TITLE: THAT NIGHT AUTHOR: E.B.E E-MAIL: ebe1013@hotmail.com RATING: NC-17 for language and sex Spoilers: None I can think of Category: MSR, POV Synopsis: Scully's reflects on a night together Disclaimer: If I owned them, they wouldn't need to resort to these sordid activities on paper, they'd have done it on TV long ago. So, hey, I don't own them. CC et al own them. But I asked nice, and he said they could come out and play. Archive: Sure, but please let me know And now...on with the show... Xxxxxxxxx I remember that night, our first time, as clearly as if it were yesterday. It was inevitable, I suppose, as natural and unstoppable as the tides or the turning of the season. I don't believe in fate per se, but at some moment this thing between us became our destiny. I mean, it only stands to reason that two people who have seen and lived through so much ugliness, both within and without, would be drawn together in the most primal, basic way. We are not perfect. Certainly not as individuals and not even when we come together. We are too broken, shattered, incomplete to make each other whole, the jagged edges of our lives grinding to an imperfect fit, at best. Sometimes fracturing the other, causing yet another shard to smash into nothingness through some ill-conceived word or action. For he has hurt me. Abandoned me (ironic, considering his own fear of the same), cursed me, mistrusted and belittled me. He has shut me out, run off, cut me with his sarcastic barbs and half-cocked deeds. He fights both to protect me, keep me close, but also to push me away. He drives me nuts with his obsessions, his guilt, and his quest. But I have hurt him as well. With my fears, my denial, my lack of faith. I, too, am guilty of slamming a door between us, of breaking communication, of driving him off rather than allowing us both the opportunity to comfort and heal. I have closed my ears and eyes to the truths he has shown me, sometimes, because I could not bear the disruption to my ordered little world. We've never been exceptionally honest with ourselves or each other, our pursuit of the truth aside. We've known our own desires for a long time now. I find the idea that we didn't know, that we were somehow hiding it from ourselves or each other, patently absurd. It would be obvious to a perfect stranger, and often has been. The way we work together, look at each other, talk with one another, cover the other's back. Even the way we fight. We'd have to be damn idiots not to see the truth of our relationship. The lack of anyone else in our pathetic lives, or even the need for someone else. The underlying tension. What was it that brought him to my hotel room that night? I never asked. We were done with our case, and it hadn't even been a particularly nasty one. Just a case. We were stuck for the night in some God-forsaken town, in a dingy motel with drab decor and paper-thin walls. Which means, come to think of it, that someone got an earful that night. But back to the point. I have no clue what impulse made him knock on the connecting door of my room, and frankly I don't care. He was just there, stripped down to his boxers, his long, lean form a welcome silhouette against the backdrop of flickering light from his television screen. Dark hair mussed and hanging into hazel eyes heavy lidded and glittering. So damn attractive, especially since I usually didn't get to see so much of his body unless he was sick or injured. My pulse quickened perceptibly. The thing I find most astounding, in retrospect, is that neither of us said a word. There was really nothing to be said. I knew what he wanted, what he was asking by knocking on my door. He knew I wanted it as well. And it was perfect like that, no conversations about the past or the future to mar the brilliant now. No wondering if it was just a reaction to our ever-present stress or fear. No thoughts of his sister, my abduction, his father, my sister, my cancer, the death and misery that cover us like a shroud. And no worrying if that one single action, the breaching of that final boundary, would destroy us. I'd be lying if I told you I haven't pondered all this since then. But that night, none of it was an issue. I think he was surprised by it, that I didn't insist on a calm, rational discussion of the potential causes and effects of such a momentous, yet simplistic, decision. It shocked him, that his Ice Queen would melt away with so little effort. For I am ice, sometimes. Usually by necessity. Very few sense my true nature, the fire carefully banked and concealed. Fewer still have ever seen it. That night, we were both engulfed by it. How can mere words describe how the memory of that night makes me feel? I can, of course, describe in clinical detail our actions. How I drew him into the room with a mere nod, the acknowledgment of this thing between us, permission for him to (finally!) do something about it. Then the pressure of his hard taunt form as he forced me against the wall, his mouth crushing him at last in a kiss so demanding and urgent my head spun. As many times as I had fantasized about us together, taking it gentle and slow, I was still not overly surprised by the sheer brutality of that first coupling. You can't build up to something for so long and then not expect it to explode once it ignites. And "ignites" is a very appropriate word for what took place. Five years of mutual mental foreplay suddenly consumed by a passion so intense I'm surprised the fire department wasn't summoned. I felt as if I was burning alive, like my whole body was one living, writhing flame. He was the wood, the fuel for the inferno. He has such marvelous hands. I had wondered what they would feel like on some other part of my body than the small of my back. Now I know. Such firm, teasing strokes he used, long supple fingers touching and caressing my skin - neck, breasts, belly, thighs - even as his hot, wet mouth continued to plunder mine. God, his mouth. I can still feel the damp trails he left as he moved down my body, kissing and nipping and sucking my quivering flesh. I was crying out, incoherent sounds of encouragement, my hands pressed shamelessly against his head. And I almost crumpled to the ground when his long, talented tongue began its assault between my legs. I'm glad he was willing. Someday I will take him up on the offer. But I didn't need or desire it then. It was about us, our completion, and not some singular giving and receiving of pleasure. It had to be about the two of us or there would have been no point. The entire night centered on what we, as a couple, needed, not on one person's fulfillment. So I pulled him up, pressed his naked body flush against mine. He knew. And without further preamble he had lifted me, my thighs in his strong hands, my back braced against the smooth, cool wall as the hard, silky length of him slid inside me. It was a good fuck. A lot of people would probably be shocked to hear me use that kind of terminology. But by God, it is true. He is a great fuck. So much energy and passion, such much emotion and desire. All without a solitary spoken word. We didn't need it. He fucked me against that wall in a dingy little hotel room and it was probably the best sex of my life. Granted, that's not saying much, but something tells me he'd be considered a good lay by the most experienced of women. It was quieter, slower the second time, though no less intense. Our sweaty limbs intertwined on the bed, his hard body covering mine as he filled me with slow, powerful strokes. His face contorted with pleasure and emotion. He was so primal, so beautiful, and we found release in each other's arms. He was no longer in my bed when I awoke. I was a little disappointed but not terribly surprised. The pleasant ache of my body assured me it had not been a dream, another nighttime vision of passion that dissipates like the night with the rising of the sun to leave me cold and yearning. I've had my share of those. That night was a turning point long in the making. But perhaps not the sort of crossroads people would think. There was no sudden move to explore this new dimension. Work that day was uncomfortable only for the briefest of moments, when we first saw each other. But nothing had really changed between us. There was a heightened awareness, a shift in the underlying tension between us. Fundamentally, however, we remained as we were; great partners, great friends. Only now with great memories, and the promise of a future. We haven't spoken of it. I will not force it. We are not a conventional couple, probably never could be, and I will not burden our relationship, whatever that may be, with trivial concerns. I know that we will be together, physically, again. And we are together in every other way most of the time anyway, so I feel no need to belabor the issue. When we are ready, we'll talk. I can see it in his eyes, the burn as we lock gazes. He wants me. As I do him. Someday we will revisit that night. I can hardly wait. The End *stands naked on a street corner, holding on a strategically placed cardboard sign which reads:* Will humiliate myself for feedback! Any and all thoughts on this little piece may be directed to: ebe1013@hotmail.com Pretty please?