TITLE: The Thing with Feathers AUTHOR: Diana Battis CLASSIFICATION: MSR, S, RATING: NC17 SPOILERS: Yes, right through to X-Cops. SUMMARY: A hope starved will eventually die. DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never have, never will, damn it! AUTHOR'S COMMENTS: Thanks to Narida, Kristy, and Chris for their comments, insight, and hand-holding. Ladies, I'm in your debt! ********** Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, Emily Dickinson *********** The motel has seen better days. With a facade of sun-bleached pink stucco, the building is a bastardized mix of Spanish colonial and art deco. Like Hollywood, its newness has faded, the luster tarnished by decades of would-be actors looking for fame and fortune. Star-struck and naive, they'd waited for that one big chance until their hopes faded like the color of their temporary home. Now she's staying there. Scully gets out of the rented Taurus, carefully stretching her cramped limbs. The early morning sunshine feels good on her face, and she stands there for a second, absorbing its comforting warmth. Though her body aches with fatigue, the thought of her shabby room with its lumpy bed is less than inviting, especially after the night she's spent. Mulder stands on the blacktop, impatiently rocking back on his heels. He's waiting for her, expecting her to follow him to the seedy coffee shop that is attached to their motel. The breakfast she's been anticipating is washed away by visions of burnt toast and weak tea in a cracked cup. She waves him on, deciding that her room is really the lesser of two evils. Now she wants nothing more than to soak in a hot tub until her skin prunes, then crawl into her scratchy-sheeted bed and arrange her body around the lumps. Her exhaustion is so complete that she will have no trouble sleeping. He nods and turns, his footsteps crunching over the gravel that covers the blacktop in places. Leaning on the car, she shades her eyes against the sun and watches him. His body, all sinew and muscle, moves with a perfect grace that seems wasted on a man. He is dressed in jeans and a dark sweater, with an open, black leather jacket as his concession to California's late February chill. He reaches the entrance and glances back at her with a puzzled expression on his face, then pushes through the door. Sighing, she straightens up and heads to her room. Fifteen minutes later, she's soaking in the tub, surrounded by almond-scented bubbles and the muted strains of Vivaldi coming from the cheap radio-alarm clock. The water laps against the sides of the tub, cradling her in its warmth like a second womb. She slides farther down, the hair she so carefully pinned up falling out of its confined state to float in the water like strands of rusty seaweed. She doesn't care. In this world she is protected, safe and secure. Nothing untoward can happen to her here. The events of last night flash through her mind. They're all jumbled together and she imagines her memories are very much like what the video cameraman caught on his tape. It had been so surreal, like something out of a Fellini film. Hollywood's version of La Strada, starring Steve and Edy and Mulder's FearMonster. At least Fellini is entertaining, she thinks with a smile. She remembers Mulder, so eager to help, playing up to the camera as though he were auditioning for the role of G-man in a made-for-TV movie. Other bits filter through her mind: Mulder's patience dealing with Steve and Edy; his sweetly chivalric protection of poor, doomed Chantara; his stubborn insistence on the cause of the deaths, recorded for posterity's sake. She is alternately amused, proud, and frustrated at those memories. Lifting a mass of bubbles, she watches them collapse in her hand. She wishes her ambivalent feelings would do the same. A monster who feeds on fear. Trust Mulder to come up with an unconventional explanation for last night's events. Of course, she's been unable to use logic to rebut his theories, and that's left her feeling somewhat uneasy. Is it a mad slasher, an animal of some sort, a killer who targets prostitutes? What about the poor coroner's assistant? All the signs of the Hanta virus were there, but sped up like some silent movie, taking seconds from first symptoms to death. Crazy, she thinks. Impossible. Yet it happened, and has been recorded for the whole world to see. That bothers her most of all. Though she is used to dealing with Mulder and his abstract ideas, they still hold the power to embarrass her. But not Mulder. He'd been forthright, despite the television cameras, telling his theories to all who would listen. The thought that it will be broadcast on national television is especially disturbing. She trails her fingers through the warm water, watching the smattering of bubbles bob as her motions cause the water to stir. That's like Mulder, she thinks, going through life causing little ripples in his wake. Each disturbance is slight enough to be almost unnoticeable, but as time passes you find yourself pulled along whether you want to be or not. Does she want to be? Sighing, Scully straightens up in the tub, leaning her head against the porcelain rim. It's a silly question, of course. She's in love with him and has been for several years. He's not an easy man to love. His prickly sense of humor can be trying. Though he's confident to the point of arrogance at times, she's learned to respect his ideas even when she can't agree with them. And she knows he values her judgment just as much, despite their theoretic differences. Then what's holding them back? The year had started out so well, with a kiss that carried the promise of more. But it's still a pledge unfulfilled. She knows that there are extenuating circumstances. A lot has happened in the few short months since then. Her encounter with Pfaster comes immediately to mind, and she shivers in remembrance. He's dead, and he can't hurt anyone now, she tells herself before pushing it from her thoughts. Then there is Mrs. Mulder's suicide and the bewildering explanation of Samantha's disappearance. She was there for Mulder, comfort and support things he allows himself to accept from her easily, without reservation. The time wasn't right for more than that. She worries it never will be. Soaping the sponge, she slides it over her body, wondering if all the bubbles and scents, lotions and loofahs, are wasted efforts on her part. What good is soft skin with no one to appreciate it? Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, according to Emily Dickinson. Scully smiles. She loved that poem as a teen; she still loves it and the images it inspires. And hope is the one thing she still holds on to. Hope that the new understanding she and Mulder have will soon be the springboard to more. But Mulder moves notoriously slow, and seems content with things as they are. So she watches and waits, looking for a sign that there is still something to hope for, and knows that a hope starved will eventually die. . . Sighing, she reaches for the plug. So much for the relaxing bath. Stepping out of the tub, Scully quickly rubs herself dry with the thin cotton towel. "Mortal fear," she murmurs, slathering her skin with moisturizer. She drags on panties and a tee shirt and runs a comb through her hair, noting the blue smudges that lay like bruises beneath her eyes. "The only thing I'm afraid of is that bed," she tells her reflection, reaching for her toothbrush. Minutes later she is in the bed, thin pillows bunched together under her head for support. The lumpy mattress is worse than she'd remembered, and she squirms beneath the covers, trying to pinpoint a spot that fits her body. One position finds a spring, and she yelps loudly as it pokes into the tender skin of her back. She finally gives up and turns onto her side, resolutely ignoring the uncomfortable mattress. Closing her eyes, she wills sleep to come. Her face is too close to the pillow, and she can smell the bleach on the case covering it. She wrinkles her nose, the odor too reminiscent of the harsh chemicals used to scrub the autopsy bay. It seems as though fate is conspiring against her, and she leaps from the bed, her temper barely controlled, to root through her toiletries. Pulling out her cologne, she sprays the cotton liberally with the scent. Setting the bottle on the nightstand, she slithers back under the covers, her cheek nestled against the familiar smell. Now, perhaps, she will sleep. She's drifting, feeling her body relax into the hills and valleys of the motel bed. Her mind fills with random images: her mother, the ocean, the night sky full of stars. They merge as she slides deeper into that twilight stage, neither awake nor asleep, and she's soothed by the picture she's imagining. The water laps against her ankles, and she glances up at the sky, hearing her mother warn her not to go too far out. It's too late, she thinks, feeling the pull of the current as she wades deeper into the water. The lure of the unknown has caught her, and she's not an unwilling captive. Her mother's voice fades, and she hears Mulder now, calling to her. "Scully. . ." Her feet no longer touch the ocean floor, but she's not afraid. She knows how to swim, like all good Navy children. "Mulder," she calls back, "where are you?" She lifts her arms, stroking through the calm waters, moving closer to that voice. "Mulder. . ." "I'm here, Scully. . ." It's much louder now, and she pauses, treading water as her eyes scan the horizon, searching for his familiar face. He continues to call her, and she presses on, her arms slicing through the murky surface. Soon she can see a beach, the moonlight illuminating the thin stretch of sand and the figure standing on it. "Scully. . ." he says, and the soft breeze carries his whisper to her. Her feet touch bottom and she wades slowly through the shallow waters, walking toward the man on shore. "What are you doing here?" she asks, stepping out of the water at last. The sand is cool and she digs her toes into its shifting surface, wriggling them like a child. The moonlight seems especially bright, giving an ethereal glow to their surroundings. He smiles and reaches for her hand, his eyes sparkling green in the luminescence of the moon. "I've been waiting for you," he says, his voice smooth as honey. His touch is electric, and she can feel the charge going through her, causing the hairs on her arm to bristle in response. He starts to walk, tugging her along with him. They are heading for a grove of trees, she notes. The oaks stand tall against the stellar sky, and soon they are moving through them. It's dark here, the moonlight is unable to pierce the densely laden branches, and she feels a momentary pang of alarm. But he is still holding her hand, and she brushes away the fear as she follows along after him. He's moving faster, and she has to run to keep pace with his longer legs. Her arm is stretched straight out in front of her, and her fingers are starting to slip from his grasp. "Mulder, wait for me," she calls as their hands part. She can hear him ahead of her, moving through the trees, but the sound is getting fainter as each second passes. "Mulder!" The darkness is absolute, and she takes a tentative step forward, fighting against the panic that threatens to smother her. She hears the rustle of leaves ahead, and then his voice. "I'm here, Scully." The words drift through the air and she begins to move with assurance toward the sound. But someone, some *thing*, holds her back. It grabs at her arm, pulling her in the opposite direction. She panics, trying to break free, but the hold is tight and her efforts are fruitless. It pulls her back to the moonlit beach. She knows she should turn and confront her captor, but fear keeps her eyes focused on the trees behind her. "Mulder," she screams, "I need you." The ocean, now cold and rough, swirls around her ankles. She's dragged forward into the treacherous waters. The current's pull is strong, and her efforts to swim are wasted. She's slipping under the water, dragged by the nameless something, and the last thing she hears is Mulder, calling to her. . . Scully awakens with a start, the sound of Mulder's voice still fresh in her mind. She gasps, filling her lungs with air as though she really had been drowning. The pounding of her heart matches the sound of blood rushing in her ears. The dream is still so vivid that she almost mistakes the saltiness of her perspiration for sea water. Her hair is wet where it rests on her brow, and she can feel the trickle of sweat gliding between her breasts to be absorbed by the soft cotton of her tee shirt. Inhaling slowly and deeply, she tries to calm her racing heart. The power of the dream is fading, becoming more unreal with each deep breath. She pushes the dampened strands of hair off her face, and glances at the clock. It's only ten-thirty; she's been asleep for less than an hour. Propping the pillows against the headboard, she sits up, drawing her knees up to her chest in an unconsciously protective gesture. She's not one to believe in dreams and hidden omens. Under normal circumstances, she would just shrug it off, roll over and go back to sleep. But this isn't normal, and she recognizes without a doubt that there is a deeper meaning to this one. It's so obvious that she nearly laughs in relief. Except it's no laughing matter. She's afraid of losing Mulder. Reaching over, she flicks on the lamp, shading her eyes from the harsh light. The room is the same, shabby and impersonal. The walls are painted a depressing green, reminiscent of interrogation rooms and hospital hallways. In addition to the bed there is a nondescript bureau with a cracked mirror, in the same cherry veneer as the nightstand. Almost hidden in the corner is a desk with a chair whose cane seat is probably broken. And of course there's the ever-present television, with its bad reception and battery-less remote. She knows this room with a familiarity that saddens her. She knows the drawers in the bureau will stick, the one in the desk holds yellowed stationery with envelopes that have lost their adhesive, and the nightstand a telephone directory and the Gideon bible. She's been here before, in a hundred different towns. Everything's the same. She's the one who's changed. There's a certain satisfaction that comes from making a discovery. No longer will she be happy with things as they are. She wants change. She wants to act wild, liberated from all the rules that keep her from what she really needs. Is it too late? She shivers, but not from cold. That's it, she knows with certainty. It's what she fears above all else. Not her emotions, or losing control, but the idea that they may not be welcomed by Mulder. That somehow, somewhere, she's lost her one chance. . . The sound of a door slamming startles her, and she jumps in reaction. Mulder is back. He's had his breakfast, and is probably getting ready to take a shower. He'll drop his clothes all over the floor, leave the bathroom full of wet towels when he's finished, and jump into bed to channel hop until he falls asleep. Nothing different in his routine, she knows him all too well in that respect. He's almost. . .predictable. Suddenly, she wants to hate him, his complacence and calm acceptance of the status quo. He doesn't expect much from her or anyone, and is never disappointed. She wants to march up to the door and shake up his little world like hers has been. The sound of creaky pipes reaches her ears, and she imagines him in the shower, running the soap over firm skin that retains the hint of a tan even in winter. Stroking the bar over his pectorals, suds glistening in the dark hair scattered across his chest. His hands will follow the thinning line of hair down to his abdomen, cleaning away the sweat and grime of LA. Lower and. . .her breath catches in her throat. Don't go there, her mind warns, but her body doesn't want to listen. Her nipples are tight under the cotton, and she resists the urge to touch them. The clanking of the pipes has stopped, and is replaced by the sound of off-key whistling. Scully smiles as she recognizes the tune -- "I Love LA." In some things, Mulder is still unpredictable. The whistling is joined by the muted rumble of voices. He's turned to his other faithful companion, television. She listens to the voices, catching an occasional word. Fire, murder, death. Funny how clearly she can pick out these words from the gibberish. What does that say about her? As tired as she was earlier, all desire to sleep is gone. She sits there wanting nothing more than to march over to that connecting door and. . .what? Have her way with him? Declare her undying love? Something in between? Nice girls have haloes -- good girls have fun. She remembers that saying from high school, and with a snort of disgust, she throws off the covers. I can't live like this anymore, she thinks, and marches over to the connecting doors. It's my turn for fun. She shoots back the bolt and shoves open the door on her side, barely keeping it from slamming into the wall in her haste. Raising a hand, she knocks on his, tentative little raps that she can barely hear above the pounding of her heart. The waiting seems endless, though she knows it isn't true. Her palms are sweating, and she runs them down the sides of her tee shirt as she waits for him to answer. Silence. It's a bad idea, she tells herself as the seconds pass. She should just close the door and crawl back between those scratchy sheets and pull the covers over her head. Stepping from one foot to the other, she's like a restless child awaiting a promised treat. The carpet is rough beneath her feet and she thinks longingly of her bedroom at home, with its polished hardwood floor, soft area rugs, and blessedly comfortable mattress. But that room doesn't have Mulder less than ten feet away, and she closes her eyes and knocks again. He hears her this time. The floor is vibrating with his steps, coming nearer to the door. Scully takes a deep breath, knowing that in seconds he will pull it open and she will have to say her piece. Wetting her lips, she smoothes her hair with slightly trembling hands, and hears the bolt sliding back. . . "Hey, what's up?" he asks, his eyes dark and sleepy. His hair is standing on end, still damp from his shower, and she fights the urge to smooth the spiky strands. "I thought you'd be asleep by now." "We need to talk," she replies, swallowing the lump in her throat. This is just Mulder, she tells herself, but the lump refuses to listen and has moved back with a vengeance. He moves aside, and she takes an experimental step into his room. The carpet is the same tired brown, chosen for its ability to hide dirt, and the room itself is a mirror image of hers, only the furniture's veneer differs, his being walnut. Her mind files away these little details as she carefully moves further into his room. She hears the door shut, sounding unnaturally loud to her ears. It reminds her of a vault being closed, and she feels a momentary sense of panic. Mulder doesn't seem to notice anything unusual. Though she's standing there in just a tee shirt and panties, she might as well be wearing a full coat of armor for all the attention it attracts. He's assumed she wants to discuss the case, and he's leaning over the bed, fumbling through a stack of papers laying there. He's shirtless, and she watches the play of muscles under his skin as he stretches to reach an empty folder. Her fingers itch with the desire to touch him, to trace a path along his spine to where it disappears below the low-riding sweat pants. . . "Scully, are you all right?" He turns to face her, a quizzical look on his face. She can feel the heat in her cheeks, and imagines the color washing into her face like the tide on her dream beach. She hears him laugh again, knowing he sees it. Her thoughts are confirmed as his palm rests against her face, cool against her sensitive skin. "I'm fine, Mulder. Why do you ask?" She moves out of his reach, and immediately misses his touch. "I've asked you a question three times and you haven't answered me." He shrugs, and walks over to the desk to spread out the sheets he's been holding. "Now, I talked to someone in the coroner's office, and they've assured me we'll have the autopsy results on. . ." His voice drones on, reciting facts and figures and dates. Scully can't believe that he's so oblivious to her and what she wants. "Mulder -- shut up!" She has his full attention. He frowns and purses his lips but she can see the wheels turning in his mind, making calculations based on some Mulder chart that he has filed away in that incomprehensible mind of his. But she's not about to be analyzed by his profiling brain. "And sit down. I have a few things I want to say." He opens his mouth to protest, but she holds up a hand in warning. She's come this far; there's no backing down now. Surprisingly, he complies, pulling out the desk chair and straddling it, his arms folded across the back. His face is expressionless, but his eyes, green and clear like the eyes in her dream, are focused on her. She moves to the bed, carefully clearing a small spot to sit among the papers and files. His bedspread is tacky green chenille, and the scratchy surface irritates her skin as she wriggles to get comfortable. The tee shirt rides high, and his eyes leave her face and dip lower. Finally, he's noticed, and he isn't indifferent, she thinks, smoothing the shirt back over her thighs. How to start? Her mouth is dry, her tongue thick. She feels as if she's had too much to drink, and not enough, and wishes she'd thought to buy a bottle of something alcoholic for later. She might need it. Take a deep breath, Dana, and just talk. Funny how the words that have so preoccupied her for hours. . .years. . .now refuse to come to her. She feels like a foreigner, unable to speak the language of the land. The urge to run from the room comes, but those eyes, so intensely focused on her, keep her pinned to the bed. "I'm not sure I can do this." She's surprised to hear her voice, strong and resolute, break the silence. He's startled, and he rises quickly from his seat to stand before her. She can't look at him, and focuses on her hands, clenched in her lap. A much larger one enters her field of vision, covering hers with its warmth, and she jumps at the contact. "What can't you do?" he asks, crouching before her. There's fear in his voice, and she wonders for a moment what he's thinking, what he fears. . . So close, he's so close. She can smell him, the clean scent of soap and shampoo overlaying the musk and maleness that she associates with Mulder. His face is inches from hers. He didn't shave, she notices abstractedly, his cheeks still dark with an early morning beard. He swallows, and she watches his Adam's apple bob. There's a small hollow at the base of his throat, a place she's dubbed 'the spot.' It draws her eyes like a beacon, and she thinks of pressing her lips there, running her tongue around its circumference. . . Leaning forward, Scully closes the slender gap between them to place a soft kiss against the corner of his mouth. He shudders, exhaling a puff of air that stirs the hair resting on her cheek. She's confused him, but he's not pulling away. Her lips move to the opposite corner, kissing him there, the stubble scratching against her cheek. It feels good, and she puts her lips there as well, over the mole that's intrigued her for so long. "Scully, what are you doing?" His voice sounds raspy and unused, his tone a mixture of childish curiosity and panic, and it makes her smile. She presses wet, openmouthed kisses on his skin, moving along his jaw. Her tongue swipes at his ear, tracing the curves of flesh with little cat-like laps that have him moaning in pleasure. "Nothing," she answers simply, freeing her hands to stroke his head. The bristles of his hair prickle her palms, and she shivers at the needle-like touch. "Everything," she repeats, just before she touches his mouth again. This time it's full-on, no taunting with teasing little kisses. Her tongue swirls over his lips, pressing against the seam and pushing into the heated warmth. He tastes good, hot and bitter like coffee. She almost thinks she can feel the buzz of caffeine, coursing through her blood like a wake-up call. He pushes her away, his hands on her shoulders, gripping her tightly. "Are you feeling all right?" His voice is unsteady. His cheeks are flushed, and his lips shine wetly in the glow of the bedside lamp. She places a hand against him, her nails scratching through the crisp mat of curls sprinkled across his chest, and his breath hisses in response. He's not unaffected by her, she notes with pleasure. "I'm fine, Mulder." Truth rings clearly in her reply. Finally, she can say those words and mean them. She is whole and strong, and knows what she wants from life. "Fine," she repeats, and the message is echoed in the brilliance of her eyes. He shudders, his fingers circling her wrist like a bracelet, stilling her motion. "Scully, why now?" He's looking at her in an endearingly goofy way, like a kid at Christmas who can't believe he just got the ten-speed bike he's always wanted. Smiling, she leans against him again, nuzzling her face into the curve of his neck. There's a time for words, and a time for action. "Mulder, shut up and kiss me." In seconds he complies, his mouth covering hers with unconcealed hunger. A moan vibrates in her throat as he runs his tongue over her bottom lip, teeth nipping lightly at its fullness. Sighing in satisfaction, she curls her fingers in his hair, humming with the need to know all the wonderful things that mouth can do. She's melting, her body responding automatically to the magic of his touch. His thumbs inch their way under the neck of her tee shirt to circle the hollows at her collarbone. He has such talented hands, and she's shuddering under their mastery. And then those hands push, and she's falling. . . They land on the bed, his body heavy on hers, crushing her like she is crushing the papers and folders he'd so carelessly strewn on its surface. His lips are open, kissing her fiercely, making gruff little noises that send shivers down her spine. His tongue strokes hers, flicking and sliding hotly. It's wet and invasive, acting as surveyor, mapping out all the sensitive places of her mouth for future reference. It feels so damned right that she can't believe she'd waited so long or worried so much. He's already hard, and his erection presses solidly against her stomach as his body moves over hers. So good, she thinks, her nipples tightening pleasurably against the friction of soft cotton and Mulder. Her hips are rolling beneath him, seeking firmer contact. . .her breath catches, but now it's pain that's the culprit. Something sharp is stabbing her, savagely digging into her back. "S. . .something. . .poking me," she murmurs against his mouth, twisting her fingers in his hair to pull his head away. His eyes are heavy-lidded, twin green flames that burn brightly with passion. "Isn't that the idea?" he rasps, before diving down to recapture her lips. "Mmmmph. . .Mulder, no!" He lifts his head, his breath echoing harshly in quiet room. "Do you want to stop?" he asks, his gravelly baritone an equal mixture of disappointment and uncertainty. "No, no!" she answers emphatically. "It's something sharp. . .under me. I can feel it poking into my back." She hastens to reassure him, her hand caressing the curve of his jaw. He stands quickly and pulls her to her feet, a look of concern on his face. She feels breathless, lightheaded, and braces herself against the wall of his chest. It's the lack of breakfast, she thinks. The soft curls feel good under her cheek, and she rubs against them in sensual abandon. "Probably that bed. I think it's alive." His laughter rumbles in his chest as he surveys the offending piece of furniture. "Or it could be that damned pen. . .Christ, I'm sorry, Scully. Are you hurt?" Soft, so soft, his fingers are stroking across her back. Moving lower and lower, she feels them slide under her shirt to tiptoe across the small of her back. They skip along her spine, warming the skin in their path. "Everything feels. . . good," he breathes, and she finds herself nodding in agreement. It's hard for her to believe they're doing this. She must still be asleep. Her mouth opens, and her tongue tastes the skin next to her cheek. Salty, tangy, real. This is no dream. She kisses her way to a nipple, enjoying the shudders and tiny gasps that signify his pleasure. Yes, she thinks, it does feel good. "Move away from the bed," he instructs, and she automatically complies. With a flip of his wrist, the spread is off, thrown to the floor with all the papers and files. "And we won't be needing this," he declares, peeling off her tee shirt with an economy of motion. "Or these," he states, pushing her back down to the mattress to remove her panties. They join the untidy pile of clothing, bedding, and paper on the carpet. Sighing, she collapses fully onto the mattress, scooting until her head rests on his pillow. She watches him pull off his sweat pants, his erection springing free. Her breath catches at the sight; her mouth suddenly dry. He's so big, so beautiful, she thinks. Mulder's body is a work of art, and she wants to appreciate the hell out of it. She's impatient, and tugs at his arm until he collapses on the bed beside her. "Closer, Mulder," she orders firmly, but the effect is lost with the reedy tone of her voice. It doesn't matter; it seems to be exactly what he wants to do, and she sighs happily as he settles himself over her again. "Like this?" he asks, rubbing against her. His body hair is abrasive on her skin. It's like fine sandpaper, smoothing the rough edges of her desire. She shudders at the teasing movement, her nipples harder than she'd thought possible. His mouth moves over her face, kissing an eye, a cheek, her chin. He samples her skin like it's a rare vintage wine, little sips at a time. He's slow and patient, and she closes her eyes, giving herself up to these sensations. Next he focuses on the slender curve of her neck. He nibbles along the surface while his fingers move lower to find one of her breasts. They play against her nipple, rubbing across the pebbled flesh in tandem with his little nips at her collarbone. "You've got beautiful breasts, Scully," he murmurs against her skin, working his way over to capture the peak with his mouth. He sucks hard at the flesh, his tongue flicking across the nipple. A low whimper leaves her mouth, and she curls her fingers in the roughness of the sheets as he circles the aureole. "Tastes good," he approves, and in seconds he's suckling more of her into his eager mouth, making little noises of pleasure that vibrate against her skin. Her fingers tangle in his hair, directing him by touch. Harder, softer, more to the left or right. She's surprised at how quick he is to respond to her directions. "Good, so good," she keens, as his teeth scrape over the sensitive tip. His fingers stroke down her side, caressing the curve of her waist and flare of her hip. He's teasing her, his touch on her skin feather-light. Her hand dances down his arm, grasping his fingers and placing them at the juncture of her thighs. "Mulder," she gasps, her hips rocking, "please." "Is this what you want?" he asks, lightly stroking along her folds. But she's so slick that his fingers slip over that sensitive bundle of nerves in vain and she wants to cry in frustration. "Harder," she pleads in a breathy voice so unlike her normal one. He instantly adjusts the pressure and thrust of his fingers. They slide over her, circling firmly before moving deeper. Probing at her entrance, he pushes a finger into her, watching her reaction with burning eyes. Her breath hitches, and her hips buck up against his hand. "So wet," he murmurs in amazement, adding another to join the first. "Yes," she cries, as his fingers work their magic. In and out they move, the rough pad of his thumb swiping over her clit with every thrust. Oh, God, he's hitting that spot, creating a whole new parade of sensations for her to deal with. Too much, she thinks, stifling her cries against the back of her hand. The insistent pressure, the measured thrusts, overloading senses too long left idle. Her head rolls against the pillow, his rhythmic movements bringing her closer and closer to the edge. His strokes are firm and sure, playing her body like a fine instrument, slowly building to a crescendo. . .and suddenly she's there, her orgasm a white-hot force coursing through her body as she clenches against his fingers. "God, Scully, you're beautiful," he rasps, before covering her lips with his. He kisses her deeply, capturing her cries in the heat of his mouth. His tongue slides against hers, hot and wet, and she knows she's never tasted anything as good before. He pushes her legs apart, settling himself between her thighs. She feels the tip of his cock probing her folds, inexorably parting them as he slowly enters her. Wrapping her legs around his waist, she pulls him closer, moaning as he slides further in. It's almost too much, and she bites back a gasp of pain as her body stretches to accommodate his girth. She takes him in, inch by inch, until his balls nestle snugly against the curve of her buttocks. Hot and large takes on a whole new meaning, redefined within the confines of her body. "Are you okay?" he asks hoarsely. At her nod, he starts to move, pulling out then easing slowly into her again. Repeating the motion, he growls lightly as she lifts her hips to meet his thrust. Oh, yes, this is what she wants, only more. As if he can read her mind, he picks up the pace, thrusting faster and harder. The feeling is both strange and familiar, and she hears his gasps as her muscles clutch him tighter with each stroke. Scully closes her eyes, biting her lip to hold back the cries. It's been so long since she felt this way. This isn't just sex. It isn't some quick fuck with a stranger. This is Mulder. They're making love, with all the messy emotional entanglements that go with it. She revels in it, in his taste and smell, in the way his body feels as it moves over her, in her. How could she have ever been afraid of this? He's slamming into her, and she sighs her encouragement. Each time seems deeper than the prior one. So hard it almost hurts, but she welcomes the feeling, using her legs to pull him back to her with equal ferocity. She feels a tingling, the start of another orgasm, and her mouth opens against his shoulder, tasting the saltiness of his sweat mixed with the tang of his skin. It isn't long before her second climax hits. This one is less intense; warm and easy, it washes over her in gentle, soothing waves, like the tranquil ocean of her dream. Mulder continues to pound into her, and his cock seems to grow hotter and larger with each stroke. His arms are shaking with the effort, and sweat glistens on his torso. Her tongue slips out to bathe the hollow of his throat, that spot that fascinates her so much. One taste leads to another until she's sucking at the flesh hard enough to bruise, and that's enough to send him over. His back arches, and his lips twist into a grimace of pleasure as he comes. She feels the hot wetness filling her, and it's an invocation and a benediction, sealing their covenant. Gasping, he collapses onto her, his weight not unwelcome. His breath is hot, stirring the hair that clings damply to her cheeks. There is so much she wants to say, but for the moment she lets her hands do the talking. She smoothes them along his back, which is slick with perspiration, soothing him with her gentle caresses as his breathing returns to normal. After a while, he moves, flopping onto the bed beside her. He tugs her arm, pulling her until she's nestled along his side with her cheek pressed against his chest. She can hear his heart beating, the sound echoing her own. His fingers stroke her hair, combing through the tangled strands with a surprising gentleness. "Scully?" His voice is hoarse, his tone undefinable. "Yes?" She's trembling, and she clenches her jaw, willing her body to stop. Now that it's over, she wonders if he regrets this, and is almost afraid to hear his next words. "You do know I love you, don't you?" Mulder brushes the hair off her brow, placing a kiss on her sweat dampened skin. Something shatters inside her, and she feels tears slip silently down her cheeks to mix with the hair on his chest. "Hey," he mutters in alarm. "No obligation to return the sentiment. I'll still respect you in the morning," he teases. She uses the back of her hand, to swipe away the residual tears. Though he's trying his best to make light of the situation, she senses his tension and seeks to correct his mistake. She's not ashamed of her emotions; only of the distress they've made him feel. "I hope so," she answers softly. "I want your respect, almost as much as I want your love." Scully pushes up on an elbow, looking into the murky depths of his eyes. "I love you, Mulder." She leans down, her lips brushing softly against his. A few moments later, she lifts her head, her cheeks flushed and breathing irregular. He grins up at her, raising his brows suggestively. "Thought maybe you were just overcome by my manly charms. It's been known to happen," he boasts, yelping when her hand connects with his stomach. "I didn't hit you that hard," she says defensively. "No, it wasn't that, it's. . .Christ!" He sits up quickly, his hand rubbing at the small of his back. "I think this bed just bit me." Scully stifles a laugh. He looks so relaxed, so. . .happy. She feels an almost smug sense of pride in that look. To think that she is in no small way responsible for it. "You think that's funny?" He looms over her, bracing his hands on either side of her body. She pretends to consider the question, and a brow quirks reflectively. "Funny? Hmmm. . .that may be too strong a word. Let's say I find it mildly amusing," she finishes, a small smile appearing on her lips. "Amusing, my ass. That goddamned thing hurt. This mattress isn't filled with feathers, you know." He pouts, in that instant looking like a little boy. She smiles at his words. You're wrong, Mulder, she thinks. This is a regular, old feather bed. And she pulls his head down to kiss him again. ******** The End