TITLE: Waiting In Motion (1/10)
AUTHOR: mountainphile
RATING: NC-17
EMAIL: mountainphile@yahoo.com
URL: http://www.geocities.com/mountainphile
CATEGORY: MSR, case-file (Sequel to "Miraculous
Manifestation")
SPOILERS: Post "all things" and pre-"Requiem"
SUMMARY: Dark secrets await Scully and Mulder when they
pursue an x-file on a remote mountaintop...
ARCHIVE: I'd be honored! Just tell me where so I can
visit.
DISCLAIMER: All things XF belong to Chris Carter, FOX, and
1013 Productions.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Beta thanks and special messages will come
at the end of the story. For now, I offer a group bearhug
to the best betas and sibs one could wish for!
{{{{Musea}}}}
********************
Waiting In Motion (1/10)
by mountainphile
Rain spatters the car like buckshot, an unrelenting clamor
in Scully's ears. Glazed with water, opaque with
condensation, the windshield looks frosty in the cool April
air. It's impossible to see the road ahead in the
combination of unnatural darkness and deluge that has
enveloped their small car since late morning. Impossible to
predict what miracles the day will bring...
They've gone from black asphalt to chip-and-seal to
accordion-rutted back roads in a matter of hours. Mulder
insisted on the alternate return route through these
Virginia mountains, as they head back to DC from an
investigation gone flat. Take the long way home... you
know, like that song with the cool blues harp, he said with
a smile. Scully knows the tune, all right, and is not
impressed; his words are meant to appease her, but the
analogy is rife with misrepresentation.
Instead of east, retracing the way they came the previous
day, they head south, along the side of the mountains. The
car inches into the weather like a hunter's hound, nose to
the ground and searching for buried secrets. Scully
suspects another secret will emerge, in time, from Mulder's
back pocket.
He's keeping something close to himself. After years of
surprises, she can interpret some of the signs and thinks
she has a good feel for the way he works. Why, just last
night heading toward the rich man's country estate and the
pseudo-weeping statue, Mulder drove through the darkness and
admitted to withholding certain aspects of the case. She's
aware he keeps other file folders in his possession that
he's not yet shown to her. This day, fraught with
variables, may yield some intriguing answers if she is
patient. If she can wait.
Heaven knows they're no strangers to the waiting game. It's
taken all of seven years to openly acknowledge the fierce
magnetism that smolders between them. A full month since
she revealed an emotional and sexual affair of the heart
with another man, from deep in her past. Weeks after that,
Mulder's hand caressed her face in a parking garage, then, a
few nights later, he tickled the back of her throat with a
deep, exploratory kiss. Several more days passed and his
hand was furtive in its need to stroke her breast in the
darkened car.
Time creeps forward in increments, she muses, and it took
another day before her heart yielded to hope and
vulnerability. Their trust toward one another increased.
She became an opened book for him, her pages fragile, but
willing for him to touch and handle with gentleness.
Shedding their clothes in a natural hot spring last evening,
they touched and kissed and surrendered to physical
intimacy. Beautiful sex without intercourse. Later, in the
steaming water, they whispered and basked in one another's
embrace...
It took just one night for doubt to forge a wall between
them.
As invited guests at a private mountain estate, representing
the FBI in an investigative capacity, propriety ruled.
There was no precedent for rendezvous, after their dip in
the spring, no opportunity to slip through the household for
consummation. Separated, alone to reflect, she questioned
whether a line was crossed unadvisedly for the sake of
passion and at the risk of their long friendship.
By morning, this doubt magnified to the point of
awkwardness. And in the few hours since leaving the estate,
more has broken than just the watershed in the sky. With
the wind and rain and lightning flashes, comes a powerful
need to define what's happened between them and to seek
resolution. Scully realizes that her body now has its own
priorities, nerve endings awakened, crying out in
frustration and need of his touch again. She suspects
Mulder's restlessness is for the same reason.
He's occupied, however, wrestling the steering wheel through
precarious switchbacks and ruts that open up before them on
this mountain road. Branches lie snapped and loose across
their path; leaves eddy and swirl. Suddenly, they fishtail
in the slippery soup that washes over the roadbed, the car's
tires waffling in a sea of brown mud.
Scully gasps and jerks her hand up to the dashboard to keep
her equilibrium. It's a startle reflex, a defensive,
instinctive gesture. Like pressing her foot hard to the
floor, slamming on an imaginary brake. Lightning numbs and
blinds her eyes -- and a familiar, momentary fear gropes
toward her, the bright light enveloping and absorbing her
into its center... and then it's gone.
"Whoa," Mulder says, peering through the foggy window.
"Surf's up. I like adrenaline as much as the next guy, but
we'd better dock here and wait this thing out."
"No argument from me."
Another brilliant flare coincides with the car's lurch
through an unseen rut, and she blinks away the unwelcome
flash of memory. She hopes he's missed the tremor in her
voice and gives a self-conscious, sidelong glance towards
him. It's too late. He's already curious, eyeing her with
interest in the dimness of the vehicle's interior. The firm
line of his jaw alerts her to his concern as thunder rumbles
a warning overhead.
The car slows and stops. Mulder hesitates before he reaches
over and covers her hand where it rests against the edge of
the seat, his larger one swallowing hers. He angles his
body and long legs from behind the steering wheel in an
attempt to close the physical distance between them. The
emotional distance, the wall that went up inexplicably
during the night, is the real issue.
"Nervous?"
His question is two-edged. No, she's not afraid to be out
on the backside of a mountain, if that's what he's implying,
caught in the elemental fury of rain and lightning. But
momentarily shaken, yes. The short-lived, residual fear was
gone quickly, as it usually is. She's never shared this
secret unnamed phobia with anyone, including Mulder or even
her psychologist, Karen Kosseff. The important thing is to
keep a tight rein of control over her reactions to the
ordinary, mundane events that precipitate an episode. Not
every door needs to be opened and the contents exposed to
scrutiny. And in time her mind will expunge this lingering
weakness, as it has other demons.
Nor is she afraid of the sensation that pulses from his warm
hand to hers, this sensual electric flow that stirs a
response from deep within her body. It's the first time
he's really touched her today, skin on skin. His thumb
moves in slow circles over the back of her hand and she
turns her head away, distancing herself from the question he
posits, staring a hole through the steel-gray sheeting of
rain on the window next to her face.
"Of course not."
Mulder's not convinced; she can feel his disbelief and looks
back. It's evident in his expression, the corner of his
mouth twitching, his nod suggesting both doubt and
amusement. Not about to be baited or cajoled, she widens
her eyes, meeting his look with an accusing one of her own.
"Not only is this the *long* way home, Mulder... it's quite
obviously the *wrong* way home... "
"What makes you think so?" His voice is teasing and he
releases her hand to face forward. "Yeah, I agree... the
weather sucks. But we need to turn around anyway. There's
a place back there with definite possibilities."
"What place? I didn't see anything in this, this...
hurricane." A glance out the back window tells her nothing,
but she notes the beginnings of a smirk on his face. "And
please feel free to elaborate on what kind of possibilities
you have in mind."
Mulder's lips widen into a loose grin, sparking the shadowy
hazel of his eyes and bringing a Marx-like waggle to his
brow. "I'll just have to show you."
She suspects that a thunderstorm isn't the only excuse to
grab a room in the middle of the day. A small, dilapidated
motel and campground materializes, set far back from the
road and nestled in the trees. Only Mulder's eagle eye
could have detected it in the downpour and premature
nightfall they encounter. As they weave down the long
driveway and pull in front of the check-in office, Scully
rubs away a circle of condensation from the passenger
window. Everything stands empty, drooping and wet from the
streaming rain. A weather-worn sign, blowing against a post
with a loud repetitive thwacking noise, reads 'Manager.'
"Well, look what the cat drug in," calls a woman's voice as
they enter the building. Wiping her hands and forearms with
a kitchen towel, she emerges from an adjoining room. The
hot, comforting smell of food wafts in from behind her and
she angles her curvy and substantial body behind the desk,
turning an appraising eye toward them.
"One room, please," says Mulder smoothly, reaching for his
wallet.
In spite of herself, Scully shoots him a careful look. He's
so cavalier in the way he states it... as if they're
accustomed to sharing accommodations without a second
thought. Certainly they've had no previous discussion about
alternate room arrangements, even after the intimate
touching last night at the hot spring. The fact that Mulder
makes the decision independently is seductive in the
extreme. Standing next to him in the yellow light of the
motel office, she feels her body give an inward, sultry
stretch and awaken to the prospect. Warming to the
inevitability...
"What time is checkout?" she inquires, throat dry.
The woman grunts a laugh. "Business what it is, you choose
your own time, honey. I ain't particular. You two're the
only ones here."
Mulder busies himself with the exchange of paperwork and
plastic. He smiles, eye betraying a twinkle. "Sounds like
we timed it just right then -- no crowds at the pool."
"Um-hum, you got that right." The woman gives a hearty
chuckle and shakes her head. "An' the only pool here is out
there in the middle of the driveway." She slaps a damp,
brown hand onto the counter top, presenting him with a room
key.
At the friendly response, Scully turns to look up at her.
Mid 30's, possibly... rich chocolate complexion and broad
lips. Eyes dark and candid, hinting of a deeper, older
pain. She wears a loose blue flower-print housedress and a
navy bandana over her dark, kinked hair.
A little boy, perhaps four or five years old, peeps in from
the kitchen, then disappears when Scully catches his eye and
smiles at him. "Your son?" she asks.
"Yep, that's Skeeter. An' pesky as one, too. Ain'tcha?"
She calls after the boy. "He get in your hair, y'all let me
know right away."
"Thanks, we'll do that," says Mulder, grasping the key and
then touching Scully's arm with the back of his hand.
"We're in Number 6," he murmurs. "Let's go... "
She gives a slight, cool nod of her head. Her heart thuds
as she takes the lead, aware of him following close behind.
Murky shadows veil the room like a welcome blanket. It's
small and musty from rain and humidity. They discard mud-
coated shoes next to the door, then deposit the suitcases on
the floor near the bed. It seems dark for two o'clock in
the afternoon, but the low lighting is preferable to
switching on the bedside lamp and throwing their subtle
hesitations into stark relief.
There's no hurry. Each moment in time marks another step
forward and closer, driving the electricity in the air to
giddy heights. The tattoo of the beating rain seems muffled
by an undercurrent of expectancy, a reality more imposing
than the bursts of thunder that rend the sky above them.
Mulder sits gingerly on the bed's edge, then falls backward,
testing the firmness of the mattress. Memories return to
Scully, of another time long ago. A small motel in Texas
where the bed boasted Magic Fingers. With wry humor, she
realizes she's anticipating a similar effect here in this
bed with Mulder. She glances into the tiny bathroom, noting
the condition of the commode and small sink. At the shower
stall, tall and narrow, wondering how two people could
possibly fit...
"So," he asks from behind her, "what do you think?"
"Well, I wouldn't call it The Ritz, if that's what you mean.
It's clean and... quaint," she offers, turning and taking
small steps around to the end of the bed where Mulder has
drawn his body back up to a sitting position. He leans
forward, forearms resting on his thighs, hands clasped. The
corners of his mouth are taut as his eyes follow her
movements. Awkwardness again. They've somehow lost their
way after leaving the spring last night, on that long, cool
pathway back to the house. Uncertain, now, how to find it
again in the distance that separates them.
His coat lies tossed over a chair. Scully eases arms out of
her jacket, shoulders back as her breasts strain against the
thin, white cotton of her shell. She feels his glance creep
over her body like seductive fingers. Warm, then hotter,
wading back to re-establish a needful connection, like the
touching and molding of their bodies in the hot spring.
"No. That's... not what I mean."
Mulder pauses and the longing, solemn cast of his face tugs
at her heart. He looks from her breasts to her face and
back again, the hunger and desire in his eyes unmistakable.
She feels her heart pound as he enters these precarious,
steamy waters by reaching out to take her hand. His fingers
are gentle, long and sensitive like a violinist's and they
slide into the hollow of her palm and then over the narrow
bones of her wrist. Play me, Mulder, she begs him silently.
Eyelids lowered, attuned, she's unable to contain a
tremulous sigh.
His hand moves to her hip and her breath stills. Without
seeking consent his thumb strokes far into the soft diagonal
cleft that marks her groin, dividing thigh and belly. He
holds her captive like he did last night in the water. When
his other hand joins the first, her eyes flutter closed.
Once again she feels like a jewel in his hands, her facets
and curves lovingly appraised. His restless fingertips urge
her through the fragile barrier of restraint.
"I want to know what you feel, Scully... "
"I'll just have to show you," she whispers, echoing his
words of a short while ago.
She steps into the vee of his spread knees, her arms
encircling his head, pulling it to rest against her breasts.
One hand strokes through the dark silk of Mulder's hair.
His rich scent and the tightness of his embrace quicken her
blood. With each touch and movement, the wall of propriety
tumbles, its plaster too recently re-applied to stay solid
for long.
Hands firm, mouth pressed to the tender skin of her throat,
he rumbles, "It was no dream, then... "
"No dream, Mulder... "
Her soft hands cradle the sides of his face, and she pushes
his head back far enough to lean forward and cover his mouth
with hers. Feeling his lips open wide, his warm tongue at
once bold and inquisitive in its exploration, she sighs
against him. It's like coming back to a new home, she
realizes. And she doesn't ever want to leave it again.
His hands resume their journey, re-asserting ownership first
over her hips and waist, then skimming over her curved
buttocks and the backs of her thighs. With closed eyes she
allows herself to be carried away by his touch. It's like
feeling his hands in the steamy water of the hot spring
again. His searching mouth is welcome against her breasts,
palms sliding to the insides of her thighs, inching up
between them. She's already moist against the caress of his
fingers.
"Too many clothes," he whispers. "I need to touch you."
She stifles a moan of anticipation and grinds her hips
against him when he pulls downward on her zipper. It isn't
his first visit to this hot delicate flesh, but her face
still burns at the newness of it, the stark reality that
it's Mulder's fingers creeping beneath her clothing. He
works the trousers down her quivering legs, which part wider
to allow his fingers passage. Easing beneath her panties,
they tickle along the slick swell of labia before probing
between her folds. His thumb, at the same time, makes
acquaintance with her clitoris, sweeping it with feathery
touches.
"Please... oh, don't stop... " She gasps, head back, aching
and bereft when his hand moves away. Her pounding heart and
swaying hips betray an embarrassing melange of emotion.
"Mulder, what the *hell* d'you think you're doing?"
Her distress mobilizes him. The mattress creaks and he
stands to hug her closely to his body. His fingers brush
her cheek, still moist and fragrant from their exploration
under her clothes.
"God, you feel so good," he murmurs into her hair, pressing
his lips against her ear. "But let's take it slow. I'd
like the scenic route right now... not the interstate." He
bends forward to capture her mouth in a deep, slow kiss.
"Join me?"
Leaning hard against him, the small, involuntary twitches of
her pelvis spell out her need and flood her cheeks with the
heat of mortification. She feels foolish now that the
moment has passed, the urgency diluted to a manageable ache.
"Easy for you to say," she scolds back into his grinning,
nipping mouth.
"Last night we made love outside, in a natural hot spring.
What's that tell you about us?"
His hands slide lower, down her back, and she leans into the
contours of his body, arms coming around him to cup the
firm, tight muscles of his ass. She wonders about the
relevance of his question, what significance it could
possibly hold for him now as they stand here, feverish and
fumbling with more than just their clothing.
"I don't know... it's not something I've done with any kind
of... frequency."
He chuffs into the hollow of her neck and shoulder.
"What are *you* suggesting?" Her breath is ragged,
punctuated by the slide and squeeze of his hands over her
breasts and straining hips. "That we're free-spirited
hedonists at heart? Or skinny-dippers who found an
opportunity to, um... indulge? Anyway... the hot spring was
just a prelude, Mulder."
"You don't count that? I sure as hell do."
She lifts her burning face to him, eyes heavy with
frustration and desire. "You didn't come inside me then,"
she whispers, "and I want that. Soon. Please."
Did she really blurt out such a thing? Oh god... A thumb
glides over her lips, scented with the musk of her arousal.
"And that reeks of pure hedonism, partner."
Two can play this game. Chagrin makes her reckless and she
takes his thumb between her teeth, tasting herself and
pinching him harder than she'd intended. He needs to
realize she's no longer kidding around.
"Feels like a plan," he concedes, nostrils and erection
flaring together at the twinge. "Lots of angles to
consider, Scully. A whole repertoire of possibilities.
Classic, creative, kinky... sitting down... standing up... "
His voice is deep, crooning, as he sheds his own shirt, then
peels off her top with gentle, unhurried hands. She feels
his bulging erection pressed between their bodies, notes how
it twitches, how his hips push forward against her despite
the leisurely pace he's setting.
"So what's your pleasure? I'm open to any and all
suggestions."
"Less talk," she gasps, "and more action... "
She doesn't want to think. Words evaporate as his hands
wander again, this time to unclasp her bra and cup her
tender hidden skin. She feels his gaze upon her breasts and
notes the appreciative inhalation, happy to please him. He
captures her rosy, taut nipples in his fingers, teasing
them, tracing their contours until she groans. "And there's
always the old standby, the floor... "
"The bed is fine," she murmurs, bringing her palm to the fly
of his pants and pushing against the hardness of his
erection. Her nails scrape him through his clothes. He
trembles in her grasp and in spite of himself, thrusts
lightly against her. Outside, thunder rumbles and rain
pounds, the fever of their desire accelerating with nature's
tempo.
Waiting and guessing for so many years makes her pause,
especially in light of his earlier request. She wonders
whether her pace is too quick, too bold. When her fingers
inch towards his belt buckle, Mulder answers the question by
puffing into her ear, "Scenic tour's over... "
Together they work to strip his belt and trousers with
impatient hands. In a haze of desire, she pulls down the
front of his boxers to free him and welcome the heavy
fullness of his flesh into her hands. He's velvety-smooth,
yet steel-hard and supple. Cupping the head, she teases the
tender underside with her fingers.
The next seconds are a blur in the darkened room. Her
balance is gone and she's floating backward onto the
blanket, feeling the scrap of panties pulled from her thighs
and down her legs. His mouth is hot and hungry on her
breasts. He sucks and tongues her hard nipples, sensation
shooting like an arrow to her core. It's primal, more
urgent than their full-moon encounter. She groans for his
mouth, grazing up her throat to seize her lips, opening her,
filling her.
Muscled thighs push her legs apart, folds agape before him.
His straining cock dips into her narrow wetness, then
retreats, sliding over the throbbing bud of her clitoris...
Ohgodyes... And it's Mulder, rising, sinking.... Now,
now... oh, *please*, she breathes into his chest, as he
groans her name and pushes deeply inward, hips churning --
And, clutching him, hips rocking in tandem, she closes her
eyes and her lips part in consummate delirious pleasure...
********************
END (1/10)
Waiting In Motion
by mountainphile