From: s_green@yahoo.com Date: Fri, 26 Mar 1999 20:25:39 GMT Subject: NEW: Static (1/1) Story: Static Author: LoneGunChick Classification: MS UST, a little Mulder Angst Date: 1-99 Spoilers: Rain King Disclaimer: all that good stuff about them not being mine, yada yada yada Author's note: This is a follow up to "Rain King", since it was so lacking in UST I had to write it and add my own. This scene occurs after the reunion, when Mulder & Scully get back to the hotel where they're sharing a room because a cow crashed in on Mulder's. This story just begged to be spiced up. Any feedback is appreciated! s_green@yahoo.com ----- 1/1 She sighed as she jammed the key in the lock, jiggled the handle, and let the door swing inward. She wasn't looking forward to this night, any more than she had been looking forward to the last. Tossing the keys on the dresser, she flopped down on the bed and avoided meeting his gaze as he slammed the door behind him. "You're sure there were no flights out tonight?" she asked, the exhaustion evident in her voice. "Nope," he said, almost too cheerily. "The guy I talked to on the phone said all the runways were flooded and the earliest we could hope to get out would be tomorrow around noon." Sighing again, she let her body sink back on the bed, arms over her head. "C'mon, Scully, this is great. Just look at this as an extended slumber party." She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to clear her mind. "Yeah, okay." Mulder flopped down next to her, purposely bouncing the all-too-hard motel bed. He propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at her. "Hey, Scully, what's wrong?" Her eyes popped open. What's wrong? Was he the densest man alive? She inwardly marveled at how emotionally ignorant he was--or at least appeared to be. "Nothing's wrong, Mulder. I'm just...tired. I haven't slept well." "Could've fooled me," he said with a chuckle in his voice. "You were sawing logs so loudly last night I couldn't even hope to sleep." "You couldn't hope to sleep because you're a self-proclaimed insomniac," she countered. "And besides, how could I sleep with the light on and you cracking sunflower seeds with your teeth all night? That's a really irritating noise," she said, with a petulant tone. Irritating, true; but in some deep recess of her body, it had turned her on. So help her God, it had. She had tried to deny it, as she lay there trying to drift off, but the tingling in her body had been hard to ignore. She felt almost ashamed by it, like it was some sort of dirty, masturbatory secret, but she couldn't help it. She tried to tell herself that the whole thing was a result of his proximity, the fact that he was laying only feet away from her, even if it was on a separate bed. But the fact that she was titillated like a thirteen year old from only his proximity didn't reassure her much, anyway. And she couldn't help the flutter she felt in her stomach this evening, either. If her sexual frustration was simmering below the surface last night, it was going to be a full-blown boil tonight. The subject matter of this case had been laced with personal meaning for the two of them, no matter how they wanted to gloss over it. Unrequited love, emotional confessions, years of longing...it could have been describing them, to a tee. Except no confessions had been made, except perhaps to themselves, in some deep cavernous recess of their hearts and minds. She was tired of thinking about it; she didn't want to think anymore, she just wanted to sleep. "Mulder, I need to sleep. I'm going to go get ready for bed. Would you please eat all the sunflower seeds you want now so I don't have to listen to it?" She asked, as she pushed herself off the bed and moved through the small room to the bathroom. Because I don't think I could take it tonight, she thought to herself. He pushed himself over on his back to watch her movements, saying nothing, just trying to display his usual hurt-puppy-dog look. She ignored it as she gathered up her pajamas from her overnight bag, walked in the bathroom, and shut the door. Inhaling slowly and exhaling in the same manner, Mulder stared up at the cracked ceiling and marveled at the change in his partner. She had been fine all day; surprisingly fine, really, not just "Scully-fine". In fact, he had been slightly hurt at how "fine" she had been. He himself had been trying to push back his own issues with the case they were on; in truth, he had seen more of the poor weatherman, Hardt, in himself than he had cared to acknowledge. The unrequited love and mortal fear of rejection were what made him try to convince himself that he was "satisfied with his friendship with Scully." He was anything but-but he was afraid. What if she did the same thing to him that Shelia had done to Hardt? When he poured out his feelings, would she tell him she loved him too but she was "in love" with another? Although his rational mind told him that he, more than anyone, should know that there were no other men in her life, his fear still held tight. And what of that, in and of itself? How could there be other men in her life when he was dragging her off to investigate phony rain makers in Podunk, USA? Maybe she loathed him for that. Maybe she loathed him because her life had become so one-dimensional and the sparkle had gone out of her eyes. Maybe she loathed him because she had a mortal illness, and her sister was already dead, because of his quest. Or maybe he loathed himself because of these things. He glared a hole in the ceiling, trying to transfer the blame out of his heart and onto the cracked plaster. Enough of this self-degradation, he thought to himself. He turned his attention to the sounds of her bumping around in the bathroom; running water, brushing her teeth, doing all the strange and mysterious things that women do before they go to bed. These sounds, he had realized the night before, were nice; they were homey and comfortable. He liked to think of her in there, washing her face and brushing her hair, changing into her pajamas. It was a part of her that he never got to share, though they shared just about everything else. It was sexual in that it was secret and private, not in that it was necessarily sexy. Realizing that listening to her bedtime ritual was causing an uncomfortable tightening in his jeans, Mulder mentally shook himself and tried to bring himself back to reality. This would not do, not tonight. He couldn't be perpetually turned on and in the same room with her all night and not expect something to give. He stood up and started to peel off his own clothes, getting ready for another sleepless night. By the time she emerged from the bathroom, Scully had shaken herself pretty much back to the no-nonsense demeanor that she usually wore. But the sight of Mulder reclining on the far side of the bed, dressed only in his boxer shorts and gray T-shirt and reading some trashy UFO magazine, threatened to rip a hole in said demeanor. He looked unconsciously sexy to her-and he was in the bed she was to sleep in. "Mulder, what are you doing?" she asked, exasperated--more at her own lack of internal composure than actual frustration with the man. "What does it look like I'm doing?" he asked, feigning innocence. He sat up and bent the leg closest to her, bringing his knee to his chest, hoping she really couldn't see what he WAS doing. The hard-on that had been dying was rapidly gaining steam when he realized she wasn't wearing a bra and her nipples, unfettered, were standing erect against the silky fabric of her pajamas. "It looks like you're going to keep me from sleeping," she said, as she stood over the bed on "her" side, hands on her hips. He didn't need to know that he'd keep her from sleeping because of the tingling in her crotch and wetness between her legs. "Scul-llleey," he almost whined, "that cot is damn uncomfortable. You're a doctor; try it out. You'll see its murder on your back. You couldn't make me sleep on it in good conscience," he wheedled. Please, God, make little Mr. G-Man relax down there before I have to get up, he prayed silently. She didn't waver. "Mulder, you sleep on a couch for God sake. Don't give me uncomfortable. Get out of my bed." "It's not my fault a cow fell into my bed, even if it did have my name on it," he argued, buying time, knowing if he stood up, the gig would be up--literally. Little Mr. G-Man was already starting to poke through the fly of his boxers. "Mulder, that cow did NOT have your name on it, and you know it. Now, get up!" He didn't make a move. "I don't see how this is your bed all of a sudden," he complained, trying a different tactic. "Why can't we just share-" He stopped, realizing the folly of his inquiry. Her stomach flipped over, but she managed to maintain her composure. There's no way in hell I'd sleep a wink with you six inches from me. Just then, a large crack of lightning lit the sky outside of their motel room. She jumped. "I thought the storm was over," she breathed, her heart racing. "There must be some, ah, electricity in ol' Hardt's life this evening," Mulder said, with a knowing grin. Scully arched an eyebrow at him and gave up. He wasn't getting up, and she was just going to have to deal with it. After all, they were both adults, right? She sat down on the bed and snaked her legs under the covers, staying as close to the edge opposite him as she could. At least the weatherman was getting some tonight. Resting her head against the cheap motel headboard, Scully sighed yet again. "Mulder, I really need to sleep. Could you turn off the light?" "So you're gonna let me stay?" He asked. It had a flippant tone, but inwardly he was amazed. And the prospect did nothing to alleviate his errant member. "Sure, fine, whatever. Just don't hog the covers." His brain was screaming with victory, and his body was screaming with something else, but he managed a quip to mask it. "You know, Agent Scully, this goes against bureau policy of--" "Male and female agent consorting in the same room?" She finished for him. "Something like that." "I won't tell if you don't," she said, stifling a yawn. "Mulder, I'm so tired that I could probably sleep with that dead cow." Except the dead cow didn't smell near as good as you do- Mulder made a face. "Ew. I saw that guy with the chainsaw." "Turn off the light, Mulder," Scully said, closing her eyes and trying to ignore the fact he was still only six inches from her, wearing only thin cotton underwear. And, she thought-though she would deny it later-that she could see him sporting something even more inappropriate in that same underwear. He hesitated for a moment, then dropped the magazine. He turned to flick of the dingy motel lamp that matched the cheap motel headboard. There was a pregnant silence in the room. Please, God, she prayed, just let me go to sleep. He lay in the dark, inches from her, breathing in the smell of her clean body. He loved the way she smelled, and it was always a sweet agony to be near enough to breathe her in. But there was another smell that he wasn't accustomed to, which must be some sort of part of her evening bedtime ritual. He couldn't stop himself. "Hey, Scully, is it me or do you smell like you've suddenly gotten into illegal narcotics?" She had expected him to start jabbering away about something, but she was honestly surprised at the question. "What?" she asked, incredulously. "You smell like a hippie," he said bluntly. Silence, and then she chuckled. Rolling over, she held out her hand in the general vicinity of where she figured his nose would be. She heard him sniff. "It's hemp oil. It's supposed to be really good for your skin." He could see her arm stretched out to him like a shadowed invitation, an invitation that his body just couldn't let him pass up. I shouldn't be doing this, I shouldn't be doing this, he thought to himself. He did it anyway. Reaching up, he took her hand in his own, and ran his fingers over the soft skin on the back. He could hear her breath audibly catch in her throat. "Well it works," he said softly, his lips so close to her hand she could feel his breath. Another flash of lightning lit up the room, outlining their tenuously adjoining figures in white electricity. Silence for a minute, then, without letting go of her hand, Mulder spoke quietly. "Must be going well for Hardt." "Mmm," Scully agreed, the sound a low humming in her throat. "You know, Scully-" He paused, the unfinished statement dripping with possibility. He didn't know what he wanted to say, but he wanted to say something. Both of their eyes had adjusted, and they could see the outline of the other in the dusky room. She said nothing, but looked at him, her face a question mark. "What did you tell that woman in the bathroom, Scully?" he asked, though it wasn't really what he had wanted to say. But it was somewhere to start. She hesitated, looking away. "What did you tell her?" Dragging her eyes back to his form, she spoke slowly. "I told her that sometimes we don't have to look too far to find what we really need, what we really want. That sometimes, it's there all along." "And you believe that?" He asked. "Yes," she whispered, barely audible. He let go of her hand slowly, and moved to run the knuckle of his index finger down her cheek. She didn't breathe; she couldn't trust herself to. If a stop wasn't put to this soon, she knew, there was no going back. She wanted to cross that threshold, to make that step; but she needed to know what was in his heart. He was full of such anger and fear and passion, and she wanted to know what part she played in it. And she wanted to know that he had finally forgiven himself-gotten over the self-loathing, while making him ruthless as an investigator, crippled him as a man. "Mulder," she said, his name barely more than an exhale, her eyes shut. "Hmmm?" He asked, absorbed in the feel of her cheek against his fingers. "Mulder," she said more strongly, opening her eyes and gathering her resolve, "unless you're going to make one of those heart-felt confessions like Hardt did today, you need to get out of my bed." The words weren't harsh or angry; they were simply a statement, a request. They were the truth she felt in her heart, and she knew if he respected anything, it was the truth. His finger froze against her cheek, but stayed, burning her skin. God, how she wanted him. She didn't want him to go; but she knew he couldn't stay. "And what if I did?" he asked, quietly. The words were on the tip of his tongue, the words of love and longing and the confession that was more pure than anything a priest ever heard. They threatened to overflow, to finally rush out and embrace both of them. In that instant, she knew he had given mental voice to his emotion. It scared her and renewed her at the same time. Maybe he had finally jumped that final fence that held him back. Maybe- She heard him smile and move closer to her, so she could feel his too-hot breath on her, an invisible caress. His voice barely more than a whisper, he implored her. "Would you let me stay in your bed, if I made my confession? Would you let me sleep here with you?" An actual caress replaced his breath as she felt the whole weight of his hand against her cheek, cupping her face, sliding down, settling on her, his thumb tracing her jawbone. His face filled her field of vision so she could see nothing else. His nose brushed hers. "You don't sleep," she whispered, closing her eyes again, involuntarily moving her face to nuzzle deeper into his hand. "I know," he answered, his voice thick, tasting her words. He closed his eyes and tortured himself with an image. "But I think I could for the first time, if I was holding you." He could feel the ache so deep in him, in his body and in that other part that he had so fragile a connection with. She was that thread that held him together, the one thing that kept him semi-rooted in reality. He could feel the tension in her, too, through the contact of their skin. Her body hummed like a wire, and he could almost feel the static crackling in the room. Another bolt of lightning lit their skin, but it seemed as if it was coming from inside of them, not from the small motel window. "Mulder..." she begged, a plea that held unspoken volumes. If something didn't give, it would kill her, she was sure it would. She was waiting for whatever it was he could offer her, and that single word demanded it. Hearing her voice, knowing she was waiting, knowing that she'd been waiting for too long broke him. He had nothing to offer her, nothing tonight. She had taken too much for him, suffered too much-he couldn't ask any more of her, even if she thought she knew what it was he was asking. "Scully," he said, the strain in his voice. "I think I need to take a walk," and with that, he pulled his hand away, breaking the contact of their skin. Her whole body groaned at his withdrawal, and she audibly moaned. He rolled off the bed and pulled on his pants, which had been unceremoniously laid across the bottom of the bed. She laid her head back against the pillow, squeezing her eyes shut. He had been so close, so close yet again. He had stumbled on that final fence post, yet she was the one who felt like she had fallen on her face. Hearing him move to the door, she stopped him. "Mulder?" she said, and he paused with his hand on the handle. His chest was heaving and tears threatened at his eyes. "Yes?" He looked back at the bed, at her form, and felt his love and desire swell, almost obliterating the emptiness. But, for tonight, it was done. "Don't get hit by lightning," she said, a small smile crossing her face as her eyes opened to meet his in the dark haze. He attempted a lopsided grin, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I think I already did." He turned the latch and she felt the humid air rush in the room, the fragrant, fertile after-rain scent filling her nostrils. He went out, closing the door behind him, leaving traces of the sweet smell until she had breathed it all in and none remained. She laid still for a long while, staring at the cracked motel ceiling that matched the cheap motel headboard and dingy motel lamp, knowing that sleep would be a long way off. The lightning cracked somewhere in the distance, moving away.