TITLE:   INTO EACH OTHER SINKING 2 - STORM
AUTHOR:  LYDIA BOWER
E-MAIL:  bower2@juno.com


Subject: *NEW* IEOS 2--Storm by Lydia Bower NC-17 US4 Spoilers
From: bower2@juno.com (L. B. Bower)


Author's notes: This is the second in a series of vignettes that take
place within the universe I created in Dance Without Sleeping, though you
don't have to read that first to understand this one. Just know that
Scully is dealing with her cancer and she and Mulder have become lovers.
Feedback is always welcome. Enjoy! :)

Disclaimer: They aren't mine and never will be. Mulder and Scully belong
to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. I mean no
disrespect or infringement upon their rights. I'm simply doing this as a
way of maintaining my last thread of sanity.

Classification: V,A, MSR
Rating: NC-17 for sexual content
Spoilers: Yep. Up to and including Memento Mori
Summary: Mulder and Scully find a way to ride out a late-night storm.

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
The Lovers

Look how each becomes gift and giver:
their veins with nothing but spirit flow.
Look how their forms like axles quiver,
round which revolving raptures glow.
Thirsters, and straight there are draughts for their drinking;
wakers, and look, they are sated with sight.
Let them, into each other sinking,
rise, surviving each other's might.

Ranier Maria Rilke

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX


In the end it all comes down to this. These quiet moments. This
sense of peace and fulfillment.
It is the simple pleasures that make a life worth living.
Awakened by I dream I cannot remember, I rise from my bed.
Perhaps it is the coming storm, with its flickering spears of lightning,
that draw me to the window. A twist of the bar opens the blinds, the
meager light of the street lamp eagerly falling through them to paint the
room behind me in silvery stripes.
A cool breeze whispers through the open window and dances across
my bare arms. I turn to the chair beside the window, reaching for my
robe, and catch sight of the bed. I stop short, frozen by a sight earlier
denied me by the dark
Mulder lies sleeping in my bed, the bars of light falling softly
across his body. He is on his back, his arms flung carelessly above his
head, his face turned towards me. His restless legs have kicked all but a
corner of the top sheet down to the foot of the bed. The soft cotton is
wound and bunched around his waist, leaving one bent leg exposed from the
thigh down.
I smile with secret pleasure and perch on the edge of the chair,
watching Mulder sleep.
He has no idea I do this. It wouldn't have been possible a few
short months ago--when an extended study of him would have yanked him
from sleep in an unconscious, instinctive response to possible danger. He
no longer startles awake at the least sound or movement, his eyes wide
and empty, his arms flailing for purchase. His sleep is now largely
untroubled by the nightmares that use to plague him. He's more rested,
and the dark circles are gone from beneath his eyes.
My nightmares have faded as well. But my dreams are often still
vivid enough to wake me, urging me from the bed until I've regained a
sense of myself. It is these nights when I take the opportunity to study
him. To slowly turn the blinds and watch the meager light play across his
body. To illuminate a face so beautiful it stuns me still.
Mulder is a handsome man. But it is the innocent he becomes in
slumber that has enchanted me.
Another streak of lightning flashes across the sky. And this time
I can hear the distant rumble of thunder that follows several seconds
later. And then another flash. I watch as the blue-tinted light flicks
across his features like a lover's tongue. It throws his face into sharp
relief, highlighting the curve of his cheek and the emphasizing the deep
hollows of his eyes.
He shifts a little and one arm drops down by his side. His hand
ends up resting on his stomach, the fingers splayed wide against the flat
expanse of skin. I watch as they flex and curl. And then his hand moves
again in tiny rubbing motions, up and down, before it ceases. I wonder
what causes him to do this; if he is perhaps comforting himself in sleep.
Did his mother ever do this when he was a small child? Did she
soothe his dreams with a gentle hand stroking up and down his chest or
his back? Somehow, I think not.
His lips are slightly parted and it is quiet enough within the
room that I hear the sigh escape him.
What does he dream?
Is his slumber filled with memories of his life, playing like
some old movie flickering against the screen of his mind? Does he relive
moments both awful and wonderful?
Does he still dream of me?
I woke one morning to find him turned away from me, clutching his
pillow as he would a lover. I roused him from sleep with feather-soft
kisses against the back of his neck and opened my arms as he turned and
settled into them, the pillow forgotten. He'd wrapped his arms tightly
around me and murmured against my breast, "I'd forgotten, Scully. I was
dreaming of you and I'd forgotten."
"What?" I whispered against his hair.
"That you were really here. That it wasn't just a dream anymore."
I think about all the nights that lay in the future. I wonder if
the time might come when he will be forced to make do with a pillow
instead of the warmth of my body. Will I once again become nothing more
than a dream?
The lightning flashes more intensely now, and less time passes
between it and the growing rumble of thunder.
It's loud enough this time to bring Mulder to the edge of waking.
Not yet, I silently plead. I'm not finished.
I'm not sure what I'm asking for. More time to study Mulder
without his knowing? Or more time to live my life? I am helpless to stop
the downward turn of my thoughts--as impotent against them as I am the
power of the storm. I cannot stop either.
I feel the sting of tears and scrub my eyes like a tired child. I
drop my hands and tip my head against the back of the chair, my eyes
closing of their own accord.
It's easy to forget in the bright and noisy daylight, busy with
the work and the details both mundane and fantastic, that I'm dying.
Darkness that was once my escape has become my tormentor. It brings forth
all the truths that hide so well in the glaring light of day.
"Scully?" His voice is low and velvet-soft in the shadowed
confines of the bedroom.
"Hmm." I open my eyes and find him looking over at me. He's on
his side, propped up on an elbow. His hair is tousled and locks of it
fall onto his brow. His eyes are small and sleep-fogged.
"You okay?"
The response is automatic. "Yeah, Mulder. I'm fi--" I can't
finish the word. He's heard it too much and is just as unconvinced by it
as I am. "I just couldn't sleep," I tell him. "There's a storm coming."
My announcement is accompanied by a bright streak of lightning.
It's followed only seconds later by the muffled roar of thunder. And by a
feeling within me that I can't quite define.
"So I see," Mulder says. "Why don't you come back to bed?"
I watch as he yawns and stretches an arm above his head.
"In a minute."
I know that all I have to do is crawl back in beside him. I know
that he'll pull me close and soothe my unspoken fears. It's such a simple
thing to do. So why can't I?
Mulder studies me for several seconds, his face relaxed but for
the slight furrow of his brow. He pulls himself up and leans against the
headboard, absently scratching his bare chest. The silence stretches on,
and I can almost hear him thinking. Trying to figure out what's going on
in my mind. If anyone can do it, it's Mulder.
It still bothers me, sometimes, that he knows me so well. Some
small part of me wishes to remain a mystery to him--to everyone. There's
a certain safety in remaining enigmatic. But Mulder's keen mind is like
the darkness: it uncovers truths that hide in the light.
"Talk to me, Scully." It is both request and command.
I shake my head. "It's nothing." How can I explain when I don't
know myself?
"You're lying to me." There is no accusation behind his words.
Only a touch of humorous resignation.
I am suddenly blinded by a tremendous bolt of lightning as it
streaks across the night sky. I startle in my chair, the air filling my
lungs in a sharp gasp. The thunder comes only a second or two later;
ear-splittingly loud and echoing through the room--and through my body,
as well. I feel the violence and the power of it in my bones and I draw
my legs up to my chest, hugging them.
"Scully?"
The words leave my mouth before I've had a chance to consider
them. And hearing them shocks me. "I'm scared, Mulder."
I wonder where that came from. And is it really fright I feel?
Or is it helplessness?
Mulder starts to untangle himself from the sheets, one foot
dropping to the floor. But I stop him, lifting my hand like a signal. He
goes still for long moments and then settles back again.
"What are you scared of?" His voice is low, soothing.
And then the sky opens up and the rain comes down in sheets. It
beats against the windows and bounces through the screen to pepper my
arms and back, soaking through the thin t-shirt I'm wearing.
"I'm afraid of not knowing," I blurt, and wait to see if he'll
challenge me. But he says nothing, his silence asking what he won't
voice. "I'm afraid of not knowing what's going to happen to me. And to
you, if I should die. I'm frightened that with everything going on around
me, I'm going to end up missing something important. Something that might
show us what needs to be done. I'm afraid--" I swallow down the tears and
confess, "I'm afraid I won't be strong enough. And that whether I live or
die, I won't do a good enough job of it."
His eyes drift from mine and close in a slow blink. I watch his
chest rise and fall. Finally he speaks. "We've never been closer to
finding the answers that'll save you, Scully. You know that."
This is Mulder's way. He approaches any discussion of my illness
by first declaring that I will survive this cancer. It's only then that
he'll allow himself to speak of the what-ifs and the myriad other
possibilities inherent with my disease. I used to find myself wondering
how a man could continue to be so optimistic about finding the sister
lost to him after almost a quarter of a century had passed. Now I'm
grateful for that facet of his personality. I know he'll never give up.
If the cancer ends up taking me, Mulder will be fighting for my last
breath right along with me.
That's not what I want for him. I don't want him to lose this
battle, too.
But what he says is true. What we are finding out, in dribbles
and spurts, may be the information we need to save my life. Tonight,
though, that fact isn't enough. I tell him so.
"Scully," he says, and shakes his head. His face holds a measure
of wistful amusement. "You can't control everything. And you can't always
have the answers you want."
I reach behind me and close the window. The storm carries on
unabated. I unfold my legs and lean forward, my elbows braced on my
knees. "You're a fine one to talk."
He shrugs and smiles at me, just one corner of his mouth lifting.
"I can be practical if I have to. Beneath this seething exterior of
insanity beats the heart of a rational man." He shifts and turns to face
me, sitting cross-legged, the sheet across his lap. "I learned to let go
a long time ago."
My brow wrinkles in question. "Let go of what?"
"Control. Or the belief that I have any. And choices. The ones
that were never mine to make."
I take this bit of information and weigh it against what I've
come to know about Mulder. It almost seems a contradiction of everything
he is. And yet it doesn't. It's Mulder who deserves the label of
enigmatic.
"So, it's still about fate?" I ask.
He shrugs again. "Maybe."
I can't help but crack a smile. "You don't have to be so emphatic
about it, Mulder."
He grins at me and I can see the waking sparkle in his eyes. He
drops his eyes and fiddles with the edge of the sheet. He's still looking
down when he speaks again. "I don't believe it was fate that Samantha was
taken. Not after everything I've learned. But I think it's fate that I
wound up working on the X-Files. As a means of finding the truth. And I
think it's fate that you came into my life."
"And my cancer?" I ask quietly. There is a long silence and I've
begun to wonder if he heard me over the raging of the storm. Finally, his
eyes lift and meet mine.
"I don't know, Scully. I think I'm too close to make an objective
judgment." His shoulder rise and fall in a heavy sigh. "Part of me says
it's fate--that everything was set in motion when you were assigned as my
partner. And that there wasn't a damn thing either one of us could've
done to prevent what's happened to you."
"And the other part?" I already know the answer. I don't know why
I've asked. Do I need to hear him say the words?
Mulder says matter-of-factly, "The other part of me is heavily
into self-flagellation and crippling doses of guilt."
I'm instantly ashamed of myself for asking. I rise from the chair
and kneel down by the bed. Mulder watches warily as I scoot closer and
lay my cheek against his knee. "I'm sorry, Mulder. That wasn't fair."
Long moments pass before I feel his fingers begin to weave
through my hair, brushing it away from my face. "Well," he says. "It
could have been worse. You could've brought up Melissa, too." My head
snaps up and our eyes lock. I look for any sign of bitterness or
self-reproach in his face--anything that didn't translate in his tone.
And then he adds, "Or Queequeg." His deadpan expression breaks into a
mischievous grin.
"Bastard," I breath. But I don't mean it. Tit for tat. I lay my
head back on his knee and listen as he snickers quietly.
His hand slides down my neck and under my t-shirt, softly rubbing
a spot between my shoulder blades. His hand is warm and slightly rough
against my skin. "You worry too much, Scully. You need to learn to let go
of the things you can't control. It's not good for you to dwell on the
shit you can't change; you know that."
"And you?"
"Hey, I'm great at giving advice. That doesn't mean I'm so good
at taking it, y'know?"
"How do you do it, Mulder?"
He leans over me and runs his hand lower down my back, to the
flare of my hips. He pulls back, dragging his stiff fingers up along my
spine. Up and down, in firm but gentle movements. It's almost hypnotic.
It's also very sensual. I sigh and nuzzle the soft hair above the fold of
his knee; feel it tickling my nose.
"Do what, Dana?" he asks.
Dana.
Strange how the use of my first name has become so embedded with
meaning. It signals warmth and vulnerability and love. A bond that runs
too deep to fathom.
"How do you keep picking yourself up and going on?" I lift my
cheek and gaze up at him. His eyes are dark and hooded. His hand slips
around my waist and plays its way up my ribs. "I don't mean to dwell on
the failures, Mulder, but we've had so many of them. Losing evidence.
Losing leads."
"Losing my sister," he adds. "And yours."
His voice is saying one thing but his hand is saying another.
It's slipped around to cup my breast. My hardening nipple is wedged in
the webbed fold between two fingers. His hand goes still. He's just
holding me.
"I don't understand how you do it. You're always being criticized
and whispered about. You've been pushed to the limit more than any other
person I know. And yet you keep coming back for more."
"I'm the human version of a Timex watch, Scully," he whispers in
my ear. His hand slips out of the shirt, leaving my breast missing its
warm. He reaches both arms over my back and grabs the bottom of the
t-shirt, swiftly pulling it over my head. He unfolds his legs and pulls
me up into the space between his thighs, my back against his chest.
Mulder brushes the hair away from my neck. I gasp as I feel his mouth
land there. His lips are soft and warm as they move down the curve of my
neck. "Takes a licking and keeps on ticking."
"Mmm." I love it when he kisses me like this. I can feel the
goosebumps rise on my skin as his hands cover my breasts and his mouth
continues its sweet torture. Some part of me knows he's only doing this
to distract me.
But is that such a bad thing?
You worry too much, Scully.
"How do you do it?" I ask again.
He slides his hands down and softly nudges first one of my thighs
and then the other apart, until they're draped over his and spread wide.
His fingers play along the lace edge of my panties before once more
capturing my breasts. He pulls gently at my erect nipples. Intense waves
of warmth blossom and spread through me, centered in my core. I lean more
fully against him. I can feel the growing heat and length of his erection
pressing into my lower back. He nibbles at the tender skin below my ear
and a whimper escapes me.
"I don't have a choice," he tells me between nips. "I do what I
have to do; just like you."
"Fate, then," I decide.
"I dunno," he says as his hand comes up to cup my jaw and turn my
face towards his. His lips dance close to mine. "This, though.... You and
me. Like this. It's fate."
My reply is stopped by his mouth. As his inquisitive tongue slips
between my lips, I try to turn within the circle of his arms. He easily
stops me and holds me still as he explores my mouth. His kiss is deep and
hot, his tongue flicking hungrily against mine. Mulder pulls away from
the kiss and drags his moistened lips across my cheek and back to my
neck.
"So you're saying I have no choice in this; that what we have is
meant to be?"
He mumbles something unintelligible against the top of my
shoulder; hesitant to lift his mouth from its work. One hand is back at
my breast, the other running slowly up and down my thigh.
"Which means it's something I can't control," I continue. There
is a slight tremor in my voice. And a growing heat in my belly. My arms
lift above me and back, my fingers tangling in the short, silky strands
of his hair. He kneads one breast and then the other, my arched back
pushing them deeper into his hand.
"Which means.... Oh." I lose my train of thought as his hand
slips under my panties. His fingers thread through the coarse hair
covering my sex and he lightly cups me. Then his fingers curl slightly
and one slips inside and flutters against the wall of muscle surrounding
it. I lick dry lips and release a ragged sigh. Somehow I regain my senses
enough to finish my thought. But not until I allow my head to tip back
and rest against his shoulder.
"Which means I should just let go."
Mulder takes advantage of the skin presented him and attacks the
hollow of my throat, nipping and kissing his way up to my chin. His upper
body is draped around me like a blanket. His erection is pressing eagerly
into my back. I feel small, safe. And loved. Infinitely loved.
"Is that what you're saying, Mulder?"
"That's what I'm saying, Scully." His finger moves out of me and
slides up to tease my clitoris. "Just let go."
Oh, how I want to. His caresses steal my voice and banish more of
the darkness. The last vestiges of my control are slipping away. I ask
only for one more assurance from him.
"You'll catch me?" I ask him as he takes hold of my shoulders and
turns me. He falls to the bed, carrying me with him.
"Always," he promises. A hand shoots up to curl around the back
of my neck. He pulls my mouth down to his and draws me into a deep kiss.
The lightning continues to streak down from heavy-bellied
thunderclouds. It catches moments of our loving-making in snapshot
flashes, burning the images in my mind.
Panties and boxers quickly shed and tossed carelessly away.
Mulder's mouth at first one breast and then the other. The
flicking of a tongue giving way to urgent suckling that pulls the thread
still tighter within me.
His hands grasping and kneading my thighs, the cheeks of my ass.
My tongue licking the salty, tangy sweat from his belly and
moving downward. Drawing him into mouth, his hands tangling in my hair.
The sweet sound of his low chuckle as he pulls me back up to him.
Flat on my back, my wrists held gently but firmly above my head.
Mulder kneeling beside me and running his mouth down my body, whispering
about tongue baths and the dessert he didn't get after supper.
Rolling away from him as his fingers leave my breasts and he
mischievously pokes my ribs, causing startled laughter to burst from me.
Finding myself on the brink of falling off the bed.
And Mulder grabbing me.
Pulling me back. Wrapping himself tightly around me and settling
between my open thighs.
Watching his face as his eyes slip shut and he buries himself
deep within me. Hearing his senseless whispers as he drops his head and
rests his face at the join of my neck and shoulder. His lips and teeth
against the tender skin.
The colors that dance and melt together behind my lids when my
own eyes close. The sensations of our joining heightened by the darkness
I now gladly embrace.
The rollercoaster ride of his body slapping against mine, pumping
into me with the same drive and determination he puts into everything.
His hand slipping between us and his fingers circling my
clitoris. The awkward bucking of my hips as I find the sweet edge of my
release and step off the precipice.
And always, always Mulder. There to catch me.
Bringing me gently down and turning his attention inward, urged
toward his own release by my whispered pleadings.
The low, guttural moan as he comes and the sound of it echoing
through my body. Setting off tremors within me that are both his and
mine.
And I am there to catch him.
Afterward we lay in a tangle of arms and legs, our labored
breathing winding down to heavy sighs and low hums of contentment. Mulder
slowly twists around and lays his head on my belly. He slips an arm
around my waist. My hand drops to play in his hair.
It only takes a moment to close my eyes and send a prayer of
thanks heavenward. Because I know with perfect clarity that I'd already
be dead if it wasn't for Mulder. Or I'd wish I was.
I used to believe my strength lay in my independence and my
unflinching ability to ignore the heart of Dana Scully--and in ignoring
her need to love and be loved in the most basic of ways. I wanted to be
appreciated for what my mind could contribute instead. Somewhere along
the line I forgot to listen to the other half of me. Fears and needs were
shoved aside, boxed into a hidden place I very rarely visited. Had it not
been for Mulder and his relentless pounding away at my defenses, I'm
convinced my emotional isolation would have stolen even more of whatever
time I have remaining.
We all die alone. But I don't want to live that way. And now I
don't have to.
Slowly, hesitantly, I've learned to share my fears and needs with
Mulder. They gather like dark, foreboding clouds; with great strength and
threat of violence. And Mulder's love is their release. He is my storm.
Wind and rain. Sound and fury.
"Mulder."
"Hmm?"
"Listen."
He lifts his head from my stomach and turns it first one way and
then the other. Then he peers up at me. "I don't hear anything," he says,
and lays his head back down.
"The storm has passed."
He tightens his arm around my waist. "Another one under our
belts. We're getting pretty good at riding them out, aren't we?"
"Yes," I agree; gratified he's understood the deeper meaning of
my words. "Yes, we are." I stroke the back of his neck and reach for him.
"Come here."
He groans his desire to stay put, but slowly works his way up the
bed until he's holding me in his arms. I rest my head on his chest, my
ear pressed against his heart. The rhythmic, steady beat lulls me toward
sleep. I blindly raise my hand and cup his cheek. Mulder turns his face
and presses a kiss on the palm of my hand.
"I'm not afraid anymore, Mulder." My words are blurry with sleep.
"Good," he murmurs. "Sleep, Scully. Dream. And don't worry. I'm
right here."
My last awareness is of the single kiss he presses against my
forehead.
I dream of flying effortlessly, my backdrop a brilliant morning
sky. Standing below me is Mulder, his head tipped up to watch. He's
smiling as I soar and swoop with utter confidence.
Knowing he'll catch me if I fall.

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX

The End