TITLE: The Heretic's Tragedy
DISTRIBUTION: Archive me.
RATING: NC-17 for language, body parts, and coitus. CATEGORIES: MSR, Scully Angst, Scully POV KEYWORDS: More sex than romance, for now. If the thought bothers you, you might want to check out. If it seems like a realistic possibility given the psychological hell that Carter put his characters through, proceed. SPOILERS: Vague first and second season references, Tithonus, Millennium
SUMMARY: These never do much for me, so I'm not going to include one, if that's okay.
Disclaimer: Given that 30,000 + stories have been archived in Gossamer over the past nine years, I seriously doubt that I face the risk of prosecution. But I will say thank you to everyone who's turned a blind eye. And they aren't mine. Obviously.
Author's Notes: Comments very much appreciated at email@example.com. I love it that we're still reading.
She couldn't help but listen.
A dozen times she'd heard the soft click of a key in her front lock, the hesitant step of his footsteps as he approached her bedroom door. A dozen times she'd been disappointed. Rolling onto her side, she gazed sullenly at the clock. 12:32 glared back, the red light spilling over her comforter, reminding her of the window of opportunity passing by.
Will you get up the nerve tonight Mulder?
As bold as he was in bed, she knew that he doubted himself each time he let himself into her apartment. The thought thrilled her, the implications did not.
The final truth, Mulder, is that I like fucking you in the dark. And I really like the fact that we don't talk about it in the morning.
She smiled to think of his reaction to her words. He would chuckle, smiling his ironic smile, maintaining his calm exterior. The guilt would rush in later, when he considered, as she had, that after seven years they had yielded to the temptation only to persist on a collegiate diet of after-hours sex-- to become, as her mind so crassly supplied, fuck buddies.
She supposed it was the most she could give him at this point. More and more often now she found herself amazed that they hadn't given in at the beginning. She'd wanted him as soon as he walked into his office, and he knew it. It would have been so easy to sleep with him then; as much as he tried to play the jaded wiseass, she was fresh enough to have slipped in and seduced him as he stood open-mouthed in that immortal Oregon hotel room. After all, Mulder did seem to prefer sex with strangers. Her heart jumped at the thought, and she shifted involuntarily in her bed. She should have moved to him as he sat on the hard floor, head leaning back against the scratchy polyester comforter. It was so easy now, in her mind, to turn his young, pale face to the side and kiss him. Scully sighed. She had been too green, too naive.
Her thoughts gradually began to move away from that time, her mind as annoyed with the idea of her old self as Mulder must have been. They pulled away for several long years after that, after Mulder had gotten fed up with her stubborn inability to confirm his damn Truth with a capital T and decided that she was too irritating too fuck with any regularity. No, that wasn't being fair. He liked her, even then. But by the time the genuine affection had returned, her mind had firmly settled on the idea that Mulder was too dangerous to love. Desire, as it turned out, was an entirely different matter.
12:44. Would he come tonight, or not?
There had been no apparent pattern since he'd first shuffled through her bedroom door a couple of weeks ago, whispering "Scully, it's me," to prevent her from pulling a gun. She sat up, swiping strands of hair from her mouth and eyes, immediately concerned, but strangely unalarmed.
"Mulder? What time is it? What's going on?"
He paused at the doorway, and through the hazy shuttered light of the streetlamps below she could make out a black t-shirt and carefully faded jeans. Bar wear? She couldn't smell smoke.
He took three steps to the foot of the bed and paused again, giving her a meaningful look with a morose half smile. And then he began to pull his t-shirt up from the waistband of his jeans.
There were no more words.
They never lost eye contact as he stripped, casually moving lower to remove his shoes and socks, providing her with a tempting view of a well-sculpted network of traps, lats, and rhomboids. Her mind casually noted that he was thin right now, as was she, the muscles close to the surface of the skin and well-toned. She glanced over the place where a well-placed bullet had exited his right shoulder. It had healed well, though not as well as her own beneath her left breast. Vanity reminded her to put Mederma on it each night, and the tiny circle had faded from dark red to white in only a few months. She guessed that in a moment, Mulder would be seeing the fruits of her labors. Of course, that had been her intention all along.
Shoes unlaced-- he was in no hurry, it seemed-- he moved to his jeans, swiftly unbuttoning them before pulling them down over light blue boxers. No boxerbriefs tonight, not that she cared. She was long gone, the world around her buzzing as she felt her face go warm, her lips full and trembling with arousal. She knew what this meant, and she also knew she wasn't going to stop him. The thought made her feel faint.
The jeans came down, and her eyes were full of thighs. God, she loved his legs. Lean, hard muscle, the tan over his calves and knees fading to a milky white before disappearing into his boxers. He paused for the last time, and her eyes moved to the telling stiffness at his waist.
Hoo boy indeed.
I am in shock, she thought.
Now he was kneeling on the bed, moving towards her. The warmth over her face spread down her chest and between her legs, culminating in a wet, hot fullness. This was really going to happen. No guns, no bees, no hospital bed, no drugs. She could smell him now, a mix of shaving cream and Ivory soap and clean Mulder smell--he'd showered-- and then his hand was on her face, his thumb tracing over her bottom lip, tilting her head back to look into her eyes. He moved closer, and she cursed the way her chin and lower lip trembled, ever so slightly.
The kiss was insistent. Gentle, but amorous. Not the kiss he'd given her as they stood in the hospital on New Year's Eve just a few weeks before. His tongue swept into her mouth, hard, needy, tasting of coffee and salt and man. Is that what people meant when they spoke of musk? She didn't stop to ponder the thought as her hands moved up to rest against his firm chest and then moved, unheeded, along his collarbones. He shuddered, half-kneeling above her, and the movement reassured her. So much of this was automatic, and for the first time she realized that she had just as much power in this as he did, if not more. The sense of control mixed with her arousal, an edgy, wild, dangerous chemical concoction, and for the first time in quite a while she felt like a woman who carried a gun and played with the big boys in the dark. A spy, a mystery, someone who could take all and need nothing.
The thought was exhilarating, and the tremble that had initially threatened her composure moved from her lower lip downward into her thighs. She knocked him off of her and onto his side-- this is on my terms, Mulder-- and captured his jaw in her hands, pulling his face up and onto her mouth. He groaned as her leg slid up his own, her thigh pressed against and on top of the narrow sling of his hips.
Throughout it all, she never reconsidered. Not as he wrenched her top up and over her head, rubbing and sucking her breasts as his hand moved between her thighs and then under her panties, not as he dragged her pajama bottoms down smoothly to the backs of her knees, and not as he positioned himself, mad with lust and, suddenly, she realized, like a half-remembrance-- love-- at her entrance.
She had lost too much not to take what she wanted when she wanted it. He looked to her for approval, and she leaned forward, simultaneously rolling on top of him and taking in the smooth thickness of his dick, and yes, she thought, it's a dick and it's Mulder's and I'm fucking him and it hurts but FUCK the WORLD I've wanted this for as long as I can remember, and she knew when it started deep in her lower stomach that it was going to be good, better than most, better than any. She looked at his face and he was beautiful, brow crinkling and sweat caught in his eyelashes, and he looked for a moment like a younger man with damp hair falling into his eyes. He opened his eyes and pulled her breast into his mouth, looking up into her, challenging her, and it was enough. She jerked against him four, five, six times, muscles involuntarily clenching around him, and the timing was good too. Their bodies danced the dance they were created for, pull and release, pull and release, until both slumped, spent, into the mattress.
It had been magic sex, and she didn't believe in magic. Each time had been amazing, but, well, it wasn't every day that you had sex for the first time in three years. Since Ed. The thought still made her stiffen in embarrassment, and she supposed it always would. In a way, she knew she had been going for something similar with him-- in that why-the-hell-should-I-care-when-the-world-doesn't way-- but the sex had been fumbling, unsure, and she knew afterwards that it had been about the act rather than the pleasure.
Speaking of pleasure, it looked like she wasn't going to get any tonight. 1:36. The nervous energy was seeping out of her, and she began to nurse her disappointment with fatigue. It meant nothing. Three times in one week would be pushing it. They had other priorities. He would come again. With a final glance at the clock, she turned away, pulled the comforter up to her head, and closed her eyes.
Outside, a solitary figure stood uncertainly in the lamplight, shoulders hunched against the cold and perhaps something else. He took one step off the curb and then another, hands in his pockets, before turning abruptly on his heel and continuing down the street.
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