First Night

RATING: NC-17

CATEGORY: MSR, V

FEEDBACK: Please, please, please.

SPOILERS: Tiny ones for "All Things" and "Dreamland."

SUMMARY: "What're you thinking about G-woman?" he drawls. His tone and smile are bedroom-sultry, but his eyes are slightly panicked. He's not completely certain about this either.

DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Will never be. Wish they were.

The first night they decide to spend together she feels shy.

Only three nights ago, the unspoken heat simmering between them had finally imploded into a white-hot core of slippery limbs and impassioned moans. Trembling against each other in the aftermath, they spoke in tongues and hands until they fell asleep. Work, in the shape of an abortive Bigfoot sighting, intervened the morning after.

That evening she slowly packed up to go home, lingering in the basement's murk. Lengthening shadows began to chase their way across the wall when he looked up and asked, "My place? Eight o' clock?"

Her voice sounded too breathy in her ears. "What should I bring?"

His voice dragged against something deep in her belly. "Just yourself, Agent Scully. Just yourself."

She all but ran to her car.

Now, standing near the window in Mulder's bedroom, inches away from his bed, she fights the urge to run again. She's been on tenterhooks all night. She literally jumped when he put his hand on her back while she was in the kitchen washing their dishes. A wineglass, dug up from who-knows- where, fell to the floor, a casualty of this night's first erotic volleys. As he swept up the glass shards, Mulder smiled and said, "Next time, you're drinking from the Marvin the Martian glass Butterfingers."

The sounds of Mulder in his rinse-and-spit cycle come from the bathroom. The entire scene is unnervingly domestic. The only things missing are chaste twin beds separated by a chaperoning nightstand.

She's already gone through a stripped-down version of her own nighttime rituals. Mulder is indeed the proud owner of a Marvin the Martian glass that he presented to her as "her" bathroom mug. She had to blink away tears, undone by a gesture both endearingly adolescent and ridiculously intimate. Her bathroom mug in his bathroom. Back when dating was a lived reality rather than a historical myth, that would have been a milestone to share, half-embarrassed half-triumphant, with girlfriends over cheap wine and cholesterol-laden comfort foods. She's been alone for so long.

She looks out on the calm, deserted street and tries to convince herself she's nervy because she had to improvise her cleansing routine. She's a creature of habit who can be thrown off balance by washing, no scouring really, her face with Dial soap. Not all of Mulder's bachelor habits are that charming.

The bathroom door opens. Mulder leans against the doorway wearing red flannel pajamas and a gray T-shirt. She's wearing the boxer version of his pajama pants and his oldest, softest Knicks T-shirt. They look like fraternal twins dressed by a mother on a color-coordination tear.

"What're you thinking about G-woman?" he drawls. His tone and smile are bedroom-sultry, but his eyes are slightly panicked. He's not completely certain about this either.

"Scully?"

It's that tiny, uncertain quaver in his voice that spurs her to action. She closes the space between and slips her hands under the hem of his shirt. Muscle and sinew ripple beneath the softness of his skin. She rubs her cheek against his chest like a cat.

"I was just thinking about the Elizabeth Arden counter," she says, eyes closed.

"Now that's what every man wants to hear before he takes a woman to bed." One of his hands has worked its way up to her breast and has started to knead.

"You're going to cost me a fortune Agent Mulder," she husks. Of their own accord, her hands have traveled to their new favorite place. She rubs her fingers gently along the delicate crevices of his spine.

"Why is that, Agent Scully?" He's turned her so that she's pressed hard against the length of him. His other hand has started an agonizingly slow journey southward.

"Just think of all the skin-care products this apartment lacks. Foaming cleansers. Face masks. Re-vitalizing creams." Her voice goes ragged. Mulder's left hand has found its destination.

"Aw Scully, you're making me cry. In a moment I'm going to break down and tell you the secret location to my stash of olive oil and aloe soaps. I was saving those for a skin- care emergency."

She doesn't have a chance to answer because he swoops in suddenly and she's kissing him back with an ardor so unexpected it stuns her. He's a heady mixture of mint, wine, coffee grounds, and pure male flavor. Good scientist that she is, she wants to make sure she documents the proportions of this compound with absolute accuracy. She rubs herself against his hand urgently.

"Scully. Slow down a little." Somehow Mulder has managed to put a few centimeters between them. He's having a hard time breathing quietly.

Reeling in a fog of arousal and impending release, she lets herself be pushed back onto the bed. The truth is, she feels a savage joy over the fierceness of her desires. She's worn an armor of severe black suits and cold professionalism for so long she fears that the only things to be found underneath are a Barbie-smooth front and the wan sexual appetite of a Victorian matron.

Her clothes are gone, as are his. His mouth, all nuclear- furnace heat, closes over breast and she gasps. Surely this counts as an unexplained phenomenon. She's only ever experienced a tepid thrill in this act, registering faint tugs and a cold wet. Teeth scrape against her tender nipple and her breath hitches. When he switches breasts, she starts to writhe in earnest.

"No, wait." She halts his downward descent. "Lie back," she tells him. He does, eyes hooded and mouth slack.

"Last time it happened, it was all so intense. It was a blur to me, "she says shyly. "I want to remember the details." More than that, she wants to burn the textures of his body into her memory. As bodily realities, Jack and Daniel have almost completely faded. When she thinks of Jack, she remembers stiff choreography and endless post- coital discussions about "which positions worked best." All that remains of Daniel is the dark, liquid tug she feels whenever she hears the words "on your knees." She will not forget Mulder.

So she kisses her way down the length of his body, savoring the salt of his skin. She spends a long time nipping and nuzzling at the soft insides of his thighs, ignoring for the time being, the erection that bumps against her head like a friendly porpoise. She is a cartographer charting the valleys of her new found land. The peaks will come later.

Only when Mulder groans, "Scully, please, you're killing me," does she take him into her mouth. She's always been an enthusiastic blow-job giver, but it's been so long she can't take all of him in at once. She improvises, alternating strokes of her hand with the suction of her mouth. Mulder knots one hand in her hair. The other traces languid circles at the base of her neck. She's adrift in the mindless rhythms of giving pleasure. Above her, she hears Mulder moaning and knows he's close. Before she can increase the pressure of her lips and tongue, he tugs at her hair. The first time he's gentle. The second time he pulls sharply. She's so startled she almost scrapes her teeth against him.

"I want to be inside you," he grits. Poised between pain and ecstasy, he looks like he's snarling.

She nods and, in a flash, finds herself on her back. He slides into her so fast she feels a slight twinge of pain seconds later. He starts to move slowly. "No, don't," she says. "I'm so close." She has been for what seems like hours now. Wonder of wonders, he actually heeds her words and begins to move in earnest. She doesn't know if she really will come this way, but she wants to see Mulder completely given over to pleasure. She discovers he cries when he comes, just a few tears, and then her own release blindsides her. Gasping out words somewhere between blasphemy and a prayer, she wraps her limbs around him and rocks and rocks.

She swims out of her post-orgasmic haze to find Mulder lying on his side watching her. In the moonlight, she can see the shimmer of still unshed tears. He's smiling though-the wide, unguarded grin that flattens his nose and consigns him briefly to the ranks of the goofy. She loves that smile and idly considers scratching marks into her bedpost to commemorate its infrequent appearance. He brushes a strand of hair back from her forehead and says, "That was forever." His words unravel something in her. She starts to cry.

"Hey, hey," he croons tenderly, gathering her to him. "Don't cry Scully. Don't cry. We're forever."

They both know this is, at best, a comforting lie. Tomorrow morning they're going into work even though it's a Saturday. Crop circles in England apparently. She resents them right now. They're but one example of the caesuras she knows will mark their relationship. Try as she might, she can't shake the sense that impending tragedy haunts them. "Yes," she whispers as she tries to burrow into him. "This is forever. We are forever."

Later that night, before sleep overtakes her, she vows to tell him tomorrow in the only way she knows how. She does not want to stop the car and get out. She wants to trade their Bureau-issue sedan for a RV complete with king-sized bunks and a full refrigerator. She wants the luxury of making pit-stops and taking detours whenever the urge seizes them.

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