TITLE: Here
AUTHOR: Jess Mabe
EMAIL ADDRESS: snarkypup@mindspring.com
DISCLAIMER: We all know who they really belong to... ME
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Anywhere, just let me know.
SPOILER WARNING: There be dragons... Here be spoilers for "all things"
RATING: NC-17, of course. When I smutify, I smutify.
CONTENT WARNING: Spoilers! They're everywhere these days
CLASSIFICATION: Warm, steamy cups of liquid smut, sweetened with honey and
other natural flavors
SUMMARY: Take a wild guess.
Visit my site for all my fiction, lovingly archived by Galia:
http://galias.webprovider.com/Jess/jess.htm
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AUTHOR'S NOTES: Wait, bandwagon! Come back! I want to jump on!
Email me, I'm leaving a trail of paper breadcrumbs so I can find my way back
to my sanity. I think I parked it over by my car...
* * * *
Scully sleeps, her face slack after what must have been a difficult
confession, though it came disguised in the form of a confidence spoken to a
friend. Now that I have tucked her in, so to speak, I don't want to just get
up and go to sleep in my own bed. Certainly, in some romantic novel, I would
sit here and watch her face as she dreams, but I am not a patient man, and I
've always found that sort of obsession a bit creepy. Spooky I may be, but I
hope creepy, never.
It amazes me, the changes we have undergone in the last year. I say we for
the first time tonight, because it was not until tonight that I felt I could
fully include Scully in this monumental shift. Certainly, her belief system
had been shaken before, and I have seen her struggle to right it before she
moved on in much the same way she straightens those lovely tight shirts she'
s taken to wearing, when she first stands up. And straighten they do. But
tonight, something in Scully was not shaken so much as upended, overturned
and spun around. And when that happens, the force of movement makes you to
strip away the ballast you have added to keep yourself steady and true to
your chosen path. I believe that Scully has finally cut the lines to her
fear and guilt and let them go, right over the side. Thank God, wherever she
happens to find Him.
When I felt I had the answer to Sam's... not so much her disappearance,
which is still wholly unexplained, but to her life, it was remarkable the
difference in my own sense of need. Gone was the fear that in bringing
Scully close to me, I would taint her with my own inability to save those I
love; the fear of letting her drown while I stood by, unable to move. I knew
then what those around me had been attempting to explain to me since the
event itself: a child cannot save another child from the destructive power
of the adult world. Sam was saved, but it took a power beyond life itself to
wrench her out of Cancer Man's grip. I was free, in the sense that I knew I
had done what I could. And it was enough.
But Scully still lingered in some nameless place of fear and denial. I
couldn't have put my finger on it then, saying perhaps that she feared me.
It wouldn't have seemed unreasonable to me to suggest that perhaps she was
both attracted to me and repelled precisely because she craved and hated the
loss of control inherent in any relationship with someone as driven as
myself. That's it, I would have said. She doesn't want to lose herself in
me.
Now I know that wasn't it at all. Scully has never feared losing herself to
a man. She has admired, and loved, many men as forceful in personality as I
am. Her father, Jack Willis, and now this man, this doctor. And she has
defied them, each of them, in her own way. When they insisted that she do as
they wished, she shook her head and pursued her own path. They were simply
too inflexible to follow. I know all too well how easily I can push Scully
to the edge of that carefully drawn line of control. And I know that unlike
her previous lovers or fathers, I have no great pride. I would, and have,
willingly followed her to the ends of the earth rather than lose her. Should
she have chosen, that day in the hallway, to leave the Bureau, I would have
dropped the X-Files like a hot fish until I could either have brought her
back, or found a way to have them both. All right, so I do have some pride,
some stubbornness. I suspect that she likes me that way.
No, what Scully has feared, all along, was herself. Her fear, and hence her
guilt, must have taken on quite an addition in the last few days. Suddenly
she knew that while she had tried to extract herself from a situation before
she hurt those around her, she had failed, miserably. What a shock that must
have been to her reasonable and conscious little soul. A woman who prides
herself on her ability to detach emotionally is forced, for the first time,
to acknowledge that in remaining distant, she has failed to see the damage
she has already done, up close and gory. How, she must have asked, wounded
and vulnerable, do I know I won't do it again? Then comes the horrible
realization that she may have already begun the same process, allowing
herself to close a bit of distance between this man and herself. Could she
back away in time? Or was the answer not to run, but to face her desire
head-on? To examine it and give in to it long enough to provide herself, and
him, with some comfort. So she calls in the healer, she lets herself need
and want and hope. And lo and behold, something wonderful happens. She has
given of herself, and it hasn't made things worse. In fact, it seems to have
made things better. She has found a certain peace in this allowance of need,
as has the daughter, and eventually, so will the friend. It must have
occurred to her at some point, perhaps in that dark time when she thought
her friend would die, that she had done the best she could and that it was
enough. I know the power of this relief, the strength that has lain dormant
beneath the weight of burden. That, however, is where the similarity between
our journeys of discovery ends.
There is another fear, one peculiar to Scully, to my friend. She fears, not
so much the future, but the past. What have I done, she wonders, in striking
out for my own desires? This is the legacy, no doubt, of her upbringing.
Maggie Scully is a strong woman, but in the end, she deferred, no matter how
painful it may have been, to the needs of her husband. Into this world of
traditional values is born a little girl with a will that continues to
astound me with its ferocity. Is it their fault that the Scully girls wanted
as much as the boys? Could it have been made easier for them? Maybe.
Certainly Samantha, had she lived, would have had the same struggle in my
own family. In choosing for herself, in ignoring the advice of someone older
and, ostensibly, wiser, had she brought the pain of her life onto herself? I
think this is what Scully struggled with, in that temple. When do we take
responsibility for our own choices and say: you know what? This isn't the
life that was envisioned for me, but no one, not even the old and wise, can
see into our futures and predict what course will serve us best. We must
accept where we are.
That she had made this startling realization is what she was trying to tell
me on that couch. And I, like the idiot I am, thought she was still filled
with regret. How was I, after seven years of watching her second-guess the
decisions that brought her to me, supposed to absorb in just a few minutes
that Scully had decided to be happy with what she had? It was about as
plausible to me as star-lit visitations must have been to her.
Who knew we could still confound each other? I suppose I did.
And now she's asleep and I have, once again, missed the opportunity to tell
her that I understand her now. We are in the same place, she and I, and for
once in our lives, it's the present.
She shifts next to me, her head on my shoulder, and I am aware of my own
exhaustion. I've been travelling a lot the last few days and those long
flights are a bitch, despite the perky stewardesses. I thought I had missed
England, and was, to be honest, looking forward to showing off my knowledge
to Scully. How appropriate then that I have made my visit alone and returned
to this, to the woman I am in love with leaning gently against me, at peace
with our place here. I lower her onto the couch and tuck her small feet up
beneath the blanket. She sleeps on, oblivious to my own epiphanies.
I brush my teeth and slip into my flannel pajama bottoms, content to crawl
into my cold bed alone, for tonight. Of course, I can't actually sleep. My
mind races over the same territory it has so thoroughly covered in the
living room. We are free, we two. What does that mean, in its entirety? I
have no answers, without her warm voice and body leaning next to mine.
I am drifting in and out of sleep when I hear her entering my room. She sits
gingerly on the edge of the bed and waits there, wondering if I will wake or
if she should, as I know she's thinking of doing, just go home.
"I'm awake," I say quietly and she jumps. I should tell her: I'm awake and
aware. What a difference this could make, but I don't say it.
"I was just going to head home," she says softly. "Sorry for keeping you up
like that."
When I don't reply, we both sit silently, watching each other in the easy
half-light from the street lamp outside my window. Finally, I start to touch
her arm and tell her to go. I must be reaching right through her thoughts
tonight, because she is again startled by me. Her hand goes up, reflexively,
and surprisingly, I am not offended. Instead, I match the tips of my fingers
to hers and fold our hands together.
She looks away, and I cannot read her face, but clearly I have touched a
nerve. Her eyes water, though I can't quite call this moisture tears, and
she clears her throat.
"It's been a long day," she says at last.
I ignore this, because we've had longer, certainly and it isn't the issue.
"Stay with me tonight," I ask, watching her for signs that I am moving too
quickly. Just because someone has had a realization, I know, doesn't mean
they're ready to act upon it. I hold her gaze when she looks up. I want her
to know what I'm asking, exactly. We have slept in the same bed before, in
chaste kinship. That isn't what I desire now, not that it was then, either.
But tonight there will be no half-answers. Yes or no, Scully.
She doesn't answer, but she doesn't look away either. Finally, I give her
arm a small tug and she leans down. At first I think she will kiss me, but
she doesn't. Her head comes to rest on my chest, and when I touch the top of
her hair to comfort her, I hear a small gasp, as if she is trying not to
weep. This isn't exactly the answer I was looking for. In fact, right now, I
'm not sure that I haven't received a "maybe" or even a "not yet". After a
moment, she sits up again, pushing her hair back from her face, and I see
she is smiling through what are now officially tears.
"You aren't in pain anymore, are you?" she asks, her hand still clutching
mine. This seems to be important to her answer, so I am truthful.
"Not really," I say. "Not any more than anyone else."
I guess I've said the right thing. Leaning down slowly, she meets her lips
to mine and sighs against my waiting mouth. I let her rest there for a
moment, then I let go of her hand and thread my hands through the hair
behind her ears. It's soft and surprisingly warm. When I open my mouth, she
lets me guide her forward until we are kissing heavily. Then I let go of her
head. It was, after all, merely a suggestion. We are leisurely in our
kisses, as two people are in the middle of the night when they both know
that they won't talk about it in the morning but that it will still be
there, changing everything and nothing at the same time.
Scully rises again, this time reaching for the bottom of her shirt. So now I
have my answer, and I want to stand up and cheer for her. She has said yes.
Perhaps, tomorrow, we will question all of this, but for now, we have said
yes, and it is a lovely, meaningful world. I still her hand and shake my
head. She is watching me, probably convincing herself that I'm about to
reject her. She hasn't heard my answer, at least, not out loud.
Instead I indulge in a fantasy. Why not, now that we are free? I place my
large hand over the curve of her breasts, the bare skin above her skimpy
tight shirt. God, how long have I wanted to touch her there? Her breast, not
just a sexual symbol to me in this moment, but the place where her heart
beats rapidly, where her breaths rise and fall, where she truly lives, in
all senses of the word. The skin is cool and rough with excitement, with
arousal. She has gooseflesh, my Scully, and it is beautiful to the touch,
braille for her own desire. When I remove my hand and lower my lips to kiss
the soft rise of each breast, her eyes close before I can get there,
preparing for the shock. It's just as well we're sitting down.
I trace the neckline of her shirt with my mouth, working across and then
back up under her tender throat, so often a target of something evil, until
I am kissing her mouth again. Her tongue is warm and slick against my own,
mimicking the damp slide to come, body within body. She tries to pull the
shirt off again, and this time I let her. I have touched her breastbone, her
clavicle, places that held a certain mystery for me in times past, when I
would catch her bending over a file or when her coat slipped and let me see
some sweet sliver of flesh. Now I want what I haven't seen everyday.
She wears what is clearly a Wonderbra. And indeed, it is a wonder, pushing
up and out that which nature has sensibly decreed will hang with a delicious
heaviness, like ripe fruit. I unfasten it and push it roughly away. Science
has no place here, not even the science of the vast undergarment industry.
She lets her head fall back weakly when I caress her, lifting her breasts
and running the sharp tip of my tongue over her skin. We haven't said a
word.
Pulling her onto my lap, I can feel her skirt rising up as she settles down,
and I follow it, tracing her thighs to roughly hold her ass. She's kissing
me again, and sure of herself now, she grips my face between her small hands
and holds me there, as if I were planning on leaving any time soon. I am
kneeling, supplicating myself, barely able to stay upright. Scully straddles
me, her naked breasts pressed against my own bare nipples, a rough brush
making us both groan. With less ceremony than I would have anticipated, she
runs her own hands up her thighs to her waist, lifting the skirt the rest of
the way. Her fingers curl through the waistband of both her nylons and her
underwear, dragging them a few futile inches before she seems to realize she
must stand.
I will never stop being astonished at the sight of her rising like a water
nymph, sheened with gleaming sweat, her head nearly brushing the ceiling as
she strips off the last of her clothing for me. I have seen many naked
women, but never anyone who revealed herself with the intensity of Scully,
who must know what this means to me. Trust is coming off her pale body in
palpable waves. Be Grateful, the waves say to my quivering skin, to my
blinking eyes, and I am. I hold her there, as she balances with both hands
pressed against the cool mirrored tiles above her head, and I push my face
between her soft thighs and my tongue into the wetness I find there. She
gasps and spreads her legs further, allowing me greater access. Warm musk
reaches my senses and I am lost, with no sense of technique or even of
place, only knowing that I must bury myself in this place, in this woman.
Fortunately, technique is not on her mind either and she continues to groan
as I run the thick flat of my tongue into every space I can reach. When she
comes it is not, I realize even at the time, because I am a great lover, but
simply because I am. We are.
"Wonderful." It is the first word I have said and she smiles down at me,
sinking slowly, a flush spread out across her chest and face as if she has
been standing looking up at the sun. Pushing me back onto the bed, she
watches as I unbend my stiff legs and then pulls my pajamas off from my
feet. I catch them as they go, guiding them over my penis without pain.
"Mulder," is the first thing she says, and only as she sinks onto me, so wet
I am sure we'll both drown. "Mulder." We move slowly, my own hips rising as
she lowers herself, creating a rhythm. Of course she is on top, I think
vaguely. She always has been. Her thighs tighten around my hips, her knees
press against me and I want her, even though I'm already within her. God, I
want her so badly.
As if she senses this, she slips off of me and pulls me down onto her,
allowing me to slip into her as easily as if she were an extension of my own
body. And perhaps she is, just as I am the extension of hers. "Wonderful," I
say again.
I am able to move now, but my need for her is not satisfied. I kiss her,
deeply, straining to touch her somewhere that will make this feel real. She
raises her legs until I am sheathed so far within her I can feel her
dampness against the skin of my groin. Running one hand between us, she
touches me with her fingertips each time I rise, as if she can't quite
accept this.
And then I know what we lack, what holds us apart. I open my eyes and meet
her own and I see she knows it too.
"I love you," I tell her. She smiles at me, mostly with her eyes, as her
mouth is open and panting. I am still grinding into her, rotating my hips
slightly to reinforce it.
"I love you," she replies and I was right, it is enough. We have done all it
is possible for us to do, and though we can't melt into one another, it is
enough. I come within her, listening to her moan "wonderful" over and over.
I am awake, several hours later, when she rises from my bed and sneaks into
the bathroom. Of course I pretend to be asleep. This morning, we must go to
work, as if nothing at all has passed between us. I understand that she
needs time alone to find herself in the larger us we have created. I also
know that at some point in the near future, she won't rise early and leave
for her own apartment. That soon this will all be as natural as breathing,
and we will start to take it for granted until I remind her of this morning,
when she put on her cold and wrinkled clothing and left to find herself.
Only to discover, of course, what we both already know. We are inseparable,
because we are both finally here.
* * * *
End.
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