Title: Inevitable
Author: Flynn
Date: January 5, 2002
Rating: NC-17 for adult expressions of affection.
Classification: MSR, PWP
Keywords: None
E-mail: flyn121@yahoo.com
Website: www.geocities.com/cratkinsonflynn/
Category: X-Cops post-ep
Archiving: Feel free, just tell me about it first.
Spoiler warning: Brief nod to Hollywood A.D., SUZ, and the cancer arc.
Feedback: Nourishes the soul and is good karma.
SCRIBBLER'S NOTE: This is an anxiety-free zone. This is nothing but
friends hanging out and feeling frisky. Want anxious? Watch the news.
Disclaimer: My name is .... not open to discussion. Let's just say it's not
Carter and leave it at that.
Thanks to my long-suffering beta-buddy, Christine, my favorite nit-picker
in the world.
Summary: He knew it was inevitable. They both did. They'd known since New
Years .... since that day in his apartment doorway last autumn .... maybe
even since before Africa. Sooner or later, they were going to end up in
bed. For real.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Inevitable
by Flynn
~~~~~~~~~~~
It must have been almost midnight when the rain finally started. From
where she sat beside the open window, Dana Scully could hear the
patter of drops on the glass, and far below, the sound of traffic. Horns
blared occasionally despite the hour. Streetlights flashed green to gold
to red, like the leaves of maple trees that grew on base when she was
young. The moisture on the glass made the changing colors a light
show. Green gold red .... green gold red ....
She sighed and let her head fall back against the cushioned backrest.
She was bone-weary, but sleep was proving to be elusive. She'd been
up too long. They both had. She was still keyed up. She'd tried to rest,
of course. She'd stretched out on the bed and tried to lie still .... tried
to relax .... but her eyes kept opening and she found herself watching
the pattern of lights from passing cars glide across the walls and ceiling.
After two hours she gave up and went back to the window.
Los Angeles. The end of a case. Well, non-case. No werewolf - sorry,
Mulder. No Wasp-man. No Freddy Kruger. Just questions. Like so
many of the cases they had been involved with down through the
years .... questions that had no answers. Not for him. Not for her.
They'd checked in to the hotel earlier that evening, after the requisite
paperwork was completed and all the preliminary reports had been
submitted by phone. AD Skinner wasn't any too happy that the
perpetrator managed to elude them in the end, and even less so that
Mulder had taken no great pains to tone down his rather fanciful
theories around the film crew. Still, Skinner'd been civil about the
matter, at least as much as he could be with his own superiors
demanding answers. He told the two of them to check out of the f
lea-bag motel they'd been in and get something closer to the airport.
As long as they minded their Ps and Qs, he'd sign off on the expense
voucher.
She couldn't help but smile at that. Guess he was still disgruntled by
the charges they'd run up on the company card last spring. Well,
Walter, if you didn't want us to spread our wings a little, you
shouldn't have let us out of our cage.
Slowly she pushed herself to her feet, stretching her arms a little as
she padded across the room to the sink. The memories of that
particular trip could still make her smile. The movie was a travesty,
of course , but the food and the champagne had been utterly
decadent. And even if it hadn't been, the night would stand out in
her memory forever, because .... well, who knew Mulder could dance
like that?
There would be no dancing on this trip. Fortunately, the case was
wrapped. Tomorrow they'd get on the plane and fly back to the tangible
if sometimes mundane reality of the basement. For the moment she was
content. Well, except for the fact that she couldn't sleep. The new hotel
was nice enough. There was room service. It was terribly over-priced, of
course, and the food probably wasn't much better than could be found
across the street at Kim's Kozy Kitchen, which might well be where it
was procured in the first place .... but at least the carpet was clean and
she wouldn't have to go anywhere if she got hungry.
She'd been up too many hours straight. That was her problem now. She
didn't want to think how long it had been since she'd managed to get m
ore than a few minutes of sleep. When had she dozed last? Yesterday at
the squad room? In between interviews with deputies and film crews in
one of those stuffy, claustrophobic interrogation offices? Maybe sitting
on the commode in the women's restroom?
She might have nodded off there, had it not been for the smell.
It didn't smell here though, so what was the problem? She pursed her lips
as she peeled the plastic sleeve off the cheap tumbler that came with the
room. Should have taken something a couple hours ago, she mused,
running the water a minute before filling the cup. It's not too late.
She wondered how the injured deputy, Wetzel, was doing. She estimated
he'd lost about a pint of blood in the attack, a little more during surgery
on his arm and shoulder. The damage to his reputation, at least as far as
he saw it, would not be so easy to fix. She gave her head a shake as she
dug around in her overnight case. In law enforcement, reputations came
with the territory. Some were good, some not so good. The deputy would
have to take his lumps just like everyone else. If he did good work, there
would be compensations.
She eyed herself in the mirror as she tossed back a tablet. A smile
tugged at her mouth. Compensations. Yeah, there were a few.
One of hers was sacked out in the next room. Probably - well, hopefully -
snoring to wake the dead.
He'd pushed his luck with her and he knew it. Compensation or not,
she'd come close to slugging him really hard a couple times. She
hadn't been afraid, per se, at least not inordinately so. Not of
contagion, and certainly not of an attack by a giant wasp. Her mind
just didn't work that way. But looking foolish on live television?
Hmm. It certainly wasn't as dramatic as "Wasp-man", that she had to
admit, but it did pose a certain threat nonetheless. After all the bad PR
it had received lately, the Bureau just didn't need anyone else
screwing up in a public way. Besides, she and Mulder hadn't been
able to exchange so much as a simple comment without finding a
damned camera shoved in their faces, and that rankled. Every blink,
every twitch, every whisper was caught on film. Shit. None of that
had been his fault, of course, but it just didn't help matters when he
started playing to those same cameras. Not that it surprised her, really.
She knew better than anyone what a showman Mulder could be.
She was almost back to her chair when a soft sound caught her ear.
It wasn't much, just the sound of a flushing toilet, but it stopped
her in mid-stride. He *was* awake. Had he managed to sleep at all?
She hoped so.
Her gaze returned to the bottle on the counter. Take one tablet
with water ....
She could check on him. It wasn't often that she indulged herself,
but neither was it unheard of for her to look in on him in the middle
of the night. He never seemed to mind, and in fact she wondered if
he didn't really enjoy the attention. Sometimes she'd get lucky and
actually find him asleep, although that was rare. Those were the
times she'd linger a while and .... just look. Watch the way his eyes
rolled under the paper-thin skin of his lids. His mouth fascinated her,
even lax in sleep. She'd listen to the sound of his breathing, and wish
she could screw up the courage to touch him. She always left before
that could happen.
If he ever did the same .... if he came into her room and watched her as
she slept .... well, if he did, he kept it a well-guarded secret.
The door between their rooms was ajar. She gentled it aside and peered
in. Light flickered unevenly, splashing the room and everything in it with
garish colors. Television, the chronic insomniac's companion. Not a
good sign. The bed was rumpled but empty. Frowning, she scanned
the darkness for his familiar silhouette and saw him at once, standing
in the shadows by the bathroom. He was leaning heavily on the counter,
arms spread, head bowed. God, he looked weary. She didn't have to see
them to know just how dark the circles were under his eyes. No, he
hadn't slept. Not at all.
"Hey," she called very quietly. He didn't move, just stood there
apparently staring into the darkness. "What're you doing, Mulder?
Are you okay?"
He turned slowly. He was, she noted, wearing a pair of baggy sweat
pants and no shirt. No shoes. Not even socks. Jesus, he had big feet.
No, just the sweats - and a concerned expression. "Sure, I'm good.
What're you doing up? I thought you'd have crashed hours ago."
She looked at him closely as she took another step toward him,
quietly thanking God that, other than a bruised shoulder from
knocking in that door, he was unscathed. "I tried. Couldn't sleep.
I heard you moving around in here."
He heard the concern in her soft tone. He should have known
she'd still be awake. Man, she looked tired. Almost haggard.
Too much work, too much worry, too little food and almost no
rest for the better part of three days. Oh, they made a fine pair,
didn't they? "I'm fine, Doctor Scully. Just watching Letterman.
Had to take a leak." It bothered him sometimes, the way she
worried about him. Not that he didn't appreciate it, her looking
after him .... he just didn't need it right now. In fact, judging
from the circles under her eyes, *she* was the one who needed
a little TLC. The case was a non-issue, at least for another
twenty-nine days, and in a nice break from the standard routine,
neither one of them had so much as broken a nail. No hospitals,
no hard-nosed medical staff telling them what they could and
couldn't do, telling them to sign here, stand there, turn your head
and cough. The work was all but finished - there was just the
debriefing with Skinner to get through once they were back in DC.
There was nothing for her to worry about now. Ah, but that isn't
what she thought, clearly. He offered her what he hoped was a
reassuring smile. "Well, here we are, Scully. The middle of the
night and it's just the two of us. Just a coupla night owls, aren't we?"
She nodded a time or two as she folded her arms. "Regular party animals."
She gestured to the open door behind her with a turn of her head. "Listen,
I know how you feel about them, but I have a spare sleeping pill if you're
interest. You look like you could use the rest."
He winced and shook his head. "Thanks anyway. I'll just wait for the
boredom of rerun purgatory to knock me out."
She nodded again, slowly this time. Silence fell between them. Over
his bare shoulder she could see rain pelting the window. In the distance,
a tongue of lightning lanced almost horizontally through the night sky.
Thunder boomed like an afterthought. The angels are bowling tonight,
she thought with a private smile.
His lips quirked as he stepped closer. "Share with the class?"
Her eyes focused on him again. "Huh? Share what?"
He touched a gentle finger to the curve of her cheek, let his fingertip
just brush her lower lip. "Happy thoughts?"
She shrugged one shoulder but didn't explain. He wouldn't want to
hear about Melissa and her angels. He didn't like to be reminded of
the damage he'd caused in her life. Or, more accurately, the damage
he felt he'd caused. Enough with the guilt, she wanted to say. She
didn't blame him for anything. It bothered her that he did. "Happy?
Yeah, sort of," she replied. He said nothing, just stood there watching
her. She drew her lower lip into her mouth and gnawed it gently. She
didn't need to stay. He was okay, and he wasn't interested in taking
anything to hurry sleep. Which, she knew full well, wouldn't happen
at all as long as she stood there staring at him. Time for a graceful exit.
"Well, I won't keep you. I just wanted to make sure ...."
"Keep me, please," he said quickly, cutting her off. "I mean, stay a
while. Listen, I'm about to order something from room service. We can
have a little party. You want something? Warm milk, maybe? They say
warm milk helps you sleep."
She allowed herself another quick smile. "They? Which they would
that be, Mulder?"
He shrugged, smiling. "All those smart doctor-types. I read about it
in college once."
She tipped her head back a little. "Thanks, but warm milk makes me gag.
You go ahead though."
He laid a hand on her arm, stopping her before she could turn. "Then
I'll order cold milk for you. C'mon, Scully, it's early yet." She gave him
a wry look. He grinned but didn't release her. "All right, it's late.
Appallingly late. So what? We don't fly out until four in the afternoon,
and, thanks to Skinner, we're about twenty minutes from the terminal.
What, you think you'll get in trouble being in a boy's room past curfew
or something? Live a little. I can behave. Honest."
She bit back a soft giggle but let him lead her deeper into the room. "All
right, I'll stay for a few minutes, but not because you're taunting me."
"'Atta girl." He released her and let himself fall backwards onto the bed.
The mattress bounced nicely under his weight. He yanked the phone
closer to him and winked at her as he punched numbers. "Is this the
kitchen? Listen, I can't find it on the menu card, but here's what I want ...."
She moved slowly around the room. It didn't matter what he was saying.
Sometimes, like now, just the sound of his voice was soothing. She could
feel him watching her. He did that a lot these days. Usually that was all he
did - just look. Sometimes, though, he'd sidle up close enough for a quick,
shy kiss. Not a forehead kiss, either. A real, honest-to-God, on-the-mouth
kiss. Those were also the times his eyes were drawn to her chest like iron
to magnets. Hmm. Maybe it was a good thing she'd decided against packing
the white silk pajamas for this trip - the slate blue ones she was wearing
hinted at the goods they concealed, but he wasn't going to actually see
anything he shouldn't. And he was looking, she could tell from his flat,
distracted tone. "Uh, yeah, that's right. One cold, one warm. Do you
have non-fat? Okay, make that the cold one." There was a brief pause,
and his attention was abruptly drawn back to the phone. "What? Yeah,
something like that. Thanks." He shrugged ruefully as he hung up the
phone. "Asked if I have insomnia. Lucky guess."
She sat facing him on the bed and drew one knee up to her chest.
"Well, I guess it isn't so surprising. We've both been up a long time."
She flexed her neck from side to side and was rewarded with a few soft
*pops!* "I don't know about you, but I think I'm too tired to sleep."
He grunted softly in agreement. "And don't forget the moon's practically
full," he said, stretching out full-length and almost but not quite touching
her. He laced his fingers behind his head and smiled up at her.
She gave him a sideways glance and snorted very softly. "I don't think
I'm too likely to forget that, but thank you for pointing it out."
He shrugged. "I assume you're familiar with the effects of lunar radiation.
I only mention it because it has to be a factor, too." He paused and softly
added, "Well, it *might* be a factor."
She sighed. The television was muted, but she could see Letterman
was interviewing - or was it interrogating? - Julia Roberts. "I'm aware
of the phenomenon," she said. "I'm also fairly certain my opinion on
the matter in no way resembles yours." She looked at him curiously.
"Not the change the subject or anything, but .... what did you order
just now? What are we having with our milk?" She sighed. "Please
tell me you're not going to wolf down a burger and fries at *this* hour."
He scowled up at her. "Weren't you listening?" She shook her head.
He rolled onto his side and propped a hand under his cheek. His
eyes were storm-colored: gray and green and just a little dangerous.
A smile drew the corner of his mouth back. "What do you want with
your milk, Agent Scully?" he asked.
*What are you offering?* The words were almost out before she could
stop them. Thankfully, the rational part of her brain was alert and
functioning despite the hour. She half-smiled and looked away.
"You're full of shit, Mulder, you know that? After what we've seen
and done the past few days .... Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?" His voice was warm gravel.
She bit back a self-conscious giggle. "Stop it. I didn't come in here
for this."
His eyebrows tilted, and she saw a familiar crinkle appear between
them. Oh, the times she's wanted to kiss that little thing away. His
eyes were bright. "Didn't come in for what?"
She was blushing. The realization actually made his pulse skip. Her
eyes couldn't seem to find a target; she was looking at his forehead,
his cheek, his chin ..... He always knew he had her when she couldn't
quite look him in the eye. "Don't," she said.
He leaned a little closer. "Don't what?" he breathed.
Her hand rose and circled in a vague gesture. "This .... what you're
doing. What you do when you want ...." She sighed and drew her
other leg to her chest, clutching her arms around her knees. Pink
was suffusing her cheeks. "Just knock it off."
He edged himself closer and gently nuzzled her forearm. She didn't
move. "All right." A kiss to her bicep, then her shoulder. "I will."
Higher still - the side of her face. "I promise. In just a minute."
She was trying without much success to scowl. And still she wasn't
looking at him. "Mulder ...." she said softly. He felt a thrill of
anticipation. Was it a threat, or a declaration of intent? It wasn't
always easy to tell. This part of her .... this part of them .... was still
very new. God, she smelled so good, it made his mouth water. What
would she do? Would she retreat? Hide behind propriety and
decorum? Would she accept his overtures? Or better yet, would
she respond to them?
He felt her lips brush his forehead then, and the sensation froze
him in place. Oh, yes! His breath caught in his chest. Slowly her
mouth trailed down the slope of his browbone and temple to his
cheek. His eyelids sagged and closed. Warm, she was warm and
soft, and if he wasn't very careful indeed, he was going to get hard
just from that simple, intoxicating touch ....
How far would the game go tonight? This dance, this challenge, this ....
This courtship.
He knew it was inevitable. They both did. They'd known since New
Years .... since that day in his apartment doorway last autumn ....
maybe even since before Africa. Sooner or later, they were going to
end up in bed. For real. That they hadn't yet was probably due more
to missed opportunities than doubts or misgivings. It was easy to
resist thinking about it in DC .... well, easier, at any rate, surrounded
as they usually were by constant reminders of the rigid status quo.
Eyes always watching, tongues always wagging. The Bureau was a
sinkhole of gossip-mongers. And oh, how some of their superiors
would love to catch Spooky Mulder in a breach of protocol. Sure,
it'd be a minor transgression if anyone else committed it, but God
knows what they'd do if he just happened to be the guy who thumbed
his nose at the establishment and took his partner to bed.
They weren't in DC now.
Inevitable.
The kisses came more easily these days. Surprisingly easy. Never in
public, though. Never when there was a chance somebody could see
them. His apartment. Hers. A darkened theater - yes, they'd even
seen a few movies together. In the car on the Beltway on the way to
work. Funny, how often they carpooled since that day in his hallway.
He'd been cautious about it at first, approaching her slowly as one
might approach a head-shy horse - except in this case, *he* was
that horse. Each time he expected her to rebuff him. She was intelligent,
after all. And she was sexy as hell. She could have anyone she wanted.
The fact that she also happened to know an awful lot about him didn't
exactly put him in any position of advantage. Of course she'd rebuff him.
But she didn't. Not that night in January, standing there in that hospital
waiting room. Or in her apartment a few days later. Or a month after that.
Not even on the terrible night she'd told him about his mother's suicide.
He'd kissed her that night, too. Really kissed her. Not the soft, tentative
caresses they'd shared up until that point, but hard, almost brutal clashes
of lips and teeth and tongues. She'd had what he needed that night, and
he took it. It was fortunate for them both that he was too caught up in his
grief to act on those impulses. He didn't want their first time to be lost in
a miasma of rage and grief and regret. She deserved better. Hell, they both
did.
She held him together that night. When he kissed her, hard and demanding
and desperate for something positive to cling to, she gave it to him. Later,
when the sobbing and swearing and anger and sorrow left him, and left him
drained, she sat and held him as she might have held a small, lost child, her
soft, not-quite-meaningless words soothing the ache in his heart like a balm
would sooth a burn.
He remembered falling asleep there on the tired leather couch, his head in
her lap, her hand in his hair.
In the morning he awoke battered and sore and infinitely weary, but whole.
A gentle touch pulled him back to the here and now. Lips grazed his nose,
kissed one side of it .... hovered over the corner of his mouth, barely
touching. He couldn't contain a groan. Jesus, he was so aware of her,
aware of the hand touching his face, the fingertips exploring the curves
of his ear .... the warmth of breath and body, the fullness of her lips, the
graceful heat of her tongue .... and then suddenly she was gone and he
could not, he could *not*, contain a soft little groan of protest.
Her eyes were a little glassy as she looked at him. "Did you hear that?"
she whispered.
Hear? All he could hear was the blood rushing in his veins; all he could
feel was the chill on his face where her hand and her mouth had been.
How did she do it? Was she even aware of the power she could wield
over him? Where did his intellect go? He *was* intelligent. He could
think faster and clearer and better than ninety-eight percent of the
hacks in the Bureau, *and* give that last two percent a good run for
their money. But when she was near, near enough to smell and taste
and .... and count the freckles on her nose .... he was conscious of her,
of *only* her, and thinking was something that other people did.
"Didn't hear anything," he managed to say, and reached for her again.
She managed a soft, "No," as she caught his hand. The look on his
face would have been comical on anyone else: confused, anxious
..... hurt. Only it wasn't funny. This man had been hurt enough;
she wouldn't do it again now by laughing at him. "The door," she
whispered. "Whatever it was you ordered .... it must be here." He
nodded as he schooled his face into its customary blank mask. "No,"
she murmured again, squeezing his shoulder when he sat up. "I'll get this
one."
He swallowed convulsively. "Th - thanks."
It was harder than she would have thought, walking away from him. As
she turned, she couldn't help but notice the bulge growing at the
juncture of his thighs. Was he aware of it? She couldn't tell. "Do you
have any money?" she asked, brushing her hair off her forehead and
struggling to keep from staring. Her pajamas whispered around her,
touching her everywhere with a lover's caress. Her nipples were hard,
she could tell without even looking. Dammit. Was she blushing?
"Huh?" He was staring again, and not at her face.
This time she couldn't help but smile. "For the tip, Mulder. I want to
tip the bellboy. I don't usually carry money to bed."
"Oh." He blinked and swallowed, then nodded toward the bathroom.
"My pants are in there. I think I have some bills in one of the pockets."
She nodded and turned away. He stood up and swiped his hands
over his face, banishing the mental cobwebs. A glance in the mirror
across the room confirmed his greatest fear. No, Scully, I'm not
packing anything but honest admiration for you. With the proper
adjustment - a quick shove and a roll of the hips - he was .... well, not
exactly presentable, but at least it wasn't so damned obvious. Had
she noticed? He wasn't sure.
She reappeared a moment later sporting a large tray and a pensive smile.
"I think the bellboy had some ideas about what's going on in here."
He quickly cleared everything off the dresser. "What ideas would those
be?" he asked with studied innocence. She snorted softly but said
nothing, merely brushed past him and set the tray down. Travel clock,
leather wallet with his credentials, holster and Sig .... the trappings of a
very adult life all disappeared into the top drawer. For the moment, they
no longer existed. He lifted the cover off the little plate with a flourish.
"Voila. See? No burgers. No fries."
She flashed him a grin complete with dimples. "You and your sweet
tooth."
He bent just enough to touch his lips to her cheek. "Soul food, Scully.
I don't want to hear one word about fat grams or calories or how many
crunches it's gonna take to unload these things, either. Some things are
worth it." He held up one of the cookies. "After you."
Smiling, she took a cautious bite. "Mm. Soft."
He proffered one of the brimming glasses. "Now some of this."
She remembered the last time he'd fed her. It hadn't been a game then.
The headaches from the tumor had all but killed her appetite, and then
with the IV in her right arm - all the veins in her left arm had been
exhausted by then - well, cutlery was simply more than she could
handle. He wasn't looking much better than she was in those days,
what with the dark circles under his eyes that looked more like bruises,
and a dreadful pallor that had less to do with a lack of sunlight than
with the fact that he never seemed to sleep. Without fanfare, without
asking permission, without so much as a spoken word, he'd taken the
fork away and, bit by bit, helped her to eat.
"Hey." A finger touched her chin, drawing her back to the reality of
cold milk and a warm, bare chest staring her in the face. "Where'd you
go?"
She blinked away the dark memories. "Sorry. Just thinking." A large
hunk of cookie disappeared into his mouth, and she found herself
smiling again. "Do you bother to chew at all, or are you swallowing
them whole? I'm just curious - I hadn't planned on practicing the
Heimlich tonight."
He sat on the edge of the bed with a grunt. "'Course I chew," he
mumbled around a mouthful. "You're falling behind. C'mon, eat up."
She took another bite as she sat down beside him, and scowled when
he reached for the plate again. "Is this a race or something? Give that
to me if you're going to hog them all -"
He quickly set the plate beyond her reach. "I can't help it if you're a
slow eater."
"Yeah, well, if I had a mouth the size of yours, I'd probably be on my
fourth cookie, too."
He mimed a laugh. "Hardy har. Hand me the surf board, would you?
I'm tired of Letterman."
She scooped up the remote and flipped channels with her free hand.
Commercial. Infomercial. Music channel. Country channel. She sighed
impatiently. "You know, there's one thing I hate about all the traveling
we do."
He was eyeing the screen intently. "*One* thing? Wait, go back. That
looked good."
She ignored him and kept flipping. "I can never find the stations I
watch at home. Where's CNN? Where's the History channel? Look
at this .... crap. Crap. Crap."
Impatient now, he snatched the remote away from her. "Jeez, you're
not doing it right."
She made a fast grab for it and missed. "What do you mean, I'm not
doing it right? How difficult is it to change channels? Give it back,
Mulder."
He glanced at her, a playful gleam in his eye. "Ooo, want a little
cheese with that whine? Wait, just wait, I saw ...."
She feigned an irritated scowl as she nibbled at her cookie. "What,
Attack of the Killer Tomatoes? Godzilla? C'mon, I don't want to see
a monster with a zipper running down his back. At least find something
good." She tried again for the remote and succeeded only in wrapping
herself around his outstretched arm. He shrugged her away, but the
effort was clearly half-hearted. He was enjoying this, the bastard. Oh,
he was *so* dead. He thought she'd whined before?
"There." He grunted in satisfaction and dropped the remote in his lap.
No way she'd try for it there, right? "C'mon, Scully, tell me this isn't
one of your favorites."
She stared at the screen, expressionless. "This isn't one of my favorites,"
she replied, deadpan.
He gave a soft snort. "Then how did it happen to get in your VCR?"
She looked at him coolly. "Excuse me?"
He shrugged. "You were changing. I was waiting. I was curious, so I
checked out the title in the VCR. Sue me."
She shifted a little and drew one leg up under her. The maneuver
brought her closer to him. Considerably closer. He could smell the
chocolate on her breath .... Damn, why couldn't he keep his eyes off
the gap in the neckline of her pajamas? What were they made of,
anyway? He liked them. "Uh huh," she was saying. There was a
definite lilt in her voice. "Anything else you just happened to check
out when I wasn't looking?"
Silk. Yeah, maybe silk. Man, it was soft. And so blue that it almost
hurt his eyes. Only that wasn't what she was talking about, was it?
Something about checking out. Shit, if he didn't bring it up to speed,
he'd be in real trouble. Was he in trouble? Her eyes were just as blue
as her shirt, but they weren't nearly as soft. In fact, they were pretty
damned hard. Only they weren't really. He'd seen her pissed plenty of
times. This wasn't pissed. This was playful. Delight fluttered low in his
belly. She was toying with him. God, how he loved it when she was in
this mood. "I said," she half-growled, leaning closer until their noses
were scant inches apart, "what the hell were you doing snooping
around my apartment? And when?"
It was difficult, but he quelled the impulse to kiss her. "Last week. The
Lafferty case. Remember, the dog jumped up and got mud all over you?
We stopped by your place on the way back to the office? Ring any
bells?"
She glanced at the television again. "And just because you happened
to find a copy of Casablanca in my VCR, you assume it's one of my
favorites?"
He smiled without answering. "Did you ever notice how Claude Rains
always has on black when he's with the Germans, but when he's
chatting it up with Bogie, he's wearing white?"
"Don't change the subject."
"There's nothing to be ashamed of, Scully. You were watching an old
romance movie." He leaned closer and whispered, "It's a guilty
pleasure. Everyone does it. Didn't you know that?"
An eyebrow quirked at him. "*Everyone* does? Might I ask, Mulder,
just how you happen to know so much about what is arguably the
best-known chick film ever made?"
He shrugged as he tossed the remains of his cookie back on the plate.
"I had a teacher in high school who talked about it all the time. She
was a real film buff." He paused for a quick gulp of milk, then looked
over her shoulder at the screen. "Did you know they had most of it
filmed before the script was even finished?"
She tipped her head to one side and looked at him contemplatively,
trying to imagine what he'd been like at sixteen. Reed-thin, no doubt.
Thin, yes, but muscular. Even then his eyes had been old. This she
didn't have to ask .... she just knew. Geeky, gawky, his young body a
bundle of planes and sharp angles and large, bony joints. Definitely a
late-bloomer. What would she have thought of him back then? Probably
not much. Melissa was the one with the eye for the boys, anyway. Little
Dana had been more interested in science books.
And now? Was she interested now?
Oh, yeah.
He was watching her with steady, inquisitive eyes. Smiling. A spot on
his face, just below the corner of his mouth, caught her attention.
Chocolate. Slowly she dabbed at it with her thumb, and succeeded
only in smearing it. His face was prickly with stubble - evidently in
the confusion of the day, he hadn't found time to shave. The smudge
fascinated her. She could lick it off. He wouldn't stop her. Hell, he'd
probably enjoy it.
"So tell me," she murmured, her thumb playing over the blemish, her
mind toying with possibilities, "have you ever thought of us like that?"
He found himself hard-pressed to pull his eyes away from that luscious
pout. Thank God he was already sitting. "Like what?"
She leaned slowly forward and brushed a kiss along his jaw. Then her
tongue slipped out and she licked him, slowly and deliberately, right at
the corner of his mouth. He barely managed to restrain a startled grunt.
*Again again again!* his nerves sang, delighted. Slowly she drew back
and fixed a gaze on him. God, she smelled like sugar and chocolate and
something even more delicious. Feminine, he decided. She smelled
feminine. Her lips curved just a little as she looked at him. "You know
exactly what I mean," she said very quietly.
Man oh man, it was getting hard to think. He tried to swallow the knot
forming in his throat. Did he dare tell her? *Could* he tell her? After
all, it was a taboo subject. Seriously taboo. Oh, they could talk about
work until they were both blue in the face, couldn't they? Facts and
theories? Rates of decomposition? Were modern-day monsters born
or made? Hell - would the Yankees make it to the Series next year .... no
problem. None at all. But this? *Them?* In seven years, the closest
they'd come to discussing anything personal was that day they'd
argued about getting her a desk.
No, he corrected himself - there were other times. There was that cool
autumn morning in his apartment doorway. Words like *my constant*
and *touchstone* .... those didn't have any place in the casefiles, did
they? He found himself smiling again. What the hell. It wasn't like she
didn't already know. He closed his eyes and leaned into her touch,
wondering what he could do that might coax another lick from her.
"Yeah," he said very softly. "Yeah, I have."
The nuzzle became an open-mouthed caress. This time he couldn't
contain a groan. He heard a gentle sound as she pressed her temple
to his, and he knew beyond any doubt that she was smiling. His
eyes refused to open. And his hands were doing .... things. One
was sliding up her arm while the other was edging its way around
her. "I've thought about it, too," he heard her whisper. Her fingers
slipped delicately into his hair, stroking and petting. "I think about
it a lot, actually. Is that a bad thing?"
Bad? What could be bad about it? The only people who could
possibly find a down-side to this were all back east, every damned
one of them up-tight middle-aged men with paunches and more hair
on their knuckles than their heads. What she was doing now ....
touching him .... kissing him .... it was *not* bad. All he had to do
was lean just a little bit and those wonderful breasts would be
pressed right into his chest. God, he wanted to lean. He wanted it in
the worst way. But should he? Should *they?* Was this the right
time? It might be inevitable, their sleeping together, but this might
also be the wrong night for it. After all, it had been a stressful week.
They were both dead-tired. When it happened .... if it happened
..... he didn't want her wondering if they should have waited - or,
worse, deciding the whole thing had been a mistake they should
just put behind them.
Somehow he managed to pull back. Not much .... just enough to
find her eyes with his. *Are you sure?*
A smile was her only response. *Yes.* Her arms were around him
then, drawing him close.
He kissed her. A long, slow play of lips and tongues. Hand on his
neck, in his hair, stroking.
"Scully, what are we doing?" It was barely a whisper, but he had
to ask. Jesus, it was too good to be true, he *had* to ask.
She didn't pull away at all, just held him closer and harder. "Do you
want to stop?" Her hand gripped him by the back of his neck - he
couldn't get away even if he tried. Yeah, like that would ever happen.
"God, no." His voice was gone.
Hands explored. Fingers tangled over buttons, pushing and tugging
and freeing.
And then she was over him, poised ....
..... reaching between them and grasping .... guiding ....
..... and he was inside her.
Inside her. Hot and slick and tight, like his fist only infinitely better ....
"Don't move," he breathed. So close, so close, Jesus, don't move ....
Hands stroked his chest, slid down his arms and guided his hands up.
Her breasts, with their tiny, hard nipples, fit neatly into his palms. God,
they felt so good. He wanted to look at her, he wanted it more than he'd
ever wanted anything, but if he did then he might lose what control he
had over himself and he didn't want to do that to either one of them ....
..... but he had to look .... couldn't *not* look at her ....
She saw insanity in his eyes. He was staring up at her, eyes wide, his
lips drawn back in a hard line. "Mulder," she whispered, beginning a
slow rhythm of rise and fall. A whimper was his only response. His
hands still framed her breasts, unmoving. She wanted him to fondle
them. Maybe if he touched her just so, and if she could slip her hand
down and .... no, it just didn't work like that for her. She needed him to
be on top, and she couldn't ask him to move now, not when he was
clearly dancing on the brink. He was huge inside her, and it was clear
that even this slow dance wasn't going to last long. She laid her hands
on his chest, stroking and then gently plucking at his flat nipples. This
time the moan carried a distinct note of panic. Close indeed.
"Mulder ...." she whispered again, "don't wait for me. It's all right.
Just .... don't wait."
What did she mean? He couldn't do that .... couldn't use her for his
own jollies .... He gave his head a hard shake. "Can't," he grunted,
biting his lip. Maybe if he didn't look at her, the urge to pump up into
her would dissipate and he'd be able to breathe again. Only he
couldn't look away ....
What was she doing? Jesus God, what was she doing? As if that slow
undulation wasn't enough to bear, now she was clenching around him,
gripping him at the apex of that hideously slow stroke .... He grimaced as
his hands dropped to her waist, some parts of him falling into a rhythm
that was only too natural while other parts of him - the weaker parts -
tried desperately to resist. "Don't ...." he managed to warn.
Too little, too late .... His back arched as he succumbed, the explosion
beginning with a tightening, a single wet spurt that quickly became a
gush. Not fair not fair not fair, he wanted to scream, but he couldn't,
he just pressed his head back into the pillow and groaned in defeat as
his hips jerked again and again ....
A low moan escaped him as his hands dropped away from her. He lay
motionless beneath her, limbs akimbo, eyes closed. His heart was
pounding - she could feel it shaking his whole body. After a long
moment, she leaned forward and whispered his name.
He smiled at once, a shy, chagrined smile that made her own heart
give a little flip. Slowly, he turned and looked up at her through
half-closed eyes. "I just want you to know .... I can do better."
She smiled. "I'm glad to hear it."
He let his eyes fall closed. "It's been so long, I couldn't .... God,
I'm sorry."
"Well, I'm not." She slumped forward and stretched out atop him,
kissing and then worrying the side of his neck. One arm rose and
closed around her, holding her tight. Her movements broke the seal
between his body and hers, and she felt a disconcerting rush of
liquid. No, she wanted him to stay there, right there, wanted his
essence to find a home inside her. So what that she was barren?
She clenched herself tight around him again.
He flinched a little, then chuckled. "Keep that up and you're going
to wake the dead, you realize that."
She smiled against his throat. "Been there, done that," she replied
dryly.
"Not quite like this." Sighing, he rolled onto his side, taking her
with him. She was looking at him, her eyes wide and soft and blue,
like the ocean on a day when the wind was still. The warm, pungent
smell of sex rose up around them, and he felt his balls tighten a little.
Mmm, it may have ended too soon the first time, but he wasn't
through yet. "Tell me something," he murmured.
Her thumb was tracing the outline of his mouth. "Sure."
He willed her to look at him, eye to eye. "What's all this
*Don't wait* bullshit? A guy's supposed to wait, unless he's
the kind of man he really isn't supposed to be. I don't want to
be like that."
She shrugged one shoulder. "It would have taken more time
than you had. I wasn't looking for that to happen. It doesn't
always. Spare me the stricken look, Mulder. It was enough to
watch you. I'm not complaining, really."
His hand played slowly up and down the length of her torso.
Shoulder to hip .... shoulder to hip. "I'm sorry, Scully," he murmured.
"That's just not acceptable."
Oh, hell. Before she could raise a protest he was on the move,
using lips and tongue and even his teeth, licking and kissing
his way down her neck, over her collarbone to her breast. She
caught at his hair as he latched onto a nipple. "Mulder, don't ....
you don't .... oh ...." Heat shot through her, starting at his mouth
and shooting down through her to the wet place between her
legs. Sensation quickly replaced thought. To speak was impossible.
He'd come inside her. Mulder had come inside her, thick white
fluid that was inside her right now.
The vault of her womb was full of him. Full of Mulder.
Just the thought was provocative.
A hand touched her gently, exploring her body as he suckled
her breast, and she heard herself moan softly. She clutched at
his hair, great double handfuls. One finger gently circled as
two slid home .... circling .... suckling, and that slow, rhythmic
penetration ....
When had she forgotten to breathe?
It rocketed up out of her, a spasm that arched her back off
the mattress. Her legs splayed shamelessly as she quivered
in time to the rhythm of that mouth, a silent cry swelling in
her .... yes yes yes yes YES!
And before the storm could fully die away, he was on her ....
he was in her .... She gasped as he drove deep, carefully if not
exactly gently, his hands in her hair, his mouth on hers. It
couldn't have been more than a few minutes, and yet he was
already hard. How had that happened? And *when?*
"Aaa .... yeah ...." Oh, that could not be her, it simply could not.
Could it?
Soft, gasping sighs and moans that were much too high to be
her partner's ....
Shit. Definitely her.
He was kissing her cheek, her mouth, her ear and temple ....
anything he could reach as he deliberately set about driving her
insane. He was doing something with that ass of his, too .... it
wasn't just the standard rhythm, he was circling and moving in
her and above her, using that sparse hair on his chest to tease
and tickle her breasts as he pumped into her. And when he
wasn't kissing her, he was whispering barely audible words.
"God, Scully .... so good, so damned good .... too quiet, let me
hear you ...." And before she was aware of doing it, she'd
taken his hips in her hands and was guiding him, indicating
with sounds and movements what she wanted, how fast and
how hard. Her legs were wound up with his and she was
gripping him with her thighs and caressing his calves with her
bare feet. She couldn't get enough. Heat was building in them
and between them and the only remedy was more him, more
pressure and more friction and speed. Her back arched, changing
the angle of penetration, doubling the tension that was already
caroming out of control. A line was running from her nipples and
her breastbone to that little spot he was grinding so effectively ....
she was being stretched and squeezed all at once .... pounded and
pummeled and driven and crushed ....
Lips grazed hers. She pressed herself into the touch, seeking contact
with a strangely satisfying desperation. "Let me hear ...." he whispered
again. "Let me hear ...."
Huge he was huge the pressure was killing her but it was a good kind
of death ....
He was watching her, she could feel it, he was watching her just like
she'd watched him ....
Heat blossomed in her pelvis and her head and in her heart .... She
arched again, this time lifting them both off the bed. She could hear
herself keening very softly as she rode the wave, carried from peak
to peak on the movemments of his hips. "Yes .... yes .... yes ...."
His voice penetrated the haze, and she felt his mouth touch hers
again. "Scully ...." Vaguely she registered the desperation in his
tone. He was liquid velvet, his body and his mouth and his eyes
and even his voice. The tide was leveling out, his rhythm still
deep but long and slow now, he was gigantic inside her, huge
and long and rigid and he simply couldn't get any bigger ....
"Wha-at?" It was unreal, that she could be lost in her orgasm and
still find breath for speaking.
His eyes were clouded behind the dark fringe of his lashes. "I'm ....
I'm gonna come." He spoke the words softly and clearly and
matter-of-factly; and then his face contorted into a grimace that
wasn't pain or anger or grief or any of a dozen emotions she'd
witnessed down through the years, but was the sweet, pure
refrain of ecstasy. A smile emerged as he made good his promise
and she felt the warmth expand inside her once again, HIS warmth
and HIS strength pouring out of his body and into hers through
that proud conduit, spilling and filling and completing ....
And then, with a quiet, "Fuck," he collapsed. He was heavy, too
heavy to hold for long, but she didn't care.
"M - M - Mul ...." she panted, delighted to realize she could feel
his heartbeat, as he could no doubt feel hers, everywhere they
touched. He raised his head and looked at her. She couldn't help
but giggle. ".... correct me if I'm wrong," she said, a little breathless,
"but I think we just did."
He didn't have the energy to laugh. Slowly, laboriously, his
penis stretching and elongating as her body released it -
reluctantly, it seemed - he tipped himself to one side and
spilled onto his back beside her. Don't worry, he silently
promised that copper triangle - his new-found friend.
I'm not finished with you yet.
They were silent for a moment as they lay there, motionless
but for their breathing. "Mmm." She sighed, rolling her head
to the side, and looked up at him with languid eyes. He
followed suit, and even found the energy to plant a kiss in
the middle of her forehead. She was still smiling. "S' nice,"
she murmured.
He was warm. And wonderfully sleepy. He smiled as he
found her hand and gave it a squeeze. "Yeah. I think we
might have stumbled across a cure for insomnia."
She sighed and closed her eyes. "Hmm. Licensing might
be difficult."
Warm twitches were starting in his over-taxed muscles.
"Yeah," he murmured, "but think how much fun the marketing's
gonna be ...." His eyes closed.
Sleep beckoned, warm and silken, but she found herself resisting.
There was something she needed to do. It was a rare event that
they had the chance to sleep late, and she certainly wasn't going
to let an efficient member of the Housekeeping staff do anything
to bother them. She squeezed the hand that still held hers. "I'll be
right back."
He jerked awake and looked at her, bleary-eyed and confused.
"Whaddisit?"
She held up a hand as she slipped out of bed. "Shh. I'll be right
back."
It only took a moment to hang the Do Not Disturb signs on their
doors. Another minute to brush her teeth. She switched off the
television on the way by. The bed was warm and smelled of him.
She smiled as she slipped under the covers beside him.
"You opened the window." His words were almost lost in a
mumble.
"Yeah, I want to hear the storm."
With a soft sigh, he curled up around her and nestled his head
on her pillow. "Tell me something," he murmured. His breath
still smelled of chocolate.
She smiled. "What is it?"
He nuzzled her hair. "Why? Why here, why tonight?"
It was a good question. A very good one. She considered
her answer for a long time. Was it simply because they were
far from home? Far from the system that told them they
couldn't have the one thing they truly wanted - each other?
Was it more than that? A natural culmination,
something that had been developing for years, something that had
drawn them together, her heart and his, through chaos and calamity,
sorrow and loss? A force as irresistible as the gravity that held them
earthbound?
Extreme possibilities? Hardly.
She sighed and stroked the warm, smooth arm that cradled her.
"Mmm .... would you believe me, Mulder, if I said it was inevitable?"
She heard him smile. "Yeah, I think I'd believe that."
They slept.
~~~~~~~
End, Inevitable
(
geocities.com/cratkinsonflynn)