Title: Apocalyptic Poet Author: Lydia Bower E-Mail: bower@cu-online.com> Distribution: Anywhere, as long as my name remains attached and it's archived in its entirety. Classification: X, A, Vignette, MSR Rating: NC-17 for sexual content and language. Spoilers: The Red and the Black, Paper Clip Summary: Mulder and Scully struggle to get back on the same page. Author's Notes and Acknowledgments: This vignette assumes Mulder and Scully have been occasional lovers since the events seen in Paper Clip. It's got sex, but it also has plenty o' angst. You have been warned. Feedback to Thanks, as always, to the Primal Screamers. Mulder's last line is for the HamrickChick, because she got the verification she sought. Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully belong to David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson. Everybody else belongs to Mr. Twinkly Eyes and his merry band over at the offices of 1013 Productions. Apparently Fox owns a piece of them, too. I'm not making any money off this and I mean no disrespect or infringement. Apocalyptic Poet by Lydia Bower Mulder is tense, twitchy. He stands with his hands braced on his hips and rocks back on his heels as I unlock the door. He follows me inside and pushes past me to flop bonelessly onto the couch. Leaning his head back, he lets his eyes slip shut. I shed my coat, asking, "Wine okay?" as I head into the kitchen. I translate his non-answer into an affirmative and grab a bottle of Merlot from the wine rack. Mulder's attempt at relaxation ends abruptly. He unfolds his long frame from the couch and joins me at the counter. I struggle with the bottle and corkscrew for a few moments before he silently takes them from me and finishes the job. I fetch two wine glasses and hold them out to be filled. It's not until he sets down the bottle and takes one that his eyes settle on mine. "Cheers, Scully." He taps the edge of his glass against mine. "To repressed memories and unexplained abductions and warring alien factions. Yee-fucking-ha." His wine goes down in three long swallows and he immediately grabs the bottle and pours out more. He sips this one, watching me warily. I don't know if he's disgusted with me or afraid of me. Maybe a bit of both. All his thirty-six years are etched onto his face tonight. The lines across his forehead are deeply furrowed. His eyes are hooded and bloodshot, cobwebbed with tiny lines. He attempts wry indifference and only accomplishes painful bewilderment. I wonder if my features mirror his. "So you believe Krycek's telling the truth?" I ask. It wasn't until we'd been released from Wiekamp AFB and were on our way here that Mulder finally told me where he'd gotten his lead. I think the only reason he did so was to avoid any questions about what had happened to him in the back of the army transport truck. "I don't know what to believe anymore, Scully. There's no way to know whether he's jerking me around or not." His mouth pulls tight in anger. "You believed enough of his story to go looking for this resistance fighter he told you about," I point out. "So I guess I don't have to ask what you believe. Or do I? What's the truth now, Scully?" I immediately tense, my jaw clenched tight, and I can see by the way his eyes soften that he regrets his barb. I have to satisfy myself with this substitute for an actual apology. The two words still come hard to Mulder. He turns away from me and sheds his coat and suit jacket, tossing them over a chair back. And then he begins a slow pacing of the kitchen. It's not his sharp and inquisitive mind that drives his lazy circles. Not this late at night. Not after what we've just been through. It's nervous energy--nothing more. He's like a caged animal. Coiled tight and looking for release. I lean a hip against the counter and tiredly run a hand over my face. The skin is pulled tight where I've been burned. The pads of my fingers skate lightly over the tender spots. Real or unreal. Truth or lies. The choice between a horrible earthy conspiracy or an even more terrifying extraterrestrial one. I no longer know what is real and what is not. All I know is that everything I've believed in has gone topsy-turvy. Which one of us is right? Is there a middle ground? Does it even matter anymore? Mulder veers off his path and swings open the refrigerator door. He bends at the waist and does a slow inspection. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he pushes the door shut. "Would you like something to eat, Mulder?" The words come out before I've given them my full attention. It's so easy to fall into the old, familiar patterns with him. The question is a means of comforting him, of telling him that I'll take care of him tonight--if that's what he needs. But who'll take care of me? I'm not made of stone, despite a reputation to the contrary. I need comfort too; a release from the nightmarish doubts that haunt me as surely as they do him. His voice is low and rough with exhaustion. "No, I'm not hungry." I study him carefully. His face is slack, his complexion washed out. A sheen of perspiration covers his face. Unthinkingly I step to him and raise my hand to touch his cheek. "You're pale. Are you feeling all right?" His arm snaps up and his fingers curl around my wrist, stilling my hand inches from his face. "Don't fuss over me, Scully. I'm fine." His words are dark with warning. Don't touch. Don't come too close. Not what I expected. He doesn't want my comfort after all. Am I disappointed? He releases my wrist and I take a step back. My voice is tight with tension. "Do you think the time will ever come when we're on the same page, Mulder?" Tired hazel eyes meet mine and hold. A dull ache settles in my breast as I realize I'm not sure how to read him anymore. The signals seem all out of sync. And then, serving as proof of that, my face is pressed against his chest as he pulls me into a fierce embrace. He smells of fearful sweat and timeless pain. The pendulum of his emotions has swung from impatience to concern. I can't help but wonder how long it will hold before it begins its inexorable journey back. Right now I just want to relax and enjoy the moment. Mulder nuzzles my hairline, whispering, "I'd settle for being in the same book." His hands slide from my back up to my shoulders and he steps away, ending the embrace. "I can smell myself, Scully. Mind if I use the shower?" "You know where everything's at." He dips his head and presses a kiss on the corner of my mouth. His breath is warm and scented with rich wine. He turns and heads for the bathroom and my arms drop slowly to my side. I hear the shower come on as I sip my wine and nibble at stale Triscuts. I leave my simple supper long enough to take a pair of clean boxers briefs and a t-shirt into the bathroom for Mulder. Steam fills the room and billows around me as I push through the partially opened door. I don't bother trying to talk to him. One look at his lean body through the glass door of the stall tells me all I need to know. He is standing in profile, his shoulders slumped in silent defeat. His arms hang slack at his sides. He's resting his forehead against the tile of the small enclosure as the water beats down on the back of his neck. Sudden tears sting my eyes and I quickly place the underclothes on the hamper and flee back to the kitchen. When did I become afraid of confronting his demons? Was it when his new truths became my new lies? We're not meant to live like this. No loving God should heap this despair and pain on relative innocents such as ourselves. Or allow that pain to reach past them to touch everyone around them. And then I wonder if God ceases to exist if our world is indeed being threatened by an extraterrestrial race. Does the existence of one preclude the other? I pour and drink another half glass of wine, a welcome lassitude beginning to flow through me. The wine warms my belly and chases the chill from my veins. My thumbs curl around the edge of the kitchen counter as I roll my head, relishing the creaks and pops it elicits from my neck. I'm strung tight as bow. I hope Mulder has left me some hot water. And then I hear him, and smell him. The slap of wet bare feet on the tile floor. The citrusy aroma of lemon-scented shampoo. Two damp arms wrap around my waist from behind and I can feel him through the layers of my suit. Mulder hasn't bothered with the underwear I laid out for him. He is pressed up naked against my back. I hide a smile and lay my arms across his. Mulder is as unconcerned with his nudity as a small child. I don't know if he's always been this way or if it's just around me. The former is the most likely explanation, but the nurturing side of me likes the idea that despite everything, he's still that comfortable with me. A open, relaxed Mulder can be a wonderful thing. He dips his head, using his chin to brush away the hair from my cheek. "I've been thinking, Scully," he murmurs into my ear. "About what you said earlier." He didn't bother to shave. His evening stubble rakes softly against my skin. "What's that?" "About being on the same page." His arms tighten around me and spread apart. One arm anchors me low across my hips as his right arm slides up to my chest. Mulder's long-fingered hand cups my left breast and begins to knead it gently. A sudden, vicious thought pops into my head. He's working up to a farewell fuck. He's just as tired of being at odds as I am. Only he's somehow found the courage to put an end to this surreal relationship we have. After all we've been through, all the disagreements, it will be this fundamental change in beliefs that will tear us apart. His hand shifts and slips under my jacket as his teeth tug at my earlobe. My nipple tightens and presses into his palm. His chest vibrates with his low chuckle. Stop being melodramatic, Dana, I chide myself. He's not going anywhere. I know that I'm as essential to him as air. Without me, he would cease to be the man he is now. I'll be the first to admit I derived a small measure of smug satisfaction when I first suspected his growing reliance on me. But soon the seriousness of that responsibility sunk in, slowly changing everything in my life. It's very frightening when you realize you've gradually become the center of someone's world. He tweaks my nipple through the fabric of my shirt and bra and I gasp, my words coming out low and breathy. "What about being on the same page?" His hand leaves my breast and drops down to join its twin at the fastening of my pants. My hands play up and down his arms, sliding from wrist to elbow and back, encouraging him. And my dependency on him? I'll consider that later. I can't think when Mulder has his hands on me. His hoarse whisper rasps in my ear and sends a shiver down my spine. "You remember the first time we did it, Scully?" There's no doubt what he's talking about. Of course I remember. The memory send a flash of heat down between my thighs and causes my nipples to tighten even more. A flea-bitten motel in Maryland, just far enough away from the Strunghold Mining Company, the night before our meeting with Skinner. Caught between heaven and hell, life and death. Battered and bleeding, our emotions raw and exposed. There was nothing but the two of us and our mutual desire. Every justification for maintaining our distance unraveled between us. We shrugged them off that night with as much impatience as the inhibitions we also shed. Mulder has unbuttoned my slacks and slowly drawn down the zipper. But his hands stay at my waist, resting there with his fingers spread wide. "I remember," I tell him. "Mmmm." His lips brush against my neck. "It was incredible, wasn't it? *You* were incredible. I thought the top of my head was gonna come right off." A snicker escapes me, and all I get out is "Which--" before he answers. "Both of 'em, Scully." Our bodies shake with repressed laughter. Mulder's hands shift, turning me to face him, and come up to ease the blazer off my shoulders. He twists around a little and considerately lays it atop his discarded coat and jacket. He crouches down in front of me, untying my boots and pulling them off, taking his time. He's in no hurry. My eyes travel over his almost-too-lean torso, his slim, powerful arms. His hair is slicked back and almost black with wet. His penis hangs heavily between his thighs, framed by a lush, dark growth of pubic hair. He's not erect yet, but he's working on it. "You joined me in the shower that first time," he says conversationally. "That's how it all got started." "As I recall, Mulder, by that point it was the only way I could stand to be near you." "You'll have to direct all complaints to Albert Hosteen," he tells me as he deftly strips off my pants and hose. "I was just following orders. I remember telling him it was going to cut into my social life." He stands and abruptly lifts me, setting me on the counter top. The tile is cold and I squirm a bit. He situates himself between my knees and begins to tug off my shirt. "Guess I was wrong about that. Who ever would've guessed Dana Scully would be turned on by an unwashed man?" "Let alone one returned from the dead," I shoot back, holding up my arms so he can pull off my shirt. My bra is next. "Ah," he says. "So that explains that whole pathology thing. Very kinky, Scully." I reach up and hook my thumbs around his ears. "C'mere, you." Mulder has the most incredible mouth. I've always been the type who could happily spend hours doing nothing but kissing and being kissed. Mulder feeds directly into those urges. Together, we've somehow managed to make kissing an art form. Truth be told, most things we do together, we do well. Our love-making is no exception. He told me once that he was a poet, and that my skin was the paper on which he composed. Right now he is writing wonderful poetry across my breasts and my arms and the curve of my back. My hands follow his lead, reacquainting myself with the landscape of his body. "I may be a little premature in my assessment," Mulder offers as his lips and teeth go to work on my neck. "But I'd say we're on the same page right now. Wouldn't you?" Oh, that it were that easy, Mulder. I cherish his child-like belief that things like this are enough to outweigh the burdens we live with. While these pleasant diversions take us away from the harsh reality of our lives for a few precious hours, that's all they are. Diversions. Nights end, and the dawn inevitably ushers in another day of seemingly unanswerable questions. I wonder why it is that now, when I'm more frightened than I've ever been of what we may discover, I seek the truth with even greater zeal. Why now, when Mulder seems so confused himself? He's alternately determined to deny everything he once so passionately believed, and yet just as driven to prove those beliefs to be the truth. Mulder notices my distance. He slides his hands up to cup my face and looks me in the eye. "Hey. Stay with me, Scully. I need you here all the way. The rest of it'll wait." He moves in and places gentle kisses on my closed eyelids. "Here. Now. Just you and me." My tears flow so suddenly I've no time to wipe them away or duck my head to hide them. A few tenderly spoken words and he's managed to tap right into my soul. "Oh, Mulder..." "I know, baby, I know. It's okay." He nuzzles my mouth with his. "We'll make it through this. We will." I am like a child needing comfort from an often inattentive parent. When given that comfort, the depth of gratitude is hard to measure. And so it is with Mulder and me. We starve ourselves of each other, for no apparent reason, and then come together with ravenous hunger. Just Mulder and me. No badges, no titles. No past or future. No thoughts, even, of what has happened mere hours and minutes ago. Just here. Just now. I curl my fingers around the nape of his neck and deepen our kiss. I take in the air from his lungs, my nose too clogged with tears to afford me what I need to breathe. My arm drapes around his shoulder as I pull him closer. My taut nipples scrape along his chest and I swallow his low groan. Large, warm hands move across my back and gather me in even closer. I'm perched on the edge of the counter, my sex pressing wetly against his ever-hardening cock. I unashamedly rub myself against him and he reaches for the waistband of my panties. I rock on the cold surface, lifting one hip and then the other. And then they're gone, and it's nothing but skin against skin. Mulder is serenading me with low murmurs of pleasure. His hands slide up my back to cup my shoulders as he leans down and strokes his tongue across first one nipple and then the other. Back and forth he moves, circling and probing, flicking the tip of his tongue against the peaks before bathing them with slow strokes. My head falls back on my neck as my fingers tunnel through his hair. Mulder is merciless in his teasing, and I'm squirming like a bead of water on a hot skillet. "Now, Mulder. Please." The words come out rough; forced from my throat with a breathy growl. His interpretation is flawless, as it so often is. He chooses my left breast and latches on, suckling deeply, pulling at me with urgent tugs. I grasp for the small, rounded cheeks of his ass, needing to fill my hands. Mulder accommodates me, shifting so I can reach while he switches from one breast to the other. Yes. Perfect, he's so perfect. There's something to be said for having a sporadic sex life. Each time is like the first, filled with a heady mixture of arousal and shy bravado. Mulder and I have no routine--we've not made love often enough to establish one. We simply take each time as it comes, adapt ourselves to whatever it is we need from the other. Mulder as lover is still a surprise to me; a beautifully wrapped, wholly unexpected gift. One as skilled with his hands and his mouth and his body as he is with his mind. I gasp, my hips lifting from the counter as one long finger slides into me without warning. Mulder looks up at me from his work at my breast and I watch his lips curl up in a wicked smile. His eyes capture mine and pull me down into their dark depths. His finger stokes the fire at my core. "C'mere, c'mere," I urge, and he straightens and covers my mouth with his. Mulder's tongue flicks across my lips and darts into my mouth. Reaching between us, I take his cock in my hand. He is long and thick and throbbing against my palm. "Aw, Scully," he breathes, ending the kiss. "Yeah. Like that." "Feel good, Mulder?" My fingers grip him comfortably, pumping his shaft in slow, even thrusts from base to tip. His finger mimics the rhythm inside me, twisting and fluttering. "Oh," he groans, "you are fucking incredible." His finger leaves me and slips up, separating my inner folds and exposing my clitoris. Bringing the tips of two fingers together, he moves them in slow, confident circles across the bundle of nerves. "How 'bout that, Scully? That working for you?" he croons. I can't think. How can I possibly form a coherent sentence? "Oh, God...." That will have to do. Mulder shoots me a dazzling smile. "Yeah, huh?" And then his smug grin slowly fades and he pins me with his eyes. Playfulness leaves him and is replaced by a solemn vigilance. My hands go still. My hips stop their rhythmic thrusting--even as his hands continue their sonnets against my skin. His eyes are honey-gold and bottomless; his soul as naked and exposed to me as his body. When Mulder looks at me this way, it's time to pay attention. "Tell me what I can do for you," he softly urges. "Tell me what you need." He never poses the easy questions. Mulder's not asking how to please me. He's asking how to love me. I'm not sure I know how to answer. A year ago, a month ago, perhaps even a week ago, I could have come up with something definitive. God damn this rollercoaster ride we're on. Should I ask him for the simple things? Friendship. Support. Comfort. His easy smile. His love and respect. Or do I go for broke? Ask for the almost impossible? Peace. Answers. Understanding. The truth. What is it I want? What do I *need*? My fingers brush across his cheek. I stretch up and kiss him softly, my lips tender against his. "I need *you*." He pulls away a little and I can see the tears building in his eyes. But he manages to blink them back, croaking, "Then you're in for some for trouble, Scully. This boy is bad news." Oh, Mulder. I knew that the moment I first set eyes on you. But here I am. "I need you," I tell him again. "In me. Now." I gently tug at him, stressing my need. His eyes go dark again; deep pools of forest green. "Right here, Scully?" "Right here. Right now." One corner of his lush mouth jerks up. "Okay." I angle his cock at the entrance of my womb as he grips my hips. One small tug of his hands and he slips inside me. It's a slow process. This is one thing Mulder never hurries through. And then he is buried up to the hilt, his heavy balls nestled against me. I lift my legs and wrap them around his hips as my arms go round his back. I lay my ear over his heart and hold him tightly. Mulder's hands travel up to enclose me. There is a moment of stillness before we begin to move. Slow, measured thrusts as we cling tightly to each other. His lips move across my hair line, murmuring his odd little Mulder noises. Soon the closeness of his body becomes distracting. All my attention needs to be centered where we're joined. The friction has set off an itch deep within me. Slow and gentle won't soothe it. I need more force, more depth, more speed. I need more. I lean away and grasp his forearms as he anchors my hips in his hands. Mulder's face is flushed, the air leaving his lungs in ragged bursts. "More?" he gasps. "More," I plead. And he gives it to me. Just like that. Easy as breathing. Our hands and lips author stanzas of pleasure upon our skin. Our mouths utter words that fill in the blanks. Our bodies gather the pieces and join them into a whole. We collaborate this poem, this ode to ourselves and what we are when everything else is stripped away. This sonnet is raw, elemental, and requires no polish. It stands stark and bare and speaks for itself. Here, on my kitchen counter, in the dead of night, the poet and his muse create something of unspeakable beauty. Afterwards we end up in my bed, carelessly tangled together. I'm not quite sure how we got here, though Mulder must have carried me--I don't remember moving on my own. I'm sprawled on my stomach and Mulder lies draped over me, one thigh hitched high across my ass. One of his arms is curled around my head. The other lays outstretched along mine, our fingers entwined. He shifts a little and I feel his lips come down on the back of my neck. He softly kisses the tiny scar there, causing a shiver to run through me. It goes too deep to be a mere tactile response. "I should go," he murmurs. "Stay." There is a long silence. I've caught him by surprise. This is not the way we do things. Overnight visits are not encouraged. "You sure, Scully?" Oh, yes. This is the only thing I'm certain of right now. I don't want to be alone. I don't Mulder to be, either. "Stay. It's late. No sense leaving when you'll just have to come back in a couple hours. You've got a change of clothes in the car." I don't have to chastise myself for my automatic and practiced casual disregard. Mulder beats me to it. "Well, thanks for offering to save me a long drive home." His sarcasm is colored with hurt. Don't do this to him, Dana. Don't do this to yourself. I flip over onto my side to face him. There's not enough light to clearly see his face. But my hands find him, stroking down his chest and cupping his cheek. "I'm sorry," I tell him. "Stay, Mulder. I... I need you here with me." I don't have to see his face to know what's going on in his head. It helps, but it's not as necessary as it once was. I've learned to read his body, too. "Still?" he asks. "Still," I assure him, and it's the truth. "Always." I feel his body relax under my hands. And then he blurts, "Promise me something, Scully." "Promise you what?" "Swear to me that you'll tell me if you start feeling...different. If you feel like you're being summoned--called somewhere." "Mulder...." No, please. I don't want to think about this right now. "As long as that implant is in your neck, Scully, you have to be doubly careful. Just...just promise me. You may not be so lucky the next time." The next time? But there won't be a next time. Will there? "Mulder, what happened to you tonight?" I'm met by a heavy silence. And then he settles onto his back and pulls me close. He guides my head to his chest and smoothes the hair back from my face. "Mulder?" As he presses a kiss on my forehead, I hear him whisper, "I pulled my head out of the sand." It's a long time before I fall asleep. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ THE END