Work Text:
Scully drives north on Route 1 at the first whiff of dawn on a Monday. This is nothing unusual, she’s been here before, strung out on no sleep, fleeing the creaking floorboards in apartment 42. But this time, this time she’s smiling. Not like those frustrating moments of rejection and fear that have sent her down this road so many times, but like Christmas morning last year, her gift snugly in her pocket, on her way to see her family. She had been thrilled to have a secret, thoughts wandering as they said grace. Mother, I went to him in the middle of the night. He smelled like cloves and ghostly gunfire and I almost, almost stayed.
This time she did stay until she had to go, restless and needing space. She left him sleeping, legs tangled in the duvet and face smooth as a satin glove against the bone and muscle underneath. He is back there now, breathing in the scent of their skin and their sex and she finds herself jealous of his sheets. She wants to rip them off him and claim him for her own again. She spreads her legs, lets the air conditioning soothe her overworked inner thighs. What she wouldn’t give for his face, those full lips and dexterous jaw, to lap at her greedily right now. She cruises across the Key Bridge from Virginia to DC like she’s just another early morning commuter. Her left hand works the sensitive flesh between her legs as she steps on the gas.
There is a message on her machine when she walks in and drops her keys on the side table in her darkened apartment. She paces the rooms before checking it, does her pre-bed beauty routine on autopilot but doesn’t shower. She wants him on her forever. They’ll sit in meetings tomorrow and he will lean over and take a discreet sniff: her sweet perfume and his exhausted jetlag mingled with the tinder of their love. They won’t be able to help themselves, and will skip down to the basement where he will slam her into the filing cabinet so hard she will be able to taste the metal.
She finds herself on the couch, running her hands up and down her terry-clad thighs, thinking that this is about the same texture as his cheek in the moonlight. The light blinks insistently on the answering machine and she gets up and snuggles the robe closer to her sore breasts. She presses play.
“Hi,” says Mulder’s rough voice, distorted by the narrow spectrum of subpar technology. His greeting drips with their sweat, her come on his fingers. She can almost smell herself on his audible breath.
“I just wanted to say hi, Scully. Give me a missed call when you get home safe, okay? I’ll see you tomorrow. I… Sleep tight.”
A spasm grips Scully, radiates through her core. Her mouth goes dry with lust and before she knows it, she is in bed, rubbing herself into the mattress, spreading their scent all over her lonely sheets. She inhales deeply and lets the darkness claim her, the ghosts of his teeth worrying her nipple. Across town, she knows, he feels her pubic bone chafing against his. They make sparks in the night, entangled by thought alone.
-----
Fire truck sirens rouse Scully from her dreamless slumber. She rolls over, groggy, and she aches all over, an unwelcome reminder of how little she works out and - of course. It’s Monday. Reluctantly, she peeks at her alarm clock. She’s slept through three alarms. It’s 8am and she is late for work.
Cursing, she untangles her body from the sheets - now pleasantly musky, she must have perspired during the night and left a bit of him and her behind - and doesn’t let herself linger. Her gritty eyes squint against the bright, cheerful sun. Leave me alone, she tries bargaining, or let me go back to sleep so I can wake up on Friday night with Mulder’s fingers inside me. But duty calls, duty calls.
She’s putting coffee in the brewing basket when she hears an insistent knock on the door - rap, rap, rap. Thick socks and her big robe shield her, and she walks over to the door and looks in the peep hole. On the other side are five neatly clipped fingernails, tightly gripping a 16oz paper cup of what appears to be coffee. The fish eye lens distorts the hallway, but she sees him behind the massive coffee cup right in her eye: Immaculately blowdried hair and a smile that lights up the deepest caverns inside her psyche.
The chain slides easily out of its cradle, and when she opens the door, expectant, he does what she knew he would: He pushes his way inside and then stops, stands awkwardly right inside the door, bashful gaze on the coffee.
“Good morning,” she says and looks straight at him. These are the rules she made for herself last night. There is no more hiding.
He clears his throat and lets his eyes cascade from her face to her toes, not bypassing an inch. “Good morning,” he says finally in a voice still rough from lack of sleep. “You tucked me in so sweetly, Scully, I felt bad for you, driving home all alone. Thought I’d return the favor. It’s better than sardine water, I promise,” he quips and looks for recognition in her face as he hands her the coffee.
She takes the cup from him and sips the hot brew as they stand there, inches apart, before she turns. He follows her inside the apartment. She feels naked under his gaze.
“I’ll shower really quick and we might still make it on time.” She’s offering to come into work with him. It’s bold, and it’s necessary.
”You have the day off, actually. I called into HR already, since you weren’t able to - if they ask, you have bronchitis.”
“But I don’t-” she starts, but the voice dies in her throat. When she turns he’s right there, suit jacket unbuttoned and smelling of soap and coffee, and he leans down slowly, the gleam in his eye becoming brighter and brighter.
“You do, though, you do.”
His arms are on her shoulders and she tilts her head up and they’re right back where they started last night, kissing lightly and slowly, his lips moving against hers as he hunches awkwardly. She puts the coffee cup down on her desk and holds his head in her hands and flicks her tongue out to soothe his lips. He is clean shaven, skin tender and so easy to pierce with her nails if she wants to. She wants to, her hunger makes her want to bite down, scratch and own.
Suddenly his mouth is at her ear, pressing a light kiss to the shell. She hears him inhale deeply and is drawn into a close, full-body embrace. He whispers:
“You smell good,” and rubs the front of his body against hers in an oddly affectionate gesture. “I had to shower, get ready for work,” he continues, “and I really didn’t want to… but I can see now that you haven’t yet.”
His lips nip at her neck and he inhales again. “I like it.” This time, their kiss is hungry and purposeful, she fills his mouth up with her tongue and lets him have more of last night. Bitter, sweet. He moans into her mouth and tears himself away.
“Thank you for sharing,” he says. “Get in the shower, Scully. And maybe… will I see you later tonight?”
“Why don’t you take the day off, too,” she breathes, licking her lips, and hides her flush behind the coffee again. He bats his lashes and grins that goofy grin she’s only seen a handful of times.
“Can’t, sorry - I have to be at the courthouse all day for the Royston trial. But later?”
“Later,” she agrees.
“Good.” He swipes his hands down the front of his jacket, over the front of his pants and pretends to be surprised at what he encounters there, throwing her a ‘who, me?’ fake apologetic look and grinning. He seems to almost skip out the door.
Scully is left in the middle of her apartment, with a half full paper cup of decent coffee and all the blood in her body pooling heavily in the swollen apex of her thighs.
She showers, reluctantly, and climbs back into bed for a nap.
-----
Scully takes full advantage of her unexpected, naughty, forbidden day off. Melissa called this mental health daze, insisting on its restorative power. She always thought her sister was just a bit of a slut, indulging in even more pleasure after a good night with whoever she was seeing at the time.
You had a point, she tells her sister now, much too late. On her third cup of coffee, she sits at the kitchen table with papers and journals spread out around her and thinks, I wish I could talk to you right now. Okay, Melissa, okay. What do you mean who is he? Missy, I’ve been so lost these past few days and you would be so proud of me right now. You would! I went somewhere, on a hunch. A temple. On G Street, how did you know? Anyway, what I felt was… it wasn’t new, exactly, just in focus. Oh, cut to the chase, huh? You and your dirty mind. Okay. Missy, I went home with him last night. That’s why I got home so late. I fell asleep on his couch and when I woke up he was gone, so I went to his bedroom, and there he was, just so… he slept under a sheet. I could see pretty much everything. He woke up. And I sat down on his bed and kissed him. Of course it wasn’t the first time. We’ve been… there’s been more, for maybe four months now. Just kissing, and we kept getting closer and closer, close enough to touch, but mostly just playful and he’s been so shy, so last night was… I am not being virginal. Okay, fine. Last night was a work night, and I was across town, fucking a man I so desperately wanted, and he took me and pounded all the breath and sense out of me and I never wanted to stop. Happy now?
Alone in her kitchen, Scully tries to focus on work. When she looks up from her laptop, it’s 3pm and her stomach is rumbling.
She stares into the middle distance out the window at the blossoming spring outside, absently chewing on carrots with ranch dressing.
It is different, Melissa, losing control like that with someone you truly, truly love. Giving and getting, like you said.
I think he’s coming by later.
-----
“This trial is a nightmare,” Mulder says over the crackling phone line when it’s nearing 6pm and Scully is wheeling her cart down the paper goods aisle at the Palisades supermarket.
“Are they letting you go?”
She hears honking and is instantly transported to the crowded intersection at the courthouse steps, network TV vans and families and protesters keeping Mulder from reaching her right this instant. He laughs. “Are you that impatient to see me? Don’t you even want to know how it’s going?”
She pinches her phone between her neck and her shoulder, checks her watch and wrinkles her nose. “Not particularly, but you can tell me over dinner.”
“I’ll bring Thai,” he says and hangs up.
How can something so familiar be so new? It’s just another meal at her place. It’s like nothing she’s ever experienced before, this anticipation. A new frontier. I’ll take door number 3, she thinks and places a bottle of wine in her cart. Only the finest means of intoxication for her and her very, very best friend in the world: wine and skin.
-----
She has never had the pleasure of undressing him before, not for the reasons she is undressing him now. Last night he had been naked under the covers, and all the other times, adrenaline and fear obscured the tactile joys of removing every stitch that covers his body.
That’s what she is thinking when he presses her up against the kitchen counter, water running in the sink behind them, and crushes his mouth to hers. This close, she can feel his heat and his chili-spiced breath from the tip of her tongue to the soles of her feet. Gingerly, she spreads her fingers, spanning the width of his shoulders, and draws the fine Italian wool of his jacket down his arms and off completely. The silk of his tie, loosened to accommodate laughter and warmth, anticipation, is next. Without breaking contact, and without removing his left hand from under her blouse, he grabs the jacket and tie from her and reaches back to hang them on the back of a dining chair.
His hips grind into hers steadily, leaning over her there at the counter, and she feels a sudden urge to see his face. She pulls away and grabs him, strokes his ears, and forces his head up to face her in the dim lamp light. Mouth swollen from kissing, hair disheveled, and craning his stubbly neck toward her, he looks desperate in a way that makes her weak with the power she has over him. When he opens his eyes, she sees that they are as wet as hers.
“You okay?” she whispers and steadies him with her hands, leaving the evidence of his arousal pulsing between them, making her want to sink to her knees and let him know the truth.
He nods.
“I want to go slow, okay?”
“Okay,” he says on an out breath.
His lashes stick together and she feels a tiny sliver of wetness on her shoulder. He rests his lips in the hollow of her collarbone, and begins to silently, purposefully, unbutton her blouse.
She drags him out of the kitchen, down the hall, past all her clutter into the bedroom, and they maroon themselves on her firm mattress, making out, intent on making this last. Twenty minutes later, she’s gasping and ripping off his undershirt, flinging it into the air. Their remaining clothes follow. They set sail.
-----
This, this she will remember for along time to come. She’ll put it in a family album, available only to two. Mulder is on his back, head propped on some pillows, legs softly drawn up in a half-crunch on top of the sheets. He is long and lean and naked and unafraid, and he glows like a potent blood moon in the dark room. Scully finds herself in the same position that took her breath away in the temple, kneeling on the mattress perpendicular to his body, running her nails over the rippling terrain of his abdomen. She is glad his eyes are closed, because if he could see what the soft noises he’s making are doing to her - if he could see what the sight of the tightness of his body, on full alert, is doing to her… She surveys her new colony, lays out a plan for further exploration.
She has dreamed about this many, many times, feverish in her bed, alone, tongue bone dry in her mouth and wishing she could fill herself with any part of him she could reach. He gasps, and his cock and his balls are a hefty, real weight in her hands. She strokes lightly, delighting in his moans. Somehow, don’t ask her how, she always knew he would be noisy. Ever the empiricist, she needs to know how he’ll react when she - she closes her fist on his twitching shaft and leans forward, closing the final gap between where he is and where she wants him, angling her head to look into his face.
His eyes fly open at the first touch of her tongue, wild; a large hand instinctively reaches up to cradle her head, not pushing or pulling, just stroking her hair as they lock eyes. Her stiff nipples tickle his obliques. She is dimly aware that it has started to rain, and it makes her feel so, so, so very right and defiant…
She ignores any and all sounds besides the loud exhalation above her, lets the rough flat of her tongue travel up and down his shaft, up and down, before closing her lips over the sensitive, blood-warmed head. His fingers flex, nails grazing her scalp. She closes her eyes and adjusts herself, puts a bit more force into her work.
Behind her, she feels his other hand palm her ass, squeezing and running fingers down the globe to grab at the humid, sticky inside of her thigh. She’s never been this wet, and after last night his nails sting her. It’s wonderful. He’s moaning louder now, breathing ‘yeah’ as she bobs carefully up and down. Suddenly, he yanks on her thigh, urging her back and up, up closer to his face and before she realizes it his hands are forcing her legs apart, drawing her right leg up off the bed, across his chest, holding her calf still against the right side of his ribs. She’s crouched above him, head to toe and oh god, she can’t lose her grip, this can only mean-
His growl drowns out her own dark moan when he draws his hands up the backs of her thighs, wets his thumbs in her overflowing arousal, and plunges his face into her cunt. Suddenly, his tongue is everywhere, his nose nudges her perineum - she tastes the tang he must be bathing in - and she’s shaking, trying desperately to catch up, putting her mouth on him again. Dear god, dear god, this is it, yes, her mind chants and she presses closer, closer, closer to his face, edging on pain. The circuit between them closes.
It is all flashbulbs after that: he lifts her off him with ease, turns her around and settles her down square on his face, urges her to ride his mouth with large hands imprinting into her hips. Grabs the backs of her hands in his palms, cups both their hands around her breasts, lifts them to his waiting tongue. Presses her into the sheets, obliterating any molecules that separate them. He sheathes himself in her body easily if not gracefully, grinding so hard she thinks he’ll pulverize her and send her downstream in the wind, and leaves them both shuddering, a mess of limbs and cotton, hair and tears.
They take turns stroking each others’ hair in the afterglow.
-----
A peck on her lips wakes her. Her head buzzes like a fluorescent light in an interrogation room. She is shellacked in sweat and saliva, stinging and sated in their saturated sheets.
“What time is it?” she asks without opening her eyes.
He shakes with silent laughter, quietly puffing air into her face.
“I’m gonna go,” he whispers.
Cottonmouth is making it hard to speak, but she manages to crack an eye open, finding him on his side above her, bathed in an aura of joy so real it can’t be overlooked. Satisfied that this is real, she closes her eyes again.
“Get some sleep,” he says, very low. “See you in the morning. I'll bring coffee.”
She chuckles, too brainless to make much sense. “Thank you.”
Again, he laughs that new, low, sexy laugh, squeezes her hip under the covers and swings his legs over the side of the bed. She feels the sheets being tucked around her frame, and as his none-too-elegant feet swish away into the bathroom, she curls up on her side, inhales their scent and thinks one last thought before sleep envelopes her: Thank you for staying, thank you for leaving, I love you, thank you for coming back, see you soon.
The flashbulb burns out and she sleeps.