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~*~
They didn't immediately have sex after his return from the
dead. Nor during the remainder of Scully's pregnancy. Not even
after William's traumatic birth. Too much had happened.
Billy Miles was sort of alive, again, Alex Krycek was mostly
dead, again, and Skinner had turned into the good friend Mulder
suspected he might always have been. Doggett and Reyes were alright
investigators, but they weren't going to get as far as he and Scully.
They didn't have that personal investment in the truth, the kind that
bordered on obsession for so many different reasons.
Plainly put, they weren't as good.
He wondered how long it would be before the division was
permanently shut down, and sometimes, he mourned.
Late one night, long past William's bedtime, he sat on the
couch, legs akimbo and arms supporting his head, dressed in heather
grey sweats and a ratty FBI Academy tee. The fire was burning down
to coal and ash, but firelight still flickered over the living room,
the coffee table, his favorite mug, stained from years, from pints
and quarts and gallons of strong coffee. It was cream-colored, I Am
The Man From Nantucket block-printed in lobster-red on the side.
Hard to believe it had survived two summer's worth of ferry trips
between Nantucket and the Vineyard, working his first summer job at
Quahog's Clams 'N' Crabs, never mind the twenty odd years worth of
moving since then. He doubted many mugs could say they taught scores
of Englishmen how to pronounce quahog. Assuming a mug could talk.
Nonetheless, he had been so very touched at still finding it on his
desk. Scully's desk. Doggett's, not that it mattered, now.
Movement from the hallway caught his eye, Scully gently closing
the bedroom door. Mulder shook his head. Typical. Fluffy white
bathrobe, shiny gunmetal gray satin pyjamas, slippers. "What are you
doing up so late?"
She didn't answer, quietly moving to one end of the couch. She
stood there, fingers plucking at the cord around her waist.
"You okay?" he asked. Her silences unnerved him these days.
He would be attending to William, changing a diaper or helping him
play with his wooden blocks, and he could feel the weight of her gaze
upon them. She had a habit of sneaking up behind him, staring with
an unreadable expression, much as she was doing now. It was
difficult, relearning the quirks and foibles of the woman he once
knew almost better than himself. Had he overstepped the boundaries,
spending most of his free time in her apartment rather than his own,
child minding duties aside?
Abruptly uncomfortable under her scrutiny, he rose, grabbing
his mug on the way to his feet. Scully threw one hand against his
chest and he stopped. She did that funny little apologetic half-
smile and chin wobble thing, the one which effectively reduced him to
goo, then wrapped her arms around his waist, pushing her hands
underneath his shirt. He returned her hug as best he could with his
free arm.
She raked his back with her nails.
"Hey," he said with a delicious shiver. "I was about to bring
this into the kitchen."
With another sad smile, she pulled away and removed the cup
from his grasp, set it back down on the table. Grabbing the bottom
of his tee, she shoved it up, practically forcing it over his head.
Okay. Not a problem.
Mulder understood the rest of the agenda when she started
pushing his sweats over his hips. He wriggled a little and they fell
around his ankles.
They eventually wound up on the couch, Scully on top. Her
touch was light, as if she expected him to disappear at any moment.
He understood her fear, for he too was still adjusting to this new
state of being. The changes his body had undergone were far more
than skin deep, although the physical scars were long gone. The
most fascinating aspect -- one which he was in no way about to discuss
with Scully or any other doctor -- was the return of his libido. Not
to pre-abduction levels, which he would have been more than happy
with. To be blunt, he really had no desire to re-live puberty. He'd
found a pimple on his neck the other morning, for godsakes! Then
there were the frequent erections, often with no particular cause,
god almighty, never mind the wet dreams and that ridiculous squeak
that appeared in his voice every now and again. How was that even
possible?
He hated the way it looked, but tucking his shirt in was no
longer an option.
Having said that, however, there were benefits. Recovery took
minutes, which he hoped would please Scully as much as it did
himself. He was good to go at the drop of a hat. Best of all,
experience and knowledge tempered what had occasionally become a
hair-trigger performance, which should lead to enhanced enjoyment for
the both of them, or so he figured they were about to find out.
Scully sank down on him, her scant weight pleasant and
familiar. It was almost unbelievable, watching her sway lazily to
and fro. The light from the fire painted her creamy skin gold and
red amber, her left side in smoke and darkness. One rosy nipple
peeked into the light as she rocked, begging for his touch. He
splayed one hand low on her belly. He was right there, inside of
her, underneath his own palm. Here she had carried a child, their
child, his son -- his son! Fading stretchmarks under his fingertips,
proof of a miracle, proof that she was best loved of her God's
children. Well, she wouldn't think so, but then she wasn't the
heathen, was she?
Liquid splashed onto his forearm, his wrist. Mulder broke his
fascination of her body to glance at her face. Fat tears slid down
her cheeks, rolling from blue eyes he doubted had ever been so huge.
Her weeping was silent, and she continued to move, albeit more
slowly, until she stopped completely. For a few seconds he didn't
know what to do, how to respond. Not many men would consider a naked
woman crying in their lap erotic, and he was no exception, although
he didn't soften. He sat up and held her close, then swung his legs
over the edge of the couch. Keeping a tight hold on her back and
waist, he pushed the coffee table out of the way with one foot, then
slid to his knees, laying her down on the rug.
With perfect timing, a little wail came from the bedroom.
Mulder glanced over his shoulder, listening intently for more
whimpers. When none were forthcoming, he said, as if she didn't
know, "He's just fussing."
This information brought a fresh flood of tears.
"Scully, I'm here," he said, caressing her neck. He kissed the
corners of her mouth, the hollow of her throat, the space between her
breasts. Her soft sobs quieted as he traveled, and when he used his
fingers his lips his tongue, her breath began to hitch for an
entirely different reason.
Stopping only when she was quivering with the desire for
completion, he crawled back up her body and kissed her again,
unmindful of her undulations, of her fingers digging into his ass.
He slid home, swallowing her sudden exhalation. Propping himself up
on one elbow. He reached between their bodies and touched where they
were joined. "It's me."
He felt like he could last forever, so he took his time,
watching her chest and face slowly flush. As sweat beaded her brow
her eyes changed, still huge, still liquid, but their glitter
softened until the woman gazing back at him was his old friend, his
old partner. This woman he knew.
Scully gasped and blinked rapidly, and he was unexpectedly
caught and swept under by the riptide of her pleasure.
He drowned.
Afterwards, when they had both caught their breath, she looked
up at him in wonder and smiled sweetly. "Mulder."
"I'm here," he said.
~*~