Panta Rhei by CleverGrrl

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Panta Rhei by CleverGrrl

From: [email protected] Date: Tue, 8 Dec 1998 13:36:11 EST Subject: Panta Rhei (1/1) by Stacey O

Title – Panta Rhei
Author – Stacey O
E-Mail address – [email protected]
Rating – NC-17
Category – SRA
Spoilers – “Drive,” “Fight the Future.”
Keywords – Mulder/Scully romance
Summary – PAHN-tuh RAY (Greek): All things in flux.

Distribution – To ATXC and Gossamer. Elsewhere, please ask.

Disclaimer – In a perfect world, Mulder and Scully would belong only to each other. In the real world, they belong to 1013 Productions.

Author’s Note – This is my first first-person story. Ever. Hard to believe, isn’t it? And a Mulder POV, at that. Actually, it started off as a third-person, but I decided I wanted to venture into new territory. Thanks, Shannon, for being such a good influence on me g.

As usual, I’d like to thank my fabulous editors – Shannon and Kendra – for their speedy and efficient work.

Timeline: This story takes place just before the events of “Triangle” and “Dreamland I/II” have occurred.

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PANTA RHEI by Stacey O

 

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Darkness. Silence – plodding and heavy.

This is it. She’s leaving me. She’s being transferred to Utah, and everything is over.

Everything.

My hands are on her face, my eyes locking onto hers.

She’s crying, but the tears don’t fall. Instead, they pool, the moisture catching the light, and her eyes seem to leap from her face with need and pain and sadness.

Her hands grasp my neck, pulling my head down. Her lips touch my forehead, and suddenly my own eyes fill with tears. God, I can’t take this. She can’t leave.

Not now.

Then, by some kinetic miracle, our faces are drawn closer. Scully’s eyes swiftly lose their pain and gain something new and unfamiliar.

Surprise? Maybe. But surprise at what?

I want her. That much is certain. But until our lips brush with the lightest, most tender touch, I realize I’d never known just how much.

Her hands curl around the back of my head, her fingers soft and gentle with unspoken sentiment.

A sudden, blinding pain shoots through my neck, and I cry out.

“Ow…”

Her fingers freeze for a moment, and her wide eyes search my face.

“Sorry…” she mumbles, the ghost of a sheepish smile playing upon her face.

I shake my head quickly to tell her that it wasn’t her. She reaches her hand around to my collar, and she pulls out the delicate body of a small, fuzzy insect.

“A bee,” she murmurs, peering at the small insect. “Must’ve hitched a ride. Did it sting you?”

I nod slowly, my eyes suddenly losing their focus, and she scrutinizes my face with sudden concern.

Something’s wrong. I can’t swallow, and breathing is becoming painfully hard.

“Sss.. Scully…” My first instinct would have been to conceal my discomfort, but my voice betrays me.

Her look of gentle concern gives way to alarm. “Mulder, what’s wrong? You’re not allergic to bee stings.”

“No…” I whisper hoarsely. It’s all I can manage. My heart pounds fast and furious in my ears. Perspiration coats my face in a thin sheen, and I begin to wheeze.

All at once, her arms are around me, and she’s supporting me as I fall against the wall.

“Oh, God. Tell me what’s wrong. What’s happening? Talk to me, Mulder!”

“C-can’t…” My teeth are locking together, and I can’t force them open.

She gasps as I slide down the wall, my whole body shaking.

Her hands seem to be all over me, all at once – on my moist brow, my arms to hold them down, my neck to check for the poison sac, my chest, the side of my neck to check for a pulse.

I can feel my chest heave up and down, and I try to concentrate on breathing.

In. Out. In. Out.

So… hard. Getting harder.

I can’t escape from the sensation of suffocation. Fingers of death caress my body, twisting around me, drenching me with the beckoning heat of mortality.

Hot. Cold. Smothering, clashing, all over me. Everywhere.

I’m dying, and I struggle to tell her everything. All that I’ve been meaning to say, but have never had the chance.

I can feel my strength fading, and my eyes are melding shut, locked into position on my sweating face.

“Scully, I… love you,” I whisper, the words exploding urgently through my cracked lips.

I thrash, fighting with the last vestiges of humanity against the one thing that can rob me of it. I can feel the tendons in my neck grow taut as I continue to fight against it. Sweat drenches my body, and I moan, feeling life drain away.

“Mulder.”

I open my eyes, and gasp at Scully’s face looming above me.

It’s dark. We’re not in my hallway any longer. The firm, unyielding tile has been replaced by the soft resiliency of an institutional-quality spring mattress.

“Wha… where…” I blink in confusion.

I jerk suddenly, now fully awake, bolting upright with a motion that seems to startle her.

Disoriented, I whip my head around, taking in my surroundings. We’re in my hotel room. A small lamp is glowing in the corner, the only dim light piercing through the unbroken blackness.

She sits down beside me on the bed, her cool hand settling on my brow.

“You were dreaming, Mulder. Calling out my name. I was afraid something had happened to you.”

Calling out… oh, shit.

God, not again.

I have this dream all the time. In the office, on my couch, in the car when Scully consents to drive.

I still can’t figure out what it means.

“I’m okay,” I assure her, hoping I don’t sound as unsettled as I feel. Her mouth turns up in an empty, distant smile, and I find myself returning it.

I’m okay, she’s okay, we’re okay. Everything’s okay.

Except that nothing is.

I sigh, and I feel Scully shift next to me, her hands moving to pluck at something on my chest.

All at once, I realize that my bedsheets are twisted all around my half-naked body, binding me, constricting my movements and sticking to me in moist, heavy patches.

I groan to myself. The tangle of bedsheets around me must have brought about the illusion of suffocation in my dream. Her arms reach for me, struggling to free me from my linen cocoon. “C’mon, Mulder” she urges me gently, perhaps sensing the source of my discomfort.

I sit impassively, oddly unable – or maybe unwilling – to help her.

After a moment, her movements stop. She raises her head, her eyes meeting mine. Her gaze is puzzled. Questioning.

An instant later, I look away. I can’t look at her right now.

I don’t want her to know what thoughts were going through my head.

I’m not a Freudian. I don’t presume to believe that all problems, neuroses, and psychoses stem from the Oedipus complex, or from some childhood difficulty in gender identification. And I’m no expert in dream symbolism – latent content, manifest content, real or unreal.

I don’t need to know exactly why I’m still dreaming of an event that took place what feels like a lifetime ago. Or, even more troubling – why our roles have been reversed. Why I’m the one who gets stung, and she’s the one watching me slide into the greatest of unknowns.

Why death is the only force powerful enough to compel me to tell her how I really feel.

Maybe I don’t want to know.

What I do know, and what my dream was probably trying to remind me, is that things between us are in a state of flux.

Topsy-turvy. All asunder.

Royally fucked up.

“You’re drenched,” she informs me, concerned, her cool hand coming up to touch my cheek.

I flinch, and immediately regret it. She pulls back, her expression frozen and blank.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble, hoping she’ll understand. My reaction to her touch was pure reflex, but the damage has been done.

“It’s okay, Mulder,” she responds quietly. Her tone is forgiving, but somehow strangely flat.

Nothing’s okay, I want to remind her.

Nothing at all.

I haven’t been myself lately. I know it, and she knows it.

Maybe that’s because I don’t know who I am anymore. My work is no longer my own. I used to have a reason to get up every morning – a reason for putting on another tie, shrugging on another scratchy suit jacket, and bounding into the office in the morning for yet another masochistic joyride on the Tilt-A-Whirl of government bureaucracy.

There must be a reason. There has to be. I just don’t quite know what that reason could be.

Not anymore.

Even Scully’s a ghost of her former self, and although it’s painful to think about, I think I know why.

I’d always thought that her assignment to work with me was more like after-school detention than a step up the career ladder. I’m not sure if that’s how she saw it when we still had the X-Files. But I’m sure that’s how she sees it now.

We don’t have an office now. We have cubicles. Fucking fiberglass cubicles. Office supply store detritus. Now, the both of us dot the FBI landscape like so much professional rubble, condemned to drift as flotsam and jetsam in an ocean of anonymity and obscurity.

Scully deserves better.

She’s a doctor, for Christ’s sake. She’s got about a hundred letters after her name. Yet she’s been reduced to deskjockey status when she should be making the big decisions and having a real life.

Luckily, she’s never cared about any of that.

Lucky for me, anyway.

To her credit, she’s been diving into Kersh’s bullshit assignments with characteristic aplomb. I, however, have been slightly less enthusiastic.

I’m always on the lookout for renegade cases now. They don’t fall into my lap like they used to, and even if they did, we couldn’t investigate them.

I need to keep doing what I’ve always been doing. I need the routine and the steadiness and the normalcy. I need it so desperately… if I want to keep my sanity. I never realized how much I thrived on control until it was all taken away.

For a moment, I’m tempted to rationalize this dependency by applying a drug-use metaphor.

Addiction. Withdrawal. Rehabilitation.

But that’s too simple. Too concrete. The reality of my life at present can’t quite be so easily explained, nor so easily remedied.

I can feel my face contort with bitterness, and Scully stares at me, probably just a bit troubled by my out-of-place reaction.

At least she understands. Sometimes, I wonder if I could still find an excuse to get out of bed in the morning if she didn’t. She’s even been willing to swallow her trademark “but, Mulder” reaction when I’ve suggested abandoning our official gruntwork to go off and investigate things on our own.

She was there to see me get out of that bloodied car, poor Crump’s head splattered all over the fucking window.

Sorry. Mister Crump.

I felt the comfort of her eyes on my back as I walked toward the rock overhanging the ocean, confused and compromised by the mindblowingly callous urge to empty my swollen bladder when nothing but this man’s senseless death should have been on my mind.

I saw her face. Even then, even when I didn’t know up from down, I could see that she’d lost her way. Just like me.

Why did this thought comfort me? Why does it, even now?

I feel the sudden shock of cool recycled air on my skin. While I’ve been lost in the maze of my own thoughts, Scully has been patiently unwrapping me like an oversized Christmas gift.

The last sheet has been stripped from my body, and I shiver as the sweat on my skin begins to evaporate. I’m wearing only my gray boxer-briefs, and I feel oddly naked. I resist the impulse to cover myself in front of Scully.

I’m not even going to attempt to analyze that one. She’s seen me naked too many times to count, yet, suddenly, I’m modest? Jesus.

I sigh, and after a moment, she sighs back.

Things between us have been tense. Uncertain. I don’t know how to act around her, and I think she senses this.

In fact, from the expression on her face, it’s fairly obvious she’s sensing it right now.

Inexplicably, she moves closer to me, and I catch my breath in surprise.

She’s wearing nothing but a flimsy nightgown, I realize suddenly. Her hair’s up in a loose ponytail, and the lace at her throat plunges precariously, dipping to the crease between her breasts.

My heart begins to pound, and something dangerous stirs within me. I force myself to look away.

“How’d you get in here, anyway?” I ask casually, my head still turned away.

“We have connecting doors, remember? I heard you cry out my name, and I ran in here to see you thrashing around on top of your bed.” She shifts, twisting her neck around so that she can see my face. “What were you dreaming about, Mulder?”

You, me, and a honeybee, I want to say.

But I can’t. We don’t talk about that. I can only imagine the look on her face if I told her the truth.

Instead, I just look at her, my eyes drawn by some invisible force to the tapered “V” of soft white skin below her chin.

Something’s happening inside of me. Something intense. And it’s rapidly escalating beyond my control. With a quick flick of the tongue, I moisten my lips.

“Thanks for coming in,” I manage to say, hoping my voice doesn’t give everything away. “I’m going to try to go back to sleep. If you hear me making noise again, you have my permission to come in and kick me.”

She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Is that what you want?”

“Yeah. Just go ahead and kick me. That’ll shut me up. And then you can get some sleep, too.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She seems to sense my confusion, and smiles slightly. “I meant that I was wondering if you really wanted to go back to sleep.”

I stare at her, hope mingling with surprise inside my still-sleepy brain. “I don’t follow,” I say cautiously, not sure where this will lead.

She sighs, her head tilting slightly to one side as she considers me. “Mulder, you were having a nightmare. A bad one, from the amount of noise coming from this room. I don’t think I’d be so willing to return to it.”

I hardly know how to react to this, so I just look at her for the moment, thinking. It occurs to me to wonder if she can somehow sense the content of my dreams.

She knows me well enough. She always has. I always tease her about her inability to lie effectively, but the truth is that I’m equally unable to lie to her. I can mislead her, but I can’t lie to her face.

I respect her too much.

“It was a nightmare,” I admit, for one unguarded moment allowing her to see the distant echo of pain and loss and fear in my eyes. “It’s not the first time I’ve had it, either. It’s funny – I usually don’t remember my nightmares. But, since you woke me up…”

She nods. Then, inexplicably, she bends over the side of the bed, and I can’t see her face.

A moment later, she raises back up, and there’s a large section of blanket in her hands.

She stands, approaching me silently with the blanket, and I allow her to drape it over my shoulders.

I’m not sure whether the gesture is a concession to my near-nakedness, or a thoughtful effort to combat my shivering. Either way, I’m grateful, and I tilt my chin up to shoot her a slight half-smile.

She walks around to the other side of the bed, moving to sit, cross-legged, facing me.

“Mulder… I know what you were dreaming about.”

I eye her uneasily. “You do?”

“I do. And it’s okay. Don’t you think I have those same dreams?”

A short, dark laugh erupts from my throat before I can stop it. “I doubt it, Scully.”

“Why?” she says softly, and for a moment, I berate myself for my insensitivity.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” I say quickly, my voice catching painfully in my throat. I move to place my hand on her shoulder. “I just meant that I wasn’t sure if your dreams were as bizarre as mine are.”

She shakes her head, her eyes distant. “They don’t have to be exactly the same for me to understand them. We’ve been through so much, Mulder. Both of us. You have to recognize that – and accept it.”

I nod thoughtfully. “I do accept it. But I don’t understand what my dreams are trying to tell me. If they’re trying to tell me anything at all.”

“Maybe they’re trying to tell you to embrace the things in your life that you can control,” she muses, and I get the strangest feeling that she’s no longer talking just to me, but to herself as well. “Because, right now, there aren’t many of those, Mulder. Not many at all.”

I nod again, wearily this time, allowing the air to stream from my nostrils in an audible rush. Suddenly, I’m exhausted, and I can feel my body slump over.

“I don’t know what to do about it, Scully,” I admit tiredly, surprised on some level by my willingness to embrace this subject. “What choices do we have? I don’t want to start a new career. I’m not a greenhorn anymore. I’ve lived too long, and I’ve seen too much. Besides, we have something important to work towards now. The fact that we don’t have a drafty, poorly-lit basement to work out of doesn’t mean that there’s no point in fighting for the things we care about and value.”

Wait a second. I stop, my eyes widening in surprise as I realize what I’ve just said. It’s the exact opposite of my pessimism from just a few minutes before, and I’m not sure exactly how this sudden change could have occurred.

She touches my hand. I can feel my heart beating faster, and my breathing grows heavier. I tilt my head, looking at her, and her eyes roam over my face, meeting mine with compassion and understanding.

“I’m tired of fighting,” she says, and her words slice through me like a curved knife, impaling and twisting and ripping me apart.

“You can’t mean that,” I blurt out incredulously.

I have to look away, barely able to believe what I’m hearing.

She can’t mean what I think she means. This can’t be happening. Not now. Not when my life is in disarray and she’s all I have left.

She’s all I want, I realize with a jolt. Everything else can just go to hell. But if she leaves…

All at once, the tables have been turned. I’m the one who’s had to fight for my dignity and my happiness all these years, but I thought it was a solitary battle. I thought that I was holding her back.

I’ve always seen myself as a lonely hunter. I have one goal – one alone – and I can’t return home until I’ve met that goal. By necessity, it’s an alienating occupation, and I’ve always tried to prepare myself for that.

But she’s the one who’s giving up now.

My heart is thudding so hard I’m afraid it’s going to leap out of my chest. It occurs to me that I’ve been blind to the truth, all this time. She’s always been along on my journey, beside me at every point along the way.

Jesus Christ. In some strange, twisted way, my dream prophesized all this. It hits me, all of a sudden, and my mouth falls open.

Neither of us is in this alone. Not anymore. We’re inextricably unified now. We’re the same, she and I. Interchangeable. What she goes through, I go through, and vice versa.

Topsy-turvy. Upside-down. Every which way.

Royally fucked up.

When I finally find the courage to look up at her again, it takes all the self-control I can muster to keep the tears that are blurring my vision from puddling in my eyelids and falling down my face.

“I mean what I say, Mulder,” she says, an indecipherable expression on her face. “But not in the way you think.”

She’s so close to me now. Her bare leg brushes against mine, and her hand traces a soft, careful line down my back.

I stare up at her in utter confusion, too afraid to blink for fear that I might miss the meaning behind her words.

Slowly, and with infinite patience and gentleness, she tilts her chin up and to the side.

And kisses me.

For a second, relief washes over me, and I can think of nothing else.

But then, I can feel my body respond to hers. I begin to return the kiss, making it a shared effort, a union, a soft bridge between us that I can’t bring myself to break.

When she pulls back, I can feel my face flush, and I take a long, slow breath.

Come on, I tell myself. Say something.

But I can’t. I don’t know what to say.

She exhales, her eyes wide and filled with such intensity that I can’t look away. I’m utterly riveted, and I’ve never been more astonished.

“Surprise,” she breathes, her voice a soft, graceful melody to my parched ears.

I continue to look at her, my eyes falling upon every feature of her face, moving urgently, desperately, hungrily.

Then, suddenly, I need to shut them. I need to feel this instinctively, not see it, to know that it’s happening.

Am I dreaming this? Will the last two minutes be erased the moment I open my eyes?

Gathering all the courage I can muster, I open my eyes warily, irrational joy soaring through me as I catch the dim flash of Scully’s copper hair.

“Scully,” I manage finally, “Where the hell did that come from?”

“The heart, Mulder,” she responds softly, her voice piercing straight through to my soul.

It takes a moment or two for me to swallow the lump in my throat, and I finally allow one solitary tear to slide from its perch at the corner of my eye.

“I thought I knew what you were trying to tell me,” I admit hoarsely, shaking my head in disbelief. I give a half-choked laugh. “I guess I need to listen a little closer next time.”

She responds with an answering chuckle, and the warmth of the sound makes my heart do a jerky little flip-flop.

This time, I decide, I’m making the next move. I slide my hands onto her face, then down to her neck. I move my fingers to the back of her head, kneading, rubbing everywhere, all at once.

I ease her down onto the bed, one hand supporting her neck as she rests upon the mattress. I move to kiss her again, swinging one leg over her body as I do so, and I can’t believe I’m doing it. I’m kissing Dana Scully, and I’m utterly shocked and thrilled and confused and grateful.

But then, a stray and utterly unwelcome thought invades my mind, and I lift my head regretfully.

Why did she kiss me? Was it because she’s thinking of leaving? Did she feel strangely obligated, somehow?

Or is she doing it out of guilt?

No. Guilt’s my game, I remind myself. Scully doesn’t operate that way.

My expression has grown troubled, and she props herself up on her elbows with a sigh.

“Mulder, I know what you’re thinking. But you can stop thinking it. I’m doing this because I care about you, and I want you to know just how much. I’m tired,” she whispers, her breath hot on my shoulder, “of fighting something that you and I both know we’ve been dealing with for a very long time. I don’t want to do it anymore.” She smiles self-consciously, dipping her head, and I’m filled with the desire to kiss her again. “How’s that for honesty?” she finishes, looking up at me.

I nod mock-seriously, pretending to appraise her, and I finally allow myself to return her smile. “Not bad,” I murmur, then move over her again, bringing my mouth to hers with a rush of heat. Our lips part, and our tongues intermingle, sharing, melding. I briefly wonder where I stop and where she begins.

Finally, I pull away again, and grin.

“How’s that for honesty?” I murmur slyly, repeating her earlier words.

A smile spreads over her face, and she starts to pull off the blanket that is still wrapped around my shoulders.

We both manage to yank it off, and throw it over the side of the bed.

She knows and I know: I won’t need it much longer. My skin is already starting to tingle from heat, and a drop of sweat rolls down the side of my face.

I can feel my erection begin to swell against the thin cotton of my briefs. I squirm patiently, unwilling to speed up this routine for my own selfish gratification.

Scully deserves far more than that.

Slowly, reverently, I move to sweep the nightgown over her head, and she lifts her arms to make it easier.

The delicate piece of fabric slides off, and I’m left with nothing but Dana Scully. In the flesh. Up close and personal.

Jesus. Is this really happening?

I take her breast in my mouth, my tongue drawing circles around the small, stiffening nub of flesh. I hear an answering gasp of pleasure, and I quicken my movements, suckling, my hands rubbing her arms with rapturous abandon.

I slip my hands under her arms. As if by mutual consent, we stand together, half-stumbling over to the nearest wall, our limbs tangling as the urgency of the moment overtakes us.

A flash of association sears through me, and, for a brief instant, I’m deluged with images from my dream. I’m dying, and I’m sliding down the wall in my apartment building, feeling Scully’s hands on me, everywhere.

I jerk my head slightly, yearning to rid my mind of these images.

This is real, I remind myself. This is actually happening.

And I’m very much alive.

To my shock, she drives me up against the wall’s hard surface, her strong hands pinning mine up at shoulder height.

“Jesus, Scully,” I mutter, knowing that the expression on my face will alert her to the pleasure behind my words.

Her lips curve up in a smile of understanding. Then, she releases my arms, and kneels, tugging on my boxer- briefs. With shaking, incredulous fingers, I rush to help her.

Finally, the briefs slide off, and we are both naked, both pressing warmly together, melding like two perfect pieces of an ancient, timeless puzzle.

Then, to my surprise, she steps back, and grins briefly at my expression of sudden disappointment.

She runs her beautiful ocean eyes down my body, and I can feel myself begin to tremble, nearly exploding with stockpiled desire.

Her eyes fall onto my cock, stiff and engorged, and I hear her catch her breath.

“Is that for me?” she asks, her eyes bright and full.

Afraid of the multiplicity of words threatening to tumble from my eager lips, I nod silently.

She presses her lips tightly together, forming a thin, fleshy line. “Mulder, we can stop anytime you want. But once it’s over, there’s no going back.”

I know this. But it’s something I’ve wanted for so long, and I can’t even imagine stopping now.

She sees this in my eyes, and her gaze meets mine, telling me that our thoughts are intertwined.

We both want this, and neither of us cares what might happen because of it.

“Scully… come here,” I order her mock-sternly, my voice low and gentle and designed to make her believe.

She obeys, moving back to me, and her hands reach around to trace an electric path down my back. Her movements prompt a sudden shiver, and my body jumps. She looks up at me, smiling softly, her eyes glowing at me like twin suns emerging from a stormy sky.

Then, she slides down, taking me in her mouth. Reflexively, I throw my head back, banging it against the wall.

I’m vaguely aware of some pain at this contact, but it barely registers.

My synapses are otherwise occupied.

My whole body shudders as I feel her teeth nip the shaft of my cock, and I am possessed. I am reduced to a quivering mass of utter, concentrated need, and I moan, a sound that seems to come from the recesses of my soul.

She slides up and down, and I can feel the build-up of sensation begin. My breathing has become hoarse, urgent, shallow, as I desperately try not to come.

She senses this sudden conflict in me as my thighs contract, and withdraws, moving away from me with a last, gentle flick of the tongue against the tip of my cock.

I lean against the wall, shaking, my whole body devolving into one gigantic, trembling nerve.

Before I lose it completely, I grab her, pushing her back towards the bed. Forcefully, but with the utmost care and concern, I nudge her, and she falls back against the mattress, bouncing slightly.

I kneel by the side the bed, hunching between her legs, and I see the exhilarating wetness puddling there.

“Scully…,” I murmur, somehow amazed that I have the power to make her so wet and aroused. I can say no more, and no more needs to be said.

I begin with my mouth at her chest, and my hands stroke her hips, then her thighs. My lips move down, peppering her belly with kisses. I continue to graze over her body, my lips hungry for continuous contact, and she groans her encouragement.

And then my hands push aside the reddening folds of flesh, and my fingers are inside of her, crooking up. I ache to give her what she needs and deserves. Nothing else seems this important.

She cries out in a wordless entreaty, her fingers digging into my back, and I gasp.

I sense that she’s ready. With one glance at her urgent eyes and her red, trembling mouth, I confirm it.

I pull out and move to cover her, but Scully’s hand presses into my shoulder, pushing me down onto my back. She straddles me, and with very little effort, I’ve entered her, and we strain together, building a rhythm, escalating and joining and fusing as one.

I feel like the past five years have been a buildup to this one, precious moment, frozen in time. I laugh with joyous abandon, and Scully joins me.

She begins to cry out, calling my name as her orgasm engulfs her, and real tears come to my eyes.

“Am I doing this to you?” I gasp, staring up at this incredible woman, watching her fill my vision with a swaying silhouette. “Am I making you happy, Scully? Am I giving you what you need?”

“Mulder,” she says breathlessly, the word falling upon my ears like the sky on heaven. “Oh, God. You make me feel everything. Everything. Happy is only the beginning.”

I give a muffled cry as she moves her hips in a rocking motion, rubbing against me, and I feel amazing earthquake tremors ratchet through me.

The sensation builds like an imminent explosion, and I come, my neck tight and straining, and I cry out desperately, utterly incapable of knowing anything but her.

And then it’s over, and we slide apart.

I feel like my body has been sapped of everything. Everything but my need for her, my awareness of her, my deep and overwhelming love for a woman I’d thought could never want me this way.

But she did. And does. And nothing else matters.

I’m so tired. Tired like I was in Antarctica – numb and drained and glowing with contentment. My eyelids feel just as heavy, and my limbs feel just as weighted.

My eyes half-close. A moment later, I feel Scully’s lips brush against each lid in turn, bestowing a moist, gentle blessing.

“Sleep,” she says.

“Don’t want to,” I respond in a belligerent mumble.

She chuckles, and shifts next to me, curving her body to conform with mine.

“I know. But we have time, Mulder. All the time in the world. Besides… your dreams will be different now.”

I crack open one eyelid, suddenly curious.

“What was I saying when you walked in, Scully? Was I talking in my sleep?”

A heavy, pregnant silence follows my words, and I look at her, wondering at the reason for it.

She turns her head slightly, and I catch my breath at the unexpected gleam of moisture veiling her eyes.

“You said, ‘I love you, Scully,’” she ventures finally, allowing me to see the emotion carved on her face. “You said, ‘I don’t want to leave you.’ When I heard that, Mulder, I…”

I silence her with a slow, tender kiss, and she returns it gratefully.

I pull away, and lay my head back against the pillow, struggling to absorb everything that’s just happened between us.

“Why now?” I ask, turning my head to scrutinize her face for the answer. “After everything that’s happened between us. We’ve been through so much together, but I was beginning to convince myself that this would never happen.” I shake my head. “Why’d we wait so long?”

Scully props herself up on one elbow, turning her face to mine, and she brings her hand up to trace a slow, gentle path down the side of my chin.

“So many of us postpone our happiness indefinitely, Mulder. It’s not that we consciously do so, but we keep telling ourselves, ‘Someday, I’ll be happy.’ We convince ourselves that our life will be better after we get married, buy a house, get a promotion. Meanwhile, life keeps moving forward. The truth is, there’s no better time to be happy than right now. If not now, when? Our lives will always be filled with challenges. It’s best for us to admit this to ourselves and be happy anyway.”

“And my talking in my sleep somehow brought you to that conclusion,” I say, my voice full of humor and affection.

She nods, her mouth quirking up into a gentle, ironic smile. “What I’ve been looking for – what I’ve been seeking – is right here, Mulder. And I couldn’t let it sit there, unclaimed. Not for one more day.”

I bask in the glow of my own infinite pleasure at hearing her words, and in a moment or two, I feel as though this glow has settled over my body, lulling me, comforting me.

I am happy, I think, as my eyes begin to close once again.

Right now.

Through a hazy, half-conscious daze, I feel the bed creak as Scully rises, stepping onto the carpeted floor.

A few soft footfalls later, I hear a distant door open.

“I love you, too,” I hear, a soft, wrenching whisper from miles away.

I drift off, and the door swings shut.

 

—END—

 

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