THE GOOD STUFF By Jacquie LaVa Category: MSR, a little into the past, AU (no William) Rating: R/NC-17 Spoilers: General, pre-X through maybe Season 6 Summary: 'In a world of bad things, he chooses to recall and embrace the good stuff...' **************** "The Good Stuff" He could dwell on all of the unfair occurrences that life has dealt him. All of his losses, all the pain, the heartache. There's a lot of it and he could allow himself to sink into the most abysmal despair, just thinking about it. He chooses not to. In a world of bad things, he chooses to recall and embrace the good stuff. He could sit in the dark corner of a room somewhere within his equally-dark memory, and think about the day he lost his sister. How in the childish terror of one moment she slipped out of his grasp and his life, forever. He could cry bitter drops for the years he searched for her, the personal and professional sacrifices he made, not only of himself but of other people, all in the name of his sister... but he chooses not to. Instead he smiles into the sunlight as he remembers the way they bickered over the dumbest things; the outrageous nicknames they had for each other and the sheer irritating yet endearing novelty of having a small girl adore him: First, he remembers the bickering... "MINE! You're a big jerk, Fox-Y..." "Don't call me Fox-Y, you brat!" "I'm not a brat! You're just a big fat jerk, jerk, JERK! Gimme back my game, Fox! Give it!" "It's MY game, Twerp. Dad gave it to ME. You're too young to play with it." "Am not, AM NOT either! MOMMMMM.....!!!!!" Then, he remembers the adoring... "Fox, can I come with you? Pleassseee....?" "Nope. You walk too slow. It'll take forever." "I'll run, honest I will! Please? I got a dollar... if you let me come I'll buy you a Snickers." "You will, huh? A whole Snickers? You won't make me give you half of it?" "Cross my heart, Fox. Can I come with you?" "Well... okay. But you better walk fast. And I suppose... if you buy me a Snickers... I'll split it with you. And I've got a couple dollars, too - you want a Coke?" "YES, YES!" It's the good stuff that makes a sunny afternoon of reminiscing, about his Samantha, even more precious. ********************* He could assume a fetal position on the cold floor of his bad dreams, and think of the day his father died in his arms. His fault, even though nobody set the blame on his shoulders. The blood that drained from a man who should have lived until he was ninety, surrounded by grandchildren instead of alone in an empty house, estranged from his son and divorced from his wife. His father's blood coated his hands and stained his soul; his father's blood all over the floor, as he expired in the bathroom. He could ream himself to shreds for the time they'd lost, of father- son bonding and the way the cool emotion between them kept them from bridging the distance they'd both enforced. He'd hugged his father, but oh, so late; a small bit of time later his father was gone from this world. He could carry the guilt forever... He chooses not to. Instead, he stretches out on a warm spot of grass and thinks about the way his dad exhibited the most unusual patience, one magical day when they spent a weekend in the woods, two men on a mission to catch the biggest fish and eat the most charred marshmallows: "Like this, Son. You have to catch it good with the hook, or the worm'll come right off. We have some very smart fish in this lake." "Smarter than you, Dad?" "Oh, yeah - definitely smarter than me! Why, your grandfather used to bring me to this very lake when I wasn't much older than you. He used to tell me about Old Gert, the biggest, most contrary pickerel in the world. She lived in this lake and nobody could catch her. I'll bet she's still swimming around smack dab in the center of the lake, stealing bait right off fishhooks and driving all the fishermen nuts." "Wow, if she's still out there an' she's been eatin' worms all this time... she's gotta be HUGE! You think we can catch her?" "Well, I'll tell you what. Let's dig down into the bait pail and find the fattest, juiciest worm, and get that sucker hooked good and tight, on your line. We'll boat out farther into the center and we'll make a try for her, what d'ya say, Son? You think we can take her?" "You BET! I'm gonna look for a worm, right now!" "Okay, while you do that I'll get us closer. Hang on tight!" It's the good stuff that brings a fond tear to his eye, when he thinks of his dad. ******************** He could let himself break into pieces, over the way his mother took her own life when he was off somewhere doing a mundane thing such as his job. He should have been more in tune with what she needed. He should have been more accessible for her, when in her own pain and worry she tried to contact him and heard a goddamn answering machine in her ear instead of the son she so needed to connect with. He could put a bullet in his head for that alone, that he was nowhere close to her and she died in solitude by her own hand. He could go mad with the dwelling of it... He chooses not to. Instead, he lets his body fall back and lifts his face to the sun, and recalls her beautiful smile. The way her soft hair curled around her ears and the delicacy of her frame, even though like him she was tall and wide-shouldered. The gentle hands over his, when she'd let him help her in the kitchen; the way she taught him all manner of culinary talents that he had long forgotten, until this very moment when he chooses to remember: "Mom, when will it be ready?" "Fox... you have to knead it first, then let it rise. The dough has to be smooth and elastic. I have to work it with my hands." "Can I do it? Can I help?" "Well, sure! Come over here, and stand in front of me. Put your hands on either side, and push, like this. Feel how warm it is? That's the yeast. Yeast is a living thing. It grows, just like anything alive. You push it, this way, and the dough will spring back to you. See?" "Yeah. Neat! It feels good. How long before we can cook it?" "Impatient, aren't you? Good things come to those who wait, you know." "But I'm hungry NOW! It already smells like bread!" "Well, it'll smell more like bread when you've kneaded it properly and we can bake it! Come on, get those little fingers moving! Let's get this finished, and I'll make you something to tide you over until the bread is done. Okay?" "Okay - but whatcha gonna make me?" "It's a surprise, my nosy one. But I could be persuaded to give you a hint... for a kiss right here, on my cheek." "You BET! Mom... I love you... can I help you cook tomorrow, too?" "Anytime, Sweetheart - and I love you too, Fox..." It's the good stuff that lets him almost catch the fragrance of hot baking bread, mingled with the sweetness of his mother's perfume, wafting on the summer breeze, all around him. ******************** He could flay himself until just about unconscious, recalling every single time his partner - and the woman he loves more than his life - has been hurt, because of some stupid crusade of his. How many times she followed him into danger with a trust based on nothing more than it was he who asked it of her - to believe. To hop into the car, catch that plane... run that extra mile. Just trust, just accept, don't ask questions... don't. Trust me, Scully. Come with me, Scully. Just get dressed, and I'll tell you on the way, Scully... He could snatch up another bullet, and put the loaded muzzle right in his own mouth. He could punch holes with both fists, into that rock-hard wall of his own arrogance, with the remembrance of her, lying cold and barely breathing in some hospital bed; limp in his arms with bruises on her face, blood on her chest, five-fingered marks around her throat... cancer in her body. He could die, right here, right now, by letting his own heart break with the black thoughts swimming upstream from his soul... He chooses not to. Instead, he draws from the touching, sweet moments in a past that is so rife with her that he has to concentrate very hard to think he ever lived another sort of life, before she joined his: The blue of her eyes, gazing at him any number of times when he'd awaken in the hospital - holding his hand, counting his very breaths. The way those eyes would light up when he'd slowly open his and all he'd see were swimming ocean depths... such a welcoming sight. Those same eyes, hot with passion in the middle of the night when she insisted on having every lamp in the bedroom on so as to better view the way their bodies shuddered when she curved herself over his lap, and took his aching penis deep into her endless warmth: "God, Scully..." "Shhh. I'm concentrating." "Jesus... on what? Making me insane?" "No. Making ME insane. I want to watch. I want to see what you look like when you slip inside and I want to feel every inch..." "I can tell you, oh, God... how it feels... fucking amazing..." "Yes. That's the way it looks, too..." The smile of her mouth, sometimes a brief Mona-Lisa curl at just the corners, other times wide and generous. The way that smile felt the first time he kissed her. How she thought he was only joking, that he'd want to kiss her lips... the smile fading into something more serious and intent, when his mouth touched hers and his lips took hold and his tongue gained entry and tickled along the length of hers. The smooth ridge of her teeth and the soft inner cheek, the taste of her saliva and the movement, yes the movement their joined lips made against each other's: "I never knew... Mulder..." "I did. I've wanted to kiss you for a long time, Scully." "How long?" "Forever, I think." "Oh... that long?" "Yes, at least. Maybe longer." "How can you have longer than forever?" "I'll show you... since that's how long I want the next kiss to last..." The small warmth of her hands, slender fingers and tender palms - how those hands trembled the first time she placed them on a part of his body that hadn't been touched, in so very long. How they felt when they slid over his chest and down his quivering sides; how they traced his ribs and twirled in the hair that grew beyond the low rise of his loosened jeans. The way they curved over his tight buttocks, trailed fire around to the front and slipped inside where he was dying for her: "That feels so good. I can't believe you're touching me, Scully..." "I can't... I don't..." "What, Scully?" "Mulder... it's hard for me to - you know - talk... at a time like this." "Then I'll talk. You touch and I'll talk... then I'm going to put my hands all over you. And I'm going to talk some more, about the way YOU feel..." "Oh, God..." The look of her, the first time she stood before him and slid out of her clothes. He'd been dying to undress her, yet they'd only shared a handful of smoldering kisses and some shy caresses, over the course of a few weeks. He didn't want to rush her, was loath to push her into anything she wasn't ready for. And yet, she walked into his bedroom. She stood at the foot of his bed and slowly unbuttoned her skirt, eased her sweater over her head - tugged at pantyhose and lingerie. Until she was bare and shivering a little and so lovely it almost hurt to look at her. He was speechless. He could only hold out his arms and wait for her to take those two steps closer, kneel on the bed, crawl toward him: "Are you sure?" "Yes. I think I am. Finally, sure." "I can't find the words, Scully..." "Then don't go looking for them. I want this. Don't you?" "You have to ask? Scully... I love you, so much. You have to know, how much..." "I... do, Mulder. I know." The sound of her voice, right in front of him or in his ear on the phone. Soft and low, cultured and precise and so damned sexy. A rasp that vibrated from her throat, the concise medical terminology of her words contrasting with the rich promise of those sumptuous tones. He would find himself saying inane things to her, just to get enough of a rise that she would speak. And he would melt. And the day she finally confessed her love for him: "You know. You can tell - can't you? How I feel, Mulder." "Yes, but tell me, anyway. I want to hear it coming from that gorgeous mouth of yours." "Mulder... I'm far from gorgeous -" "You're breathtaking. If you don't believe me, just ask. I'll tell you no lies, Scully. If you like, I'll show you, while you tell me. Sound fair?" "Mulder, come on... ohhh. You're NOT playing fair, oh God..." "All's fair, baby. Now, tell me. Put your mouth up against my ear, and whisper it to me." "Ohhh... love you, love you..." "Again." "Mulder... I love you..." The wet of her, deep and hot and made just for him. Inside her, a secretive place he'd only imagined in his dreams, every night - a clinging tight haven, just the right and best place for him to be. How he'd shuddered in her arms as she'd trembled in his, how the clutch of her brought home to him like nothing else, of the vital and important position she owned in his life. How he'd always wondered, and now he knew at last - knew what it was, to be inside her, a part of her - locked within her heart and bound up in her soul. Looking down into those blue eyes, feeling the grasp of her small and capable hands, on his back, down his spine and over his clenching muscles, seeing for himself the way she glowed, just for him... The raspy purr that came from her throat with every impassioned thrust he gave her. And her mouth, oh, her mouth... teeth biting at his shoulder and tongue licking at his ear, lips forming a perfect 'O' of a gasp on his neck when his thrusts took him deeper. Everything about her that he found precious and unique, from her eyes to her hands to her lips - her voice, her body - all of her. His, finally his... It's so much more of the good stuff that keeps the darkness at bay and makes him understand that he is lucky, beyond anything he could have ever imagined or hoped for. *********** She comes looking for him, when he doesn't answer her third holler for him to come into the house for lunch. She walks out into the yard and finds him on his back right in the middle of their lawn, eyes closed and face turned up to the warm sun. Smiling, hands palm up and relaxed, lying there in his own little world... she clears her throat. "Um, Mulder? Lunch is ready. What are you doing?" He turns his head a little and one hand comes up to shield his eyes, as he opens them and stares up into her amused blue gaze. He could be out here, dwelling upon seventeen kinds of hell, all in his past, possibly threatening his future... but he chooses not to. He celebrates the rightness of his choice as he holds out that hand - and when she takes it, he pulls her down onto his chest and catches her close - grinning like a fool into her beautiful face. "Oh, I'm just hanging out, baby... thinking about the good stuff." end