an almost palpable energy. They were together on the road and they were working. He was never happier than at times like this. Besides, it was hard to miss that look in his eye when she caught him looking at her chest. That expression didn't even remotely look like regret. Then what the hell was wrong with him? She couldn't figure him out. Thank God the tow truck had come when it did. Saved her from a long, cold, and ultimately dangerous walk back to town. Two miles wasn't so much, right? She could run farther. But this wasn't the health club in Georgetown. This was a narrow country road all but hidden under a thick blanket of snow, and the daylight was beginning to wane. Walking would have been stupid. Frustrating. Over an hour spent sitting there watching time creep by, watching Farmer Anderson's cow disappear under a snow-drift, and listening to the sound of his breathing and her own slow, steady heartbeat. Thinking how he had, a few short days before, made her pulse race, made her pant and moan, and God! how she wanted to turn and grab his face and kiss him until they couldn't breathe and they both forgot that they were partners working on a case .... Then Reggie Republican had arrived on the scene, and within ten minutes of showing up with his 25 hour towing - and where the hell did they think they'd find that extra hour, anyway? - the car was wrenched from the snow bank and set up on its wheels again, largely unscathed, and Mulder's credit card was safely ensconced in the clipboard as Reggie studiously recorded numbers and dates. To top it all off, the ballsy bastard had looked at the thinly fogged windows and then actually winked at her. "Sorry it took so long. Looks like you two managed to stay warm, eh?" She could only clench her teeth until her jaws ached. Now they were in the Holiday Inn's lackluster office, waiting to register. The short drive from the scene of their "incident" had barely given the car engine time to warm up - the heater was blowing tepid air when they pulled in - and she still ached from the cold. And what did they arrive to find? Reggie's second cousin Richard the plumber, working away on a ruptured pipe in what was supposed to be HER room. Was there another one for her? With the town all but shut down by this storm, and another expected in tomorrow? Of course not. Not fair. She wanted to scream it over and over, wanted to throw herself into a chair and stomp her feet and cry hot tears. Not that she ever would. But she needed a bath and maybe a cup of soup for her aching stomach, and then a long night somewhere - anywhere other than the front seat of that car. If Mulder could conduct himself like the adult his driver's license proclaimed him to be, so much the better. So they had to share a room. Again. Fine. She could curl up next to him on the bed, or even sleep on the couch, if there was one. He wouldn't touch her, of that she was sure, no matter how much she might want him to. They were on a case. It wasn't appropriate. For some reason that was important to him. She didn't fully understand, and she didn't particularly agree, but she respected his wishes. Really, did she have a choice? Only it wasn't going to happen like that. Clearly there would be no getting along on THIS little sleepover. He followed her silently onto the elevator and then through sprawling hallways to the one remaining free room and, without so much as uttering a single syllable, handed her the key. His eyes were unfocused and distant, his mouth set in a harsh line. She glared at the hapless lock as her cold fingers fumbled with the key. It had not helped things when the clerk assumed they were married and gave the damn thing to him. Fucking provincial towns. Dammit! She sighed quickly and set her shoulders. Fine. Whatever. He was going to be an uncompromising horse's ass, that couldn't be helped - but damned if she was going to play the thoughtful little partner. He could forget about her taking the couch. Not on this trip. There may be only one bed, but it was a big one. Like it or not, he was going to share it. At last the key slid home in the deadbolt. Impatiently she gave the door a pop with her shoulder, then promptly tripped and almost fell into the room. Damn her cold feet, and damn that fucking raised threshold. She heard a sound behind her as she struggled to right herself, one that almost could have been a muffled snort, but a quick glance over her shoulder revealed only his carefully blank expression. Smart boy, she growled inwardly as she dropped the key on the dresser. For a moment she stood there, surveying the unremarkable décor. Bed and curtains done up in bland, unoriginal colors. A small table beneath a weary-looking swag lamp. In the corner, the unavoidable sofa, evidently built to fit the dimensions of a poorly-nourished child. Sure, fine, whatever. Her overnight bag was still clutched in her nearly-frozen hand; she wondered if she could get him to help pry her stiff fingers away from the handle. Behind her, she heard the door close and lock, and then the TV went on. Fine. She didn't need his help anyway. Without a word she kicked her shoes off, then lurched into the bathroom and slapped the lights on. The door made a nice, satisfying THUNK as she slammed it shut behind her. A hot bath. A hot bath and a halfway decent bed, and maybe she wouldn't feel like pulling her gun and shooting him in the kneecap. If he was lucky. ~~~M~~~ He grunted softly as he threw himself backwards onto the bed. Oh, yes - the mattress gave a satisfying bounce under his weight. He scooped up the remote and punched buttons. News. News. News. Great, the storms were now expected to shut down the airport. Scully would love that. Network news, state and local - what, no basketball? It was the middle of the playoffs, for God's sake. Impatiently he surfed through the dozen or so channels that were actually broadcasting. Entertainment Tonight. Commercial. More news. What the hell time was it, anyway? Six by the local time, seven by his. He glanced at the bathroom door and sighed irritably. Flip channels. Flip. Flip. A Star Trek repeat. Wonderful. The Pretender. No thanks. Some bald guy trying to convince him to buy a car. Pass. Oh, yes, eye-candy: women in leotards trying like hell to sell him exercise equipment. Hey, it wasn't exactly the Spice channel, but there was no chance he'd be able to watch that even if it did come with the room, which it didn't. He pursed his lips as he admired the blonde's smooth lines. Mmm, the brunette was nice, too. Long hair and longer legs. Oh, but the redhead was the hottest number of all. Peaches and cream complexion, a few nice pearls of sweat on her upper lip, her cheeks nicely flushed, and those eyes .... smoky and dark and hypnotic. Jesus, she could turn a workout into a lapdance. The comparison came almost automatically after so many years and he felt a characteristic stab of guilt, almost as if he were doing something wrong. Scully WAS prettier. She had that little mark under her nose, and bottom teeth that overlapped just the tiniest bit, and a sweet rosebud mouth that had just the right pout to it. The woman on TV was built like a brick chicken house. Oh man, it was all wrong - she should be shorter and have soft, natural curves, not tits that looked like they'd been etched out of silicone. In fact, the woman on the tube probably wasn't even a real redhead. He knew the look. Yeah, she might be Miss Nympho-Exerciser right now, but one of her other gigs HAD to include a box of Nice ?n Easy. He'd lay money on it. He sighed as he stared blankly at the set. He shook his head. Shit, what the hell was the matter with him? He couldn't look at another woman without comparing her to his partner, even when she wasn't speaking to him? How sick was that? That thought was more than a little provocative. A smile tugged unexpectedly at his mouth. He should apologize for today. He knew that. She hadn't demolished the case. She hadn't taken his inspired theories and flushed them down the john out of some malicious sense of pleasure. She hadn't really done anything except point out the obvious, which made this case no different from any other they'd worked on over the past seven-plus years. One thing she HAD done, as she always did, was drop everything in DC and follow him onto that plane. He dropped the remote and scrubbed at his face with his hands. Restless, he shoved himself to his feet and stripped off his shirt. It still reeked of cigarette smoke from their time in the manager's apartment. No chance he'd get to see Scully swathed in that and nothing else tonight, was there? Shit. For a moment he flashed back on that room: all but choking on air thick with cigarette smoke and the unmistakable tang of sex, listening to his partner's stiff, stilted questions and wishing they could just get the hell out of there. He tossed the shirt over the back of a chair and went to his suitcase, thrown haphazardly in the closet niche. No, he couldn't put on anything clean yet, not until he had a chance to shower. Bad enough that one thing smelled like Spender himself. He went back to the bed and sat down heavily, then hung his head and rubbed his face again. He needed a shave. He needed a shower. He needed her to get out of the fucking bathroom. A soft groan escaped him. A soft sound suddenly cut through the quiet, and he sat upright with a start. A tiny snick. Bathroom door. He looked away quickly. She was too good at reading his expression. Nothing would be gained by her seeing his misery, and she surely would. He glanced at the TV and saw the same commercial playing. The bald guy again. Man, he really wanted to sell those cars. He sat forward again, pretending to listen with great interest to the voiceover. Gus Manly Motors. Sweetest deal in town. Gotcha, Gus. He heard a soft footfall and sat up again. She had changed into her pajamas, and her hair looked damp. She hadn't washed it, had she? She'd freeze. Ah, shit - he hadn't even thought about turning up the heat. Was she cold? He spared her a quick glance. Sure enough, she was hugging herself for warmth, and he had no trouble at all making out her nipples through the thin material of her shirt. "Jesus, it's freezing in here. Is the heater broken?" He leapt to his feet. "Uh .... actually, I wasn't sure if .... I mean, I didn't know if -" She bent over the unit, and his heart gave a little twinge when she sighed softly. "You didn't even check, did you?" Words just didn't seem adequate. He hung his head in shame. She adjusted the controls and was rewarded with a puff of stale air. "Well, at least it works," she said as she turned back. Oh, how pitiful he was - just that little smile and his heart leapt as if he was a child on Christmas day. She was pretty anyway, but standing there like that, not a scrap of makeup on and her pale skin glowing in the light from the TV .... he couldn't think of anything in the world more beautiful. Maybe she didn't still hate him. Except that the smile was fading. What the - Fading, hell - it was *gone.* "No, I see you were busy doing other things." Her eyes hardened as she zeroed in on the television. What, she had a problem with bald guys? He turned, puzzled. Oh, shit. Fucking hell. Scantily-clad women, looking as though what they were doing with that exercise equipment was the height of sexual fulfillment. He looked back at her, a protest starting, but she was already turning away. "Forget it, Mulder. I understand, a guy has priorities. I don't care. The heater's on now, that's what counts. Are you going to be up long? I want to go to bed." When had he forgotten how to talk? Why was it only around her that he developed this damned speech dysfunction? "What? No, you don't - I mean, I didn't ...." He stared at her helplessly. "Bed? Now? Scully, it's the middle of the afternoon." She shot him a hard look as she tugged at the bedspread. "Maybe your internal clock sees it that way, but mine does not. I'm cold and I don't feel well and it's been a really crappy day." She bent over the bed, punching pillows. He wondered if she'd really rather be hitting him. "Did you think to call about getting something for dinner while you were amusing yourself, or do I have to do that, too?" he thought with a vicious stab of self-loathing. "I, uh, I was going to, but I didn't know what you'd feel up to. It isn't snowing too badly just at the moment; I think we can get just about anything ...." Her look was eloquent, her voice edged. "You are SO full of crap. What is it with guys? Why is it they'd rather watch babes make out, be it with barbells or fat, hairy guys, rather than do something as fundamental as feeding themselves? Get away." She slapped at his hand when he reached for the phone. "I don't want to wait two hours for tepid pizza, if it's all the same to you. This place has to have some sort of room service." She sighed as she sat down on the edge of the bed. "Don't just stand there, Mulder," she said without looking at him. "You smell like cigarettes. Go shower. Take that damned shirt with you. Leave it on the floor in the bathroom with my stuff. We'll wrap them up in plastic before we leave in the morning." Dread settled, cold and dark, in the pit of his stomach, and he fell back a wary half-step. "Uh, about that, Scully .... I caught something on the news while you were in the tu- I mean, in the bathroom." He sighed despondently and looked down at his feet. Something else she'd hate him for. Well, no helping it. Be a man. Suck it up. "The storms aren't expected to break for a couple days. The airport's slated to be closed until Saturday at the earliest." She turned then and looked at him, blinking as she absorbed the news. A muscle twitched in her cheek. Slowly her mouth opened and closed, and then her lips pursed into a tight, hard line. "Great," she said, nodding. "Swell. Terrific." He stepped forward again, one hand raised in supplication. She merely looked away again, her expression utterly weary. "Mulder, go take a shower," she said, very softly. Miserable, he turned away. Take a shower. Make it a cold one. Icy cold. He deserved it. He deserved anything she could do to him tonight. ~~~S~~~ Room service was an overstatement. The storm and the number of guests were evidently taxing the kitchen staff, and it was a full hour before a harried waiter delivered their order. Scully sighed as she stared down at her tepid soup. Vegetable beef, and judging from the salt content, it was straight out a can. The crackers were stale. The salad was almost inedible. She glanced up at Mulder and found him staring in dismay at his sandwich and soggy fries. She grimaced as she forced down another bite. It's better than nothing, she told herself, resolute. We might not get anything better than this for days. Besides, you like Campbell's. She glanced at the TV. News had replaced the writhing, under-aged makeup models, and the newscaster was expounding on the dangers of traveling in the dense snowfall. Emergency vehicles were being allowed through some parts of town, but no other traffic. Even if it could be reached, the airport was all but shut down. Frustration simmered low in her gut, but she forced it away. she mentally shook herself. She let her gaze drift to her partner. He must have set a new speed record for showering, she mused, emerging from the bathroom mere moments after the door closed behind him. In that brief time he'd managed to both shower and shave. His rumpled work suit had been replaced by gray sweatpants and a dark T-shirt. A clean pair of socks swathed his feet. His feet .... big and bare and smooth as they caressed her own .... A twinge of melancholy plucked at her, and she looked back at her bowl. It was almost empty. Thank God. At least it wasn't quite so cold in here. The heater had finally managed to take the edge off the chill, but she knew she was going to miss her electric blanket. she mused, Another twinge, this one lower in her abdomen, made her wince. Sleeping next to Mulder. Sleeping next to Mulder, naked. She'd done that once. Once. He sat awkwardly on the side of the bed, balancing the plate on his lap and silently grappling with the sandwich. Not the meal he'd been dreaming about, surely, she thought. No surprise. The flight hadn't exactly been easy on either of them, but rarely did anything happen that affected his appetite. One of life's little injustices. To hell with the rest of the soup. Defeated, she grunted softly as she stood up. He looked at her warily, and for an instant she almost regretted being so hard on him. Not that he hadn't deserved it - but with those puppydog eyes and that doleful expression, it was really difficult to stay angry. She gave her head a shake. Dammit. Even without uttering a word, he could manipulate her. Was he even aware of it? It just wasn't fair. She went to the bed and tugged down the covers. "I'm going to bed now, Mulder," she said over her shoulder. "Please don't be long." Without a word he rose and gathered the dishes, then carried the tray to the door. She heard soft clinks as he set everything out in the hallway and then reset the locks. She sat on the side of the bed and toed off her slippers, then rolled back and slid under the covers. Shit, just as she figured, the sheets were like ice. Biting back a complaint, she shifted uncomfortably, turning this way and that. The mattress was too soft, the pillow too hard, and the bedding smelled of industrial-strength bleach. Ah, Mulder was sliding into bed beside her. Maybe he'd lie close enough that she could smell him instead. Mmm, a nice drag of Mulderscent. Just the thing. The mattress dipped a little under his weight, and the headboard creaked softly in protest. Dammit, he clearly wasn't going to stray one inch from what was evidently his side of the bed. She pursed her lips irritably, then edged her legs back. Maybe if she could manage just a little contact, he'd come around and .... "Yeow!" he barked, recoiling and drawing his own legs up. "Shit, Scully, give me a little warning next time, would you? Dammit, your feet are like ice." No shit, she nearly blurted. Self-righteous anger swelled, and with it a fair amount of embarrassment. So much for seduction. A cold hotel room, a colder afternoon, a useless trip to begin with .... and now a night in bed with someone who refused to touch her, or let himself be touched. Jesus, just let her get through the night without strangling him. She sniffed as she turned away and impatiently flipped onto her stomach. No, that hurt her neck. More tossing produced little more than a loud, put-upon sigh from him. At last she came to rest on her side facing him, knees drawn up, blanket lumped around her chin. He glanced at her, a frown creasing his brow as he asked, "Are you okay?" Oh, the words were polite enough, but the tone fairly shouted *You're driving me nuts - just lie still, for Christ's sake!* She grunted softly, and he looked back at the TV. Fine, she thought sourly. Insomnia plagued him, that she knew, and if watching the tube helped him find some degree of peace, if not outright rest, then more power to him. Just so she didn't have to see more half-naked women engaging in soft porn with exercise equipment. Sleep proved elusive. She was too aware of the body lying so close beside her. So close, and yet always out of reach. Jesus, he smelled good. Wearily she studied him through half-closed eyes. He lay propped up on two pillows, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle - she could tell by the height of the lump under the blankets. He was staring at the screen, unaware of her observation. Why wouldn't he talk to her? Really talk. Not about work. Oh, he could tell her about anything in the X-Files, no matter how ridiculous, and though she'd never let it on to him, he could make her want to believe every word. They were like fairy tales to him, in a way - gruesome, gory, sometimes violent and seldom if ever happy, but fairy tales nonetheless. Rarely, though, did he ever share what went on in his own head, and she just didn't have the training to single it out herself. It was her job to autopsy the bodies, but Mulder .... he did the same thing, only he did it to the mind. His own was a carefully guarded well of secrets, even from her. Especially from her. She sighed again. Physical and emotional. Tangible and ephemeral. Always apart, even when they were so close. It was a long time before she could sleep. ~~~M~~~ He was miserable. He wasn't cold, exactly, but he couldn't seem to get comfortable, and he was afraid that his continual tossing was going to wake her up. And he felt like a total shit for snapping at her. Of course her feet were like ice, he told himself sourly - she was freezing! It wouldn't have hurt him to share a little of his body heat, would it? Shit, would he ever stop fucking up? Okay, so he could deal with the snoring. It wasn't all that loud. It was actually kind of cute. At least she was getting a little well-deserved rest. After all, snoring did indicate sleeping, right? With a sigh, he heaved himself off his back and onto his side. The slow rhythm of sounds beside him abruptly tapered off, and he heard her murmur something as she shifted and moved in turn. He drew his lower lip into his mouth and gently gnawed on it as he settled near her, mirroring the curve of her body with his own. He could feel her warmth in the sheets and trapped in the space between them. Cautiously he leaned closer and drew in a breath. Ah, there it was. He loved her scent. No trace of perfume or that mentholatum stuff she sometimes used to mask the stench of a particularly nasty autopsy. This was soap and sweat - the stuff of his fantasies. He heard the rise and fall of a sigh. Slowly, carefully, he raised his head and propped a hand under his cheek. The room was dark, but a gap in the drapes admitted enough light from a streetlight to cut the shadows and illuminate her profile. Her lashes were long, dark arcs against the curves of her cheeks. Her eyes were still. Pain lanced through his chest at the thought, and he leaned still closer until his forehead just touched her hair. A lump formed in his throat, but he resolutely swallowed it away. Slowly he lifted a hand and smoothed a stray lock of hair away from her eyes. It was frustrating, the fact that he only seemed to have these epiphanies when she was unconscious, whether she was hurt and hospitalized or, like now, just plain sleeping. The times he was angry and adrift - no problem talking then. None whatsoever. Of course, those were usually the times he couldn't seem to shut his mouth. But now, even if he could find a way to tell her .... He bit his lip as he pressed his face into the fall of her hair. He didn't care if she couldn't hear him. Maybe his words would reach her anyway, carried in a miasma of fatigue and half-remembered dreams. "I'm sorry, Scully. God, I'm sorry ...." Shit, he'd disturbed her. Her breath left her in a gentle sigh as she straightened and turned on her side facing him, coming to rest with her nose - hell, her whole body - mere inches from his. He didn't retreat, didn't dare move at all except for his eyes. He'd never get tired of looking at her. Never. Her lips opened as she drew in another languid breath, and he smiled at the memories of the sighs and moans he'd heard come out of that mouth. God, he wanted to make her do it again. He found himself smiling. So pretty .... God, she was so pretty .... "Mmm .... what are you sorry for now?" His breath caught in his throat and almost made him choke. She was AWAKE? Jesus, how much had he said? All those thoughts about her family and her future - he hadn't actually said them aloud, had he? He didn't think he had. Jesus, what if he had? He stared at her mutely. She was smiling now. It was a slow, sleepy sort of smile, but a smile nonetheless. Maybe she wasn't still pissed at him. He held himself very still when a hand settled on his cheek. Her fingers were warm as they skimmed his face, stroking temple and forehead. Her thumb found its way to his mouth, and he gasped when it stroked its way across his lips. "Mulder," she prompted softly, "what are you apologizing for?" His mouth opened and closed twice in quick succession before he finally managed to force a sound out. "Ugh .... ugh .... well, the, uh .... the day." Shit, he sounded like a kid confronted with his date's irate father. He swallowed the quaver in his voice and fought for a tone of polite indifference, painfully aware that she was still caressing his mouth with the soft pad of her thumb. "Y-you know, when I called you - I mean, when I said, uh ...." Shit, but it was hard to speak or even think with that hand touching him like that. He couldn't pull away, not so much as an inch. God, when she looked like that, as if she'd rather look at him than anything else in the world, it lit a fire in his belly and sent a jolt north to his heart and south to his balls. Smoke .... her eyes were full of passion and smoke .... maybe she didn't think that night had been such a mistake after all .... Close. She was so close he could feel the wet heat of her breath on his face, so close his eyes were losing their focus. The thumb settled at the corner of his mouth and did not move again. Her eyes .... Jesus, they were on his mouth, and as he watched, her lips opened just a little and he saw the flick of her tongue between them. Without thinking, he kissed her. ~~~S~~~ She didn't move. At first it was little more than mere contact, gentle and undemanding, and she was afraid to react for fear of frightening him away. Then a cautious movement started - *who* started it, she couldn't say, but she murmured her approval when she felt his mouth begin to stroke and caress hers. Heat sizzled through her like slow lightning. God, soft and warm and just a hint of wetness. With all the speed of a glacier and at least as much tenacity, she eased her hand from his cheek, following a slow path around his head until she cupped the back of his neck, holding him. Not that he couldn't have broken free if he'd really wanted to. Which evidently he didn't. When she tipped her head just a little to the side and opened her lips in invitation, he let out a soft groan and immediately obliged her. Oh, the taste of him was beyond good. He was velvet and steel, salt and sweetness and the tang of male musk, all rolled into one delicious package. He groaned as he settled himself more firmly atop her, framing her head with his forearms, hands lost in the tangle of her hair. His skin where they touched was warm and smooth and elastic, the pressure of his chest just brushing hers a teasing promise of things to come. Slowly she slid her hands up and around him, and as her arms closed around his torso another sound escaped him, something that could have been a sigh or even a soft little sob. His own arms followed suit, gently rocking her this way and that so that they could find purchase under and around her. Oh, he was warm and solid, the contact of their bodies so good, so damned good .... Mmm, he was getting serious. Another kiss, this one deep and long, and then he slowly worked his way from her mouth to her throat, licking and nipping as he went. His breathing was picking up, she could feel it in the rise and swell of his chest, could hear it and feel it in the soft panting against her wet skin. She could feel something else, too, something rising up between them like a third being, something she'd thought about and missed every day for the last whole damned long, lonely, miserable week. God, she wanted to go slowly, she wanted to savor every second of this, but she also wanted more. More contact, more sensation, more warmth. More him. And evidently he felt the same about her, because it wasn't long before she felt his warm fingers fumbling at the row of buttons on her nightshirt. *Yes yes yes!* her mind screamed as the first one gave. Oh, not fair that he was wearing a pullover. Impatiently she tugged it up and slid her hands up and down the bare skin of his back, dragging her nails as she went. No mistaking THAT sound - that was a full-throated groan, starting somewhere around his pelvis and rising out of him like slow-moving thunder. Another button went, and she wondered at the speed with which he was NOT moving - was he trying to drive her insane, or were his fingers shaking too badly? Or maybe he was moving just fine and it was her own mind and heart that were racing beyond the moment, laboring toward some point in the not-too distant future when he wouldn't just be on her, he'd be in her, too. In her. He'd been there once. She wanted him there now. She ached for it. Another tug at her shirt, and another casualty to his gentle siege. Oh, this was cruelty. She had to do something about at least one of the barriers between them. Restless, she tugged and pulled his shirt up until it was bunched around his neck, and he helped her wrestle it off him. Then her fingers joined his in their struggles with her own shirt and within seconds it was beaten, lying agape around her, and with a deep, contented sigh he dipped his head again, this time to nuzzle and kiss. She bit back a strained moan - true to form, he perversely avoided what she was absolutely aching for and instead set about exploring the soft, pale swell of breast, the round point of her shoulder, the underside of her jaw, treating her hard nipples to little more than glancing touches. She bore it as long as she could, and then impatiently grasped a handful of his hair, pointedly steering him away from her collarbone - not that it didn't feel wonderful, his licking it like that - and firmly guided his mouth to a nipple. For an instant he hesitated, and she actually felt him smile. Then he obediently lapped at it with the tip of his tongue, tasting it little by little, and she could swear she heard him purr just like a big damned kitten; and when he began to suckle in earnest, a shudder rolled through her, starting at her breast and blasting its way to her pelvis where it happily set up residence. "Oh," she breathed, captivated. The suckling increased, and she whimpered as she clutched at him, one hand gripping his hair, the other clamped possessively around his neck. Her hips began to rise and fall, rubbing in a delicious rhythm against him. *Don't stop .... please, God, don't stop ....* and God bless him, he didn't. As his mouth continued its sweet seduction, his free hand traced patterns on the soft skin of her belly, then slowly, almost casually, made its way up her ribcage to her neglected breast. She gasped again when his thumb caressed and then gently rolled the tiny, hard point. Oh God, oh God .... *OH GOD! * - her breath caught and then escaped in a soft cry as bright red insanity exploded behind her eyes. ~~~M~~~ He held her until the shudders died away and she was still again. He could feel the fast rise and fall of her chest, of course, and the jarring cadence of her pulse. he thought as he trailed soft, wet kisses back up to her mouth. Maybe she *didn't* regret it, being involved with him. Maybe their first time really hadn't been their last. Maybe she'd just been waiting for him to do or say something, judging his interest in his actions - or lack thereof. Maybe they should start talking more. Her head lolled, and she murmured something unintelligible as she ran a hand through his hair. He propped himself up on an elbow and smiled at her. Breathless, sweaty, boneless - she was exquisite. "Sorry, Scully, I didn't quite catch that." A smile quirked the corner of her lips. "That mouth," she replied softly, finally managing to get an eye open. "I never once dreamed I'd be grateful to sunflower seed companies." She ruffled his hair again, and he realized she was blushing furiously. "That's never happened to me before. You know, just...." She gestured vaguely to her chest. He dropped his chin to her shoulder as he looked at her. "Never?" She shook her head, and his smile widened. "Jeez, Scully .... if you liked that, imagine how good other things are going to feel." Her lips met in a luscious pout - he was seriously glad she'd never chosen to do THAT at the office, because God knows where it might have led them. "But Mulder," she whispered, "I *have* imagined." He pursed his lips as he settled himself over her again. She looked at him, her gaze steady as she raised her legs and nestled them comfortably around his hips. "Yeah?" he murmured. "What do you have me doing?" Her arms found their home around his neck, and he groaned very softly as she licked and nuzzled his throat. Oh Christ, that felt good. "I don't think words are really adequate," she purred. "How about I just show you?" He tried to reply, but the power of speech was fading rapidly and other senses were taking over in the vacuum. Somehow - he wasn't sure how or when - they managed to shrug themselves free of their remaining clothes. Then there was just the feel of her body, the taste of her mouth and the sheer perfection of her arms holding him as he slipped inside her. She winced a little but shook her head when he would have stopped. *Doesn't hurt,* she whispered, sliding her legs higher up around his waist and holding him in a four-limbed embrace. It was more difficult than he'd remembered, fighting back his body's urge to do as it wanted, especially when she started in on his earlobe with that tongue - a few deft lunges and it would be all over. Wait, he steadied himself, permitting his hips only a slow, measured pace of advance and retreat. God, she was slick and hot, her skin everywhere it touched his warm and so, so perfect. He wanted to kiss her, he wanted it with all his heart - he wanted to share her breath, not just feel it on his face, and he wanted to taste the saltiness of the sweat beading on her lip as he pushed them both closer and closer to insanity; but he couldn't kiss her and look at her too, and he wanted to look at her when she lost it - he wanted to see it in her eyes and in her soul, because he could do that, he could look right at her and see her soul, her depth and character and love and all things great and good in those clear, blue eyes. And even if they were closed, if she couldn't fight the sublime power that rolled them back in their sockets, he could watch her expression as it shifted, transforming from lust and hunger to joy and ecstasy and the awesome and fundamental lightness of being. Communion with a greater being, some religions believed, began with that moment of connection, when a man and woman merged as one soul, one entity, one consciousness. Hey, who was he to argue with that? God, but it was hard to fight, and it was too soon, too damn soon, before his body simply ignored his directives and stubbornly followed its own pace, the rhythm of his hips becoming a little quicker, a little more staccato with every heartbeat. Groaning, he braced himself up over her and looked down at the spectacle of his body disappearing into hers. The sight and smell and the delicious slide of wet skin served to swell him just that much more, and he groaned again, high and tight, when her hands caught at his shoulders and drew him back down to her. When his chest grazed her pebbled nipples she threw her head back and let out a little cry, and in the light of the neon signs outside the window, she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen in his life. She writhed and gasped as he pumped into her, just like she had the night she'd come to him in his apartment; she followed the rhythm of his body as he plunged into her again and again, grunting softly as her hips rose to accept him - and he realized blearily that she had begun a counter-rhythm of her own, one that deepened the impact, and he knew, he just knew, that when he came they were both going to drown. He gave a tortured moan and managed to wrestle back a modicum of control. Longer, slower strokes, withdrawing until he was all but free of her, then a long, hard slide until his wiry hair met hers and he could grind that copper triangle - and the nerve bundle hiding therein - with the curve of his pubic bone. Slow withdrawal, hard return, this time capped by a little circular movement of his ass. Her breath caught, and he could tell from the tautness of her frame and the tossing of her head and those small, sweet whimpers that it was imminent for her - just a few more well-timed strokes and she'd be gone. He raised an unsteady hand and brushed the hair back out of her face. *Look at me,* he breathed. *Scully, look at me.* Somehow she found the presence of mind to comply, and he was awed by everything he saw shining in her eyes. Her lips moved as she stared at him, meeting and panting the same sound over and over in time to the rhythm of his hips: "Mul - Mul - Mul -" A strained frown was forming between her brows but her gaze didn't waver from his. He groaned again, louder this time, as his control began to slip. His balls, slapping with whole-hearted enthusiasm into the curve of her ass, were suddenly on the move, drawing up tight, primed for the plunge into madness and chaos. He abandoned all thoughts of finesse then and started pounding. *Oh, finally, finally,* his body seemed to sing; and as he hammered into her, she let out a little wail and actually rippled around him, her body pulling and squeezing his with fresh energy, suckling his cock with that sweet, hot nethermouth, more and more with each stroke of their hips until he couldn't hold it any longer - his love and his desire and his whole being liquefied and then exploded, flowing over and around and into her, shooting deep with a dozen hot, wet, creamy spurts. Sounds poured out of him too, words half-formed and lost in the rush of love and lust that set him ablaze. "*Aaah, Gaaaaahd, Sculleee ....*" .... he was fire, his body in hers and hers in his, liquid fire in his pelvis and veins and in her eyes .... With a last quivering gasp, he crashed down over her.. Defeat, but oh - the sweetest kind. He felt her laboring to breathe, gulping for air under his crushing weight. It took every scrap of energy and will he had left to push with one arm and tip himself away, and he groaned as he collapsed beside her. God, they were wet. He was drenched with sweat, and there between her legs .... well, who knew a guy could store so much up in just a week? Pulled free from her body, his penis left a damp trail across her thigh, and he felt her shiver at the sudden chill. He lay still beside her, listening to her rasping pants and the insane crashing of his own pulse. Good, it was almost too good, this loving her .... holding her .... touching her .... Touching! He flinched when he felt her hand on him, the contact gentle, her skin cool against the heat of his rapidly subsiding erection. The bed shifted as she rolled onto her side. Gently she squeezed him from root to tip, and he groaned as a few last drops of semen dribbled free. "God, Scully," he croaked, rolling his head wearily from side to side. "Gimme a minute .... tired ...." She hummed a little in her throat as she ministered to him, touching, massaging, her grip more soothing than stimulating. "Shh," she murmured. He sighed contentedly. Mmm, that softness against his bicep, that was her breast, and the tickle on his face, it must be her hair. Mmm, she was kissing him now. Light, downy touches. He couldn't move. He was tired .... make that exhausted .... he couldn't keep his eyes from sagging, couldn't raise a hand even to touch her, let alone return such tender gestures. Sighing, he turned his face to her, accepting the gentle touches on his cheeks, his temples, his eyelids. "Scu ...." "I know," she interrupted, leaning her forehead into his. The sheets rustled as she pulled them up over him. Blanket. Bedspread. Then the bed shifted and jounced as she settled beside him. He wanted to hold her, he really did, but he couldn't move, couldn't lift his arm, couldn't do anything but lie there and breathe in her scent .... their scent .... masculine and feminine, twining and combining .... He felt her head settle beside his on the pillow, and he smiled when he felt the warmth of her body nestle close to his. "Sorry .... tired .... love you ...." She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "Shh ...." He slept. Was it a dream? The room was dark, but an unwelcome sliver of gray light found a way in through the drapes and pried relentlessly at his eyes. He groaned as he rolled onto his side, his arm snaking out at once across smooth, empty bed. Nothing. Nothing. Still nothing. His heart sank. Dammit, it *was* a dream. A damned realistic one, but nothing more than that. She wasn't there. Again. God, he was hopeless. And obsessed. It was one thing to admire his partner - admire her, hell, try adore her - but to be having dreams like that ...? The situation was really getting out of hand. Besides, she'd kill him if she knew. The grayness shifted a little then, startling him as it threw more light across his face. He rubbed his eyes, blinking at the unforgiving glare, and saw her at once, almost motionless beside the window. Awareness abruptly returned, and with it a wash of vivid detail. Wisconsin. Snowy cows. One hotel room. A bad day full of anger and air-sickness and bitter disappointment .... and then .... and then .... It hadn't been a dream. She sighed softly as she looked out at the pre-dawn light. The flash of a neon sign caught her, and for an instant she was backlit in rose and blue. He smiled as he studied her, noting that she had pulled on not her own pajamas, but his T-shirt, discarded in such haste during the night. He felt a rush of warmth at the realization. She'd wrapped herself in him. It hadn't been a dream. He HAD held her. More importantly, SHE'D held HIM .... and she'd let him do things to her that, frankly, he hadn't believed she would ever welcome again. Not a bad thing, really, being wrong from time to time - especially if it meant he could sleep with his partner. The bed creaked softly as he rolled to his feet, but she didn't turn from the window. He wondered where her thoughts were, if she was even aware of him. It sure didn't seem so. Was something wrong? He hadn't done or said anything in his sleep, had he? Oh shit, he really was hopeless. "Hey," she said without turning, and with that simple greeting he felt the last vestige of paranoid lover fade away. There were lots of places she'd rather be, of that he was absolutely sure; but that one word told him that there was no one else she'd rather be with, whether she was home in Georgetown or stuck in a chintzy hotel in Nowheresville, Wisconsin. He slipped an arm around her, and she immediately leaned her head back against him. "Whatcha lookin' at?" he murmured. She let out a soft sigh as she stroked his arm. "Snow. Thinking about snow." He nuzzled her hair. God, she smelled good. "What're you thinking? I mean, besides the fact that it's cold." He heard her smile. How he loved that sound. "I was thinking how much I would have loved a snow day like this when I was a kid. The perfect reason for missing school, for staying home .... reading .... doing anything I wanted to." He grunted softly. He remembered such days, of course, back in grade school. Days of TV and homework and boredom. That was before Samantha was gone, of course. After that November, when he was alone with his mother all day long in that cold house, there was just loneliness and guilt. He shrugged those feelings away before they could take serious hold on him. Now wasn't the time for brooding. "You get many days off?" he asked, splaying his hand over her warm middle and molding her to him. She snorted softly. "In San Diego? Damn few." She turned just enough to slip an arm around his waist. "I'm glad we've been given a snow day. We needed this." He grunted softly. "Really? We needed to be stranded in a snowed-in city? Hmm. That's an interesting theory." "No ...." He heard the change in her tone with just that single syllable. "We needed .... this. Mulder, since we - " She stopped, and he wondered if he was just imagining the sudden tension between them. "Since that night last week .... things have been ...." "I know." He held her a little tighter, willing away that tension, silently pleading with her to melt back against him. After a moment she relaxed again. "I know, and I'm sorry. Scully, I really thought - " When he didn't continue, she tipped her head a little to the side. "What? What did you think, Mulder?" He was glad she wasn't looking at him. Sometimes it was easier to talk when he couldn't see her eyes; when she couldn't look through his right down into *his* soul, because that was something she could do, too. He bit his lips as he struggled to find the right words. "I was afraid, I guess, that you had had second thoughts about .... this. Us." She was silent for a long moment. Then her hand opened on his bare hip and caressed it gently. "Why would you think that?" He shrugged one shoulder listlessly. "You didn't say anything about it. I woke up, you were gone ...." She grunted very softly. "I had to get ready for work." He looked down at her. She was motionless in the curve of his body, her attention still locked on something in the gray light outside. "I know that. I knew it then. But then the days started to pass. I just .... wanted you to say something. About how you felt, I mean." She shifted against him, sliding her arms more securely around him, holding him fast. "You could have too," she pointed out softly. He sighed and let his eyes fall shut. Ever logical Scully. "I know. I'm sorry." He looked back out at the cold world lying just beyond the window. "I - I guess I was waiting for you to tell me. How you felt about us, about what happened. Where we should go from here." She was silent for a moment. Then she drew away a little and looked up at him. "I suppose I was waiting for you to ask." They studied one another intently. Then he raised a hand and touched a fingertip to the point of her chin. "I guess it's pretty obvious why I'm a thirty-nine year old bachelor, isn't it?" He drew her close then and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Do you want to know what I was thinking tonight?" She nodded almost imperceptibly. "It occurred to me .... now get ready for this one, because I know it's a stretch ...." She looked at him again, her brows quirked, and he smiled. "I think you and I need to spend more time talking. Really talking. Not about cases. Not about work. About us." An answering smile drew at her eyes. "Is that your professional opinion, Agent Mulder?" He nodded. "I'm even ready to go on record." She was silent for a moment as she considered her response. "Well," she said at last in her best forensic pathologist, give-me-no-bullshit tone. "I think in this situation I would have to concur. Not that we don't excel at non-verbal communication, which I'm sure you would call telepathy but what is really nothing more than keen observations and intimate knowledge of one another ...." She paused there and nuzzled his throat for good measure, " .... but from time to time it does break down." Her hand slipped down and caressed the swell of his ass then, and he was suddenly hard-pressed to follow just what she was saying. Besides, with her all but wrapped around him, it occurred to him that, save for his shirt which hung around her like a tent, she was nude. As he was. Oh, yeah. The situation looked promising. "So," he replied with studied care, "you're saying no regrets? What we have - it's what you want?" She blinked languidly. "What I want?" she murmured, and to his delight she smiled impishly. "You're here. We're warm and safe .... there's a restaurant right across the parking lot if and when we decide to eat some REAL food .... and, thanks to the weather, we can't go anywhere for a couple days." She paused, and he felt her stroke his ass again. "All things being equal, Mulder, I can't think of a place I'd rather be." He grinned broadly. Damn, she did have a way of cutting straight through the bull. Playfully he tipped his head toward the rumpled bed. "Oh, I can think of a place ...." She followed his gaze with bright eyes, then stepped back and reached for his hand. "You read my mind." "I thought you didn't believe in that sort of - " "Shut up, Mulder." ~~~~ end ~~~~ Let us know what you think - sign our guestbook! See what others have said - read our guestbook! 1