Waiting In Motion (3/10) by mountainphile MSR, NC-17 mountainphile@yahoo.com Header and Disclaimer info in Part 1 ******************** The new storm blasts and pummels the motel with sobering force, branches flailing against the windowpanes and tarpaper roofing. They run a mad dash under the trees, through downpour and white flashes of pure electric power, during which Scully risks ducking her head and closing her eyes. Trusting the strength of Mulder's arm that's hooked around her waist... counting on his balance and unerring night vision to bring her quickly through the wild darkness and back to their room. Inside they shuck their muddy shoes into a mound next to the doorway as before, peeling off coats and hanging them like wet pelts on wall hooks. Mulder locks the door and turns on the bedside lamp. His unhurried movements, paired with the soft golden light, lend an air of welcome and order and coziness to this rustic haven. She's damp from the short run through the rain. Her hair hangs in soaking red tendrils, while the chill clutch of her shirt raises both gooseflesh and nipples. Bending over to remove knee-highs, she feels the wet cling of her slacks to each ankle. The first order of business is to get warm and dry. Kneeling next to her small case, she extracts the navy blue pajamas she packs for travel, noting that Mulder has heaved his larger suitcase to the bed where it lays gaping. He settles beside it, sloughing off wet socks and pitching the sodden balls, like foul shots, one by one toward the pile of shoes. Not until she stands with the pajamas in her hands, does she have a clear view into the suitcase and can see what he's packed for this trip. Her stomach tightens. She notes the old boots, faded jeans and flannel shirt, work gloves. Thick woolen socks. A baseball cap. He's even tucked a headlamp into the mouth of one boot, its lens a dull, opaque orb, mocking her... Several file folders peek out from under a worn poncho. Certainly not a suitcase one would pack for a visit to a country gentleman's estate. At her pause, his head tilts and she sees that his eyes, moving upward and ever hopeful, take in her windswept appearance for the first time. "Need any help?" "I can handle it," she mutters, the thin, silky fabric escaping from under her arm as she turns toward the bathroom. One does not begin a romantic attachment with a clean slate, Scully muses as she strips off her wet clothing. Accoutrements from the past clutter and disorganize the fresh, honest decor of the present. Cobwebs linger. Old baggage sits waiting, gathering dust, until the time it's thrown open to unexpected scrutiny. At this stage of the game, she should have seen it coming. Several hours ago her answer to Mulder would have been different and she might have welcomed another slow seduction, her mind intent on nothing else except giving and receiving pleasure. The events of the day rush back to her -- tender hours of lovemaking and discovery, the mutual, after-shower toweling only a short while ago. The delight of Mulder's agile tongue seeking out the lower recesses of her body... melting her again as she leaned bonelessly against this same bathroom sink. But now, buttoning her pajama top and brushing her hair to auburn smoothness in the mirror... now Scully feels only a weary cynicism, a confirmation that the familiar doubts and suspicions that have surfaced again are valid. Old baggage coming to light within a new setting. After encouraging Mulder's recent intimacies, she feels the unaccustomed nagging twinges of compromise and concession. "Hey." He knocks on the door, gentle taps. "Bring a towel out with you." Her eyes sweep the bathroom, where her wet things hang draped over a bar. After today's multiple couplings, there aren't many towels left unsoiled and she hopes he's not intending this for the same purpose. Not yet. Not until her ruffled sensibilities, like her hair, are brushed back into place. The suitcase is closed and shoved back against the wall when she appears, dressed for sleep and towel in hand. Decorating the back of a chair are Mulder's trousers and blue shirt. A quick glance at the bed reveals that he's already folded back not only the blanket, but the sheet as well. Not yet, she reiterates to herself when Mulder turns from the window to face her. His hair is wet and tousled. He's wearing a soft pair of flannel pajama bottoms in a dark print -- she doesn't want to look close or hard enough to distinguish the pattern and glances down. Bare masculine feet with a pleasing arch and long toes... He's just pulled on a black tee shirt, smoothing the fabric down over his ribs and stomach, the short sleeves taut across his biceps and chest. Averting her eyes, she remembers the steel of those muscles flexing around her body, can still feel the softness of his skin against her lips. He waits, standing with a rakish cocky tilt to his head. Mulder's bedroom eyes have no mercy, she's discovered with surprise, and one look into their sensuous hazel depths, coupled with the moist pout of his lips -- She sighs in irritation at the twinge of arousal between her legs, at the way her own body, lately awakened, so easily betrays her. She knows now how soft those lips are... where on her body she'd like to feel them. "Here," she says shortly, handing the towel to him as he approaches. "And I don't need to know what it's for." He smirks and takes it. Covering his head, he rubs with the same quick, short movements he used after their shower. The damp spiked hair that results strikes her as sweet, almost boyish, in spite of her resolve. Like before, fingers aren't enough to tame it, so he heads for the bathroom. "S'matter, Scully? Not up for a marathon?" He must intend the words to be coy, affectionate, but hearing them now, she shakes her head. Looking down and away, her arms cross under her breasts. "I have something more important to attend to. And so do you." "You're sore?" She shoots him a look, startled by his new frankness. "No... " "Then I bet I can change your mind." Giving a deep sigh, she closes her eyes. "Mulder... we have to talk." When she opens them he's standing in the bathroom doorway, hands up on either side of the jamb. His eyes ripple over her face, dark and inscrutable. Already she can feel another wall insinuating itself between them. "So what's the problem?" "Please... *I* need to ask the questions right now, if you don't mind." Watching her under lowered lids, he gives a tiny huff. "Then be my guest." "I want you to start being honest with me. It's already Saturday night and we should be back in DC by now. Skinner is expecting my report on the Sullivan case to be on his desk early Monday morning, and I need to be working on that, Mulder. Not wasting time battened down out here in the middle of nowhere in a near-disaster area." "You like battening down out here with me. There weren't any complaints before dinner." "That," she says, her cheeks warming, "isn't relevant right now." "I disagree." The little furrow between her brows deepens at his challenge. She can be blunt as well. Looking up under the weight of his solemn gaze, she wonders why communication and understanding must always hang on such a fragile peg for them. "Then tell me about this secret agenda of yours. What the hell are we doing here?" His eyebrows quirk in response; she has a sudden, overwhelming impression that he's surprised she should even ask. "When do you plan to tell me what's going on? Tonight? Tomorrow, when you suddenly disappear into the woods? Or when we're in the car, driving to an undisclosed location -- like you did last night on the way to the estate with the hot spring? You withheld information from me, your partner. Incomplete disclosure, Mulder. Part-truth." There's lopsidedness in their partnership, resulting in stifled resentments or mild altercations... or both. She still ponders their tiff over the crop circles a month ago. It's usually easier to let it pass, to ignore the rankle and consider the source. Mulder has his reasons and can usually justify any rabbit trail or sudden departure from the established itinerary. But this time it's different -- the unspoken secrets, the shared room, her emotional rawness after what's been happening physically between them... Exasperated, she lifts her chin and her voice. "So what's the real reason for this *long way home*... for this scenic route we're taking? It isn't to cash in on the sights or enjoy the glorious weather. And the timing... it seems like a convenient postscript delivered at the last minute to assure my cooperation when it's already too late for me to object. Am I right?" Perceived injustice tweaks her sensibilities and she feels her face hardening, taking on color to match her escalating displeasure. Only yesterday he spoke words tinged with sarcasm when she questioned whether her presence was really essential for this trip. But it was a terse dialogue over the cell phone, clean and impersonal. Not face-to-face, the way they are now with nothing between them to buffer the sting of confrontation. She maintains eye contact, shaking her head at his lack of response. "I'm gathering evidence," he interjects suddenly. She can't tell if anger lurks behind his words. "Expanding our scope. Not exactly unheard of in our line of work." "Oh, bullshit, Mulder..." "If you don't like that answer, come up with your own interpretation. I'm just being honest with you. As requested," he adds with a polite nod and sarcastic lilt. "I'll be honest with *you* -- I don't like to be kept in the dark or left by the wayside. It's been a point of contention far too long and I'm tired of it. Especially now." "Why now?" She tries with effort to keep her voice level and modulated. She doesn't need his flip little comebacks, his riddles, or blind, leapfrog logic. And now she's contradicting herself by pointing out the sexual shift between them. What exactly is she asking him for? A hint of understanding, maybe... Appreciation for the long path they've walked together. The realization that their present intimacy, like everything else beautiful and precious, comes to them after long delay and with deep personal scars already in place. "Figure it out. You're the star profiler here." Wincing from the unexpected sting, he recovers, not missing a beat in the rapid-fire exchange. "Sex isn't the issue. Your appetite's just as ravenous as mine, I noticed. So what is it?" She says it quietly. "I just don't want to be left out of the loop." Averting her eyes, she's shocked at how petty and hollow it sounds. "As your partner," she explains, "I deserve more consideration, especially out in the field under adverse conditions." "Since when is a motel adverse?" "I don't think I have to spell it out... " "All right, the investigation is personal, not FBI- sanctioned. Regardless, I need your expertise and assistance. We watch each other's back." "That goes without saying," she concurs, frowning. "There are elements here that only you could understand." She feels his scrutiny and the intensity of his presence before her. "And by the same token, it's also nice to have company along for the ride. After the trip to England and what I missed here... and the changes between us... Call me a selfish son-of-a-bitch, Scully, but I didn't want you to stay behind this time in DC." Hearing him speak, she feels somehow responsible for this first unpleasant rift between them since their consummation earlier in the day. She extends her hand through the wall of uncertainty that separates them. Mulder releases the doorframe, glancing down to her upturned palm and then back to her face, as if suspicious of her motive. "You could have told me that before," she retorts. "Didn't seem like the thing to do." She hesitates, then lurches ahead with false bravado. "Mulder... I don't think... " "What?" "I don't think I've found my sea legs yet." Eyes averted at this admission of weakness, she feels his warm, dry fingers envelop her hand. "You know as well as I do what's happening here. It's awkward... and not without complexity... and I'm not nearly as adept at keeping my balance as I'd hoped to be." "Hey, it's me," he whispers, his voice suddenly tender. The gap narrows as he bends toward her. His lips on the ripple of her eyebrow are a soothing, reassuring balm, proof that he understands the cost of such honesty. "Make room for me on that deck. I feel the same way." He tilts his head lower in order to coax her gaze. Distressed by the unfamiliar, emotional nakedness rising between them, she wills the flush away from her nose before risking an upward peek. "I didn't think it would bother you," he explains, and she knows he's referring back to her initial complaint. "I had every intention of briefing you. And last night in the car... you seemed okay with the way things went." "That's entirely different. I'm only human. We'd been kissing... you were touching me in places... " She sighs in resignation. Once again, a master of finesse, he's deflecting the real issue, but the flicker of impatience is less irksome than before to her exhausted spirit. He takes another step closer, his fingers coming to life around her hand, the thumb beginning to move over her palm with lazy strokes. When he speaks it's deep in his throat, just above a mellow whisper. "I remember that. And what came after, at the spring... and what's happened today between us... " In the nest of her hand, the finger massage continues, light and sensual, moving up to her wrist and over the plush mound of skin at her thumb's base. She feels his breath warm the airspace between them, a reminder of the greater intimacies shared. "You okay, Scully?" he asks huskily. "Is there still a point of contention?" The justification still exists; the evidence abounds. If she were anal and stubborn she could mention the long, nonsensical detour and the hidden agendas that feed her frustration. The wild cards that Mulder hands to her. The little things he hides or neglects to mention. It would be easy to give in to the pull, to rationalize and be the injured party once again and still feel justified. But she can't forget the long years of trust she's invested in this man. For God's sake, he's still her partner, as well as being her... lover. There's the unique working style they've developed and the instinctive way they communicate with one another on the field and in the office. His skills, so extraordinary, paired with hers. She can't deny the loyalty and risk and occasional heartbreak. The secret knowledge they share. The unbelievable phenomena they've witnessed together. What did he say in the car last night? That before he revealed all the details of a new investigation, he sometimes felt constrained to test it, to check its validity. Covering her back and, at the same time, protecting his pride. Since crossing paths once again with Daniel Waterston, she's seen microscopic shifts in the way she and Mulder react to one another -- and wonders how much of that is a natural progression or just coincidental. Pondering these things, she warms under his touch, her indignation melting in a slow, gentle thaw. It's not worth pursuing the negative. There was wisdom, after all, in swallowing her wounded pride and extending her hand. "And," he continues, encouraged by her silence, "I think it's entirely plausible that I'm distracted by this new depth of involvement I have with my partner... and she should probably overlook a shortcoming or two." She suppresses the twitch that threatens the corners of her mouth. His choice of words strikes her as winsome, if not downright manipulative; Mulder knows how to lure her back. His hand moves to her hair, where he strokes gently through her still-damp locks, thumb circling her temple. "Perhaps she'd consider that, if you'd take her into your confidence," she murmurs, "and tell her what you're looking for." "No second thoughts?" "No. No, of course not -- " Shaken and frowning, she looks up, searching his face for signs of doubt. "Mulder, that isn't really what you thought?" She senses more than sees an invisible shrug in his slow blink and calm demeanor, in the nonchalance he shows. The twinkle returns to his eyes, crinkling the corners and softening his features. Suddenly wanting his touch, she accepts the heavy press of his lips to her mouth, leaning gratefully into the hand that cups her cheek. So easy now, she marvels, to slide into the familiar well of his kiss... "Listen... if you want to know the real reason we're sticking around -- just wait for me over there on the bed. I've got something to show you." "I'll bet you do," she chuffs. Her response draws a surprised laugh. "Trust me, Scully, I'm coming clean for you. Don't you know that buddies always share?" ******************** END (3/10) Waiting In Motion by mountainphile