By Finn
finn1013@hotmail.com
 

URL:  http://finn.htmlplanet.com
RATING:  NC-17
CLASSIFICATION:  PWP, MSR, V
SPOILERS:  None
SUMMARY:  How significant are moments in time?
THANKS:  To bugs and Shawne for the smut-beta - but all mistakes
are mine.
DISCLAIMER:  Not mine - CC's et al.

******

He remembered ... rubbing the pad of his thumb back and forth
across the soft, smooth skin on the back of her right knee.  He
crouched over her.  His skin was superheated, his senses fried.
She was naked and flushed on the pure white sheets, her hair a
tousled riot of colour.  The sight of her, like this, was
dizzyingly hypnotic.  He knew it would stay in his mind until the
end.

He remembered ... the moment he slipped his hand between her
thighs and she parted her legs for him.  There was a tiny freckle
above her knee, and he dipped his head to taste it.  As his lips
brushed across her skin, his eyes locked onto hers, and he
watched her, as she watched him.

He remembered ... slowly nuzzling his way across the soft firm
flesh of her inner thigh, up and up, to the part of her that he'd
wanted to see and touch since the beginning.  She was moist, just
as he imagined, and he spread apart the lush pink folds with his
fingers, and finally tasted her, with his tongue.

He remembered ... at that moment everything was clear; nothing
was grey.  But that was then, and this is now.  He hunched
forward in his seat, scribbling aimlessly on the rigid blue lines
of his notebook.  He was desperate, so he behaved normally.  But
... what if she didn't want the same thing?  He'd laid it on the
line a thousand times for her.

What if he had been wrong?

******

I've been sitting right beside him for almost twenty minutes now
but he hasn't noticed me.  He's glanced in my direction, but I
know my presence hasn't registered in his mind.  I can't decide
whether to be offended or amused by his introspection.  It's an
attitude I remember well.

Once, many years ago, Fox Mulder could hardly take his eyes off
me.  I haven't changed all that much; I'm still slim thanks to my
$200/hr personal trainer, and my skin is smooth and lightly
tanned.  I dress well: today I'm wearing my second favourite
Donna Karan original - a short, fitted dress with sheer black
stockings and high heels.  Fox was always attracted to smart,
leggy brunettes.

I shift in my seat, almost brushing against his upper thigh as I
cross and uncross my legs in an attempt to get more comfortable.
No response.  Since I boarded the plane and sat down beside him,
he's been alternating between scribbling furiously in a small
notebook or staring sightlessly at nothing in particular.  I
can't see what he's writing; I only get a glimpse of a word here
and there: "psychosis", "trauma", and "motive".  Official,
meaningful words, words that might provide the key to a puzzle.
No wonder he's so focused.

I fiddle with my magazine, discreetly glancing at him out of the
corner of my eye as the flight attendant comes around with coffee
and a choice of those horrible high-calorie pretzels or equally
awful peanuts.  His hair looks good:  it's sleek, like him.  The
last time I saw him it was longer and almost fluffy - but that
was the fashion of the times.  He's wearing a suit so I can't
really see the shape of his body, but it seems toned, with no
hint of a beer-belly that I see in many men his age.

He accepts two coffees from the attendant and offers one to his
companion.  She doesn't seem to notice him holding it, and his
hand hovers in the air for a moment, lost.  He glances her way
uncertainly, then carefully places the plastic cup of hot liquid
down beside his own on his tray table.

He clears his throat.  "You hungry, Scully?"  It's the first
thing he's said to her.  When I first sat down beside Fox, I
didn't realise they were companions.  He doesn't seem to be
relaxed with her.  Perhaps they don't know each other all that
well yet.

"Just eat them, Mulder."  She tosses him her packet of airline-
issued peanuts, barely looking up from the laptop she has opened
across her tray table.

Fox's companion interests me.  It's nothing to do with sexuality
- I'm completely straight.  It's just part of my usual
competitive compare-and-contrast-my-body-with-every-other-woman-
I-see-who's-aged-between-18-and-50 game.  I grudgingly give her 9
points out of 10 - she's smartly dressed, and I always notice
women who dress sharply.

She seems young - younger than me- she can't be much older than
30, I'm sure.

"Scully?"  Fox picks the packet she's given him off his tray
table and hesitates.  "Are you sure?  You didn't have any
breakfast."

Breakfast?

"Mulder, I never eat peanuts," she tells him, without looking
away from her computer.  After a moment, the packet rustles as he
lifts it to his mouth, chugging down most of its contents with a
crunch and chew.

"Coffee?"  He hands her the cup, and she murmurs her thanks and
takes a sip.  He watches her out of the corner of his eye.

"Scully?"

She sighs.  "Yes?"

He wriggles like a small child, but manages not to brush against
me despite the lack of legroom.  "Have you almost finished the
report?  I could, uh, help, if you like."

She keeps typing.  "Mulder, I'm finalising my autopsy notes."

Autopsy?  Ick.

"Oh."  He sounds unsure.  "Okay."

Her fingers stop their tapping, and she looks up at him.  Then,
quietly, and without a word, she closes her laptop and stows it
underneath the seat in front of her.  How strange.

I think about whether I should get his attention, but that's
never been my game with men.  I like them to notice me.  I'm sure
he will notice me by the end of the flight.  Men always do.

******

He remembered ... how in the dawn of morning, he cupped his hands
around her breasts and drew one of her nipples into his mouth.
He suckled the tight nub of flesh, tugging lightly, wanting to be
slow, but hungry for her again.

He remembered ... the feel of her fingers floating through his
hair, caressing the back of his neck.  She held him to her while
he nuzzled her breasts and shaped her body with his mouth and
hands.  His very soul revelled in the foreign familiarity of the
two of them, together, like this.  He savoured her little
whimpers of pleasure; her breathless, stifled gasps were slowly
driving him insane.

He remembered ... the sharp, lurching leap of excitement that
snaked through him when he detected his own scent on her skin,
and the fierce burst of possessiveness this knowledge produced.
This privilege was his now, all his, always.  He wanted to tell
her, and stake his claim, but he satisfied himself by murmuring
intelligibly through his mouthful of her breast.

He remembered ... knowing there was only one purpose, one meaning
in his life.  But now, he wondered, if she'd felt the same way.
He wondered what she was thinking right now, sitting beside him.
He wanted to be cool and suave, but he feared there were cracks
denting his armour.  Did he still shine for her?

He didn't know.  He was unsure.

******

This flight is too boring.

Fox is hunched forward in his seat - as much as he can - elbow on
the table and head cupped in his hand.  He's holding his pen
again and scratching on the paper now and then, but I'm positive
the only scribbling he's done for the past ten minutes is
meaningless doodling.

I turn, and touch his shoulder lightly.  "Would you like to sit
on the aisle and stretch your legs?" I ask.

I have his attention.  His head swivels in my direction.  "Thank
you, but that's not necess-"  The polite reply dies on his lips
and I'm pleased to see signs of recognition slowly dawning in his
eyes.  "Catherine?"  He's more sure. "Catherine Ryan?"

I hold out my hand.  "Catherine vanArcher, now.  I was married."
He glances down at my bare ring finger and I shrug.  "I'm
divorced now, but I never got around to changing my name back."
It's an open passport into the society I like to move in, that's
why.

"Well ..."  He looks a little lost for words and then seems to
remember his companion.

He leans back in his seat and touches the woman's knee lightly.
"Catherine, this is Dana Scully."  His eyes flutter over his
companion.  "Catherine was at Oxford when I was."

We shake hands over Fox's lap, and I smile at her.  "He's being
polite.  I actually dropped out at the end of my first year."

"So you did."  Fox grins and I remember how cutely geeky he could
look with that smile.

I decide to cut to the chase.  "So are you two ... married?"  I
know they're not because neither is wearing a ring, but I like
asking people that question, just to see how they react.  Smile,
blush, look horrified, acknowledge or deny it, - they're the
usual reactions.

"No."  It's a chorus, and her face is studiously blank of any
emotion to the casual observer.  I'm intrigued.  Fox's hand slips
across Dana's knee again, and he starts to rub his thumb back and
forth against the fabric of her navy pants.  It seems to be an
unconscious gesture, but then he notices the direction of my gaze
and quickly removes his hand.

This is interesting.  I decide to press a little further, have
some fun.  "Involved, perhaps?"  Fox ducks his head and smiles a
little smile, like he's not going to touch that one, then glances
across at the woman.

"We work together at the FBI.  We're partners," she tells me in a
crisply professional voice.

FBI?  That's a surprise.  I'd assumed Fox would be a university
professor by now, buried away researching in the library or
lecturing impressionable young freshmen. Or perhaps he'd be
working as a psychologist, with his own practice in a major city
somewhere.

Fox has dropped his head again, but he's stopped smiling now.
He's adopted the same, blank facial expression as his companion.
He picks up his coffee mug and begins to play with it, tracing
his index finger around the rim.

"Fox, are you sure you don't want to move into the aisle seat?"
I ask again.  He has to sit up straight to give himself any
space; his legs press against the seat in front otherwise.  And I
hope he realises I'm being generous.  I do like the extra legroom
in the aisle myself, but I know I'm going to get a run in my
stockings if someone else brushes against me when they walk past.

He shakes his head.  "No, it's okay.  Anyway, Scully'll fall
asleep in about half an hour, and I wouldn't want her to drool
all over your shoulder."

She raises one eyebrow at him, but he's not looking at her.
"That's charming.  Thank-you, Mulder."  She considers, eyeing
him.  "But if you're really so cramped ..."  Her voice trails off
and his eyes shoot in her direction.

"I'm fine where I am, Scully," he says abruptly.  He glances at
me and his tone softens.  "But thanks for offering, I appreciate
the thought."

I shrug.  Who can understand men anyway?

******

He remembered ... later, when she was relaxed and sleepy from
what he'd done to her with his lips and tongue, she pushed him
onto his back and took his cock into her warm, wet mouth.

He remembered ... how she cupped his balls with her hand as her
mouth slid up and down, and up and down, sucking with perfect,
firm pressure.

He remembered ... brushing her face with his fingers over and
over again in an attempt to ground himself, but the gentle scrape
of her teeth on his cock was short-circuiting his brain.  He
wanted to tell her again how much he loved her, and how fucking
wonderful this was, but he couldn't articulate anything vaguely
intelligible.  He grunted louder and louder, again and again, as
her mouth moved up and down his cock; a guttural mix of gibberish
erupting from the back of his throat: uuhhhhh, aahhhhhh, mmmmmm.

He remembered ... being sure they had passed the point of no
return in their relationship.  She wouldn't make love with him
without a serious emotional commitment.  But now he wasn't so
positive.  Had he confused his own feelings with hers?  He
couldn't read her layers, and the uncertainty held him prisoner.
She wasn't acknowledging him in any special way.  She didn't seem
any different.  She was behaving so ... normally.

But then he realised ... so was he.

******

I simply hate flying coach class.  I almost waited for the next
flight out to DC, but it wasn't direct and there's an important
function that I absolutely *must* be seen at tonight.  Maybe ...

Yes.

Maybe ... I could ask Fox to attend it with me.  I could.  I
haven't seen him for almost ten years, but I like to be impetuous
and anyway, I can always palm him off to someone else if it
doesn't work out - although Phoebe always used to say he was
great in bed - a little shy at first, but eager to please,
willing to learn and very enthusiastic.  Unfortunately I never
got to try him out - Phoebe wasn't exactly a friend, but someone
to be wary of crossing.

There was always something about him - something appealing, even
though he was too smart for his own good.

He's been quiet for the past ten minutes, leaning back in his
seat with his eyes shut.  He looks tired, but I'm sure he's not
asleep.  In fact, I don't think he's even dozing; he's too tense.

"Fox?"

He opens his eyes immediately and glances my way, rubbing at the
side of his neck and pulling at his collar.

"So, do you live in DC?"  He nods, and I'm encouraged.
"Whereabouts?"

"Alexandria."  He loosens his tie and unbuttons the top fastening
of his dress shirt.  I notice there's a small red mark on the
side of his neck.  He touches it with his thumb and I wonder if
it's bothering him.

"I live not far from there myself."  I wait, but he doesn't take
up the invitation.  I decide to plough ahead anyway.  "Perhaps we
could go out for a drink sometime?"

He seems surprised, but recovers quickly.  "I'm sorry.  I can't
do that."  He's polite, but firm, but I don't even hear a token
note of false regret in his tone.

"Okay."  I shrug and smile to show there's no hard feelings, but
I am taken aback.  Maybe I'd better touch up my makeup.  I stand
up and make my way down the aisle to the tiny restroom, swaying
and almost twisting an ankle as the plane hits an air pocket.

It wasn't exactly a rejection.  After all, it could be something
as simple as he doesn't drink, but didn't want to say so in front
of a work colleague.  Yes, that could be it.  He didn't drink
much at Oxford, I remember now.

I use the bathroom, and head back down the aisle to my seat.
Then I stop, because ...

******

He remembered ... everything.

He hadn't been able to take his eyes off her as he slid inside
her for the first time.  He couldn't forget the tears that made
her eyes sparkle, or the way she whispered his name when he was
finally sunk as deeply inside her as he could possibly go.

He remembered ... how his heart twisted painfully at the way she
looked beneath him.  He propped himself up on his elbows, his
arms trembling, and she looped her hands around his neck,
bringing his mouth down to hers for a long sweet kiss.  He loved
her mouth.

He remembered ... beginning his first careful thrusts inside her,
and easily finding a slow, smooth rhythm that made them both
moan.  He recalled with perfect clarity the movements of her body
beneath him, and the moment the tight little walls enclosing his
penis began to ripple and pulse as she reached her climax.  It
was sheer nirvana, and he followed her quickly, his soul
exploding along with his cock.

He remembered ... afterwards, he held her tightly, too
overwhelmed and exhausted for speech as his body finally slowed.
That was when she said the words to him, and although he'd
already known, he shook in her arms as his hot tears slickened
her skin.  It wasn't enough because he wanted it all, every day,
but he couldn't tell her that.  He knew she didn't understand,
but she murmured low, soothing sounds, and her hands cradled his
head in the warm, safe place between her breasts until the short,
muffled gasps erupting from his throat stopped, and his trembling
slowed and stilled.

He slept, waking with the dawn.

******

I can't believe this.

What did I miss?

He's ... he's kissing her.

He's pushed up the armrest separating them, and he's pressing
tiny, lingering kisses against the side of her throat, on the
curve of her cheek, across the corner of her eye.  At first I
think she's totally poker-faced, but then I see a tiny, secretive
smile playing across the corners of her mouth.  Her head is
tilted back against the headrest, and her eyes are closed.  He's
leaning right into her; he's pushed apart her jacket and the palm
of his hand is splayed across her stomach and hip.  His other arm
is bent up at right angles so his fingers can brush across her
shoulder and weave through her hair.

He's kissing her, over and over again; slow, soft, chastely
sensual kisses on her forehead, the nape of her neck, on her
eyelids.

It's sweet, and it's beautiful, and it's reverent, and it's
loving.  It makes my heart ache for something like that in my
life.  Tom never once looked at me like that, not even when we
were first married.

I know they haven't heard me come back, and I know I should make
some sort of noise to announce my presence, but I can't stop
watching him ... or them.

He's slowly working his way across her cheekbone now.  He's very
close to her mouth.  Very close.  Then she moves her head, just a
little, and his lips brush hers.  He lingers, resting his mouth
against the side of hers, breathing quietly.  He's waiting,
waiting for her to draw him in, I'm sure of it.  But she doesn't.
She opens her eyes, raises her hand, and gently pushes his face
away.

Rejected, he drops his head, and his shoulders slump.

"Mul-der ..."

"I'm sorry," he tries to say, but she stops him, shaking her head
and brushing her thumb against the pad of his bottom lip.  She
looks very serious.

"Mulder ..."  His name is a caress, whispered so softly I have to
strain to hear it.

He relaxes, leaning into her, resting his forehead against hers.
His palm begins to move in slow circles across her stomach and
her hand drops from his face to cover it.

She plays with his fingers for a moment.  Then she says softly,
almost tentatively, "I want to marry you."

His whole body jerks in shock, his head rears back, and his hand
trembles violently on her stomach, then clenches around her hip.
He goes absolutely still, staring into her eyes, his throat
working convulsively.  She doesn't seem surprised at his violent
reaction.

"Oh Scully," he says hoarsely, and then he's cramming her body
against his, jamming her head into the curve of his neck, holding
her tightly.  He breathes into her ear.  "Yes.  Oh yes."  He rubs
his face in her hair, "Yes," he repeats as the palm of his hand
slides up and down her back.  "Yes, yes, yes."  His hands blur
over her body and he cradles her against him.

She wriggles, and he allows her to pull back slightly.  But she's
after his mouth and suddenly they're kissing - deep, open-mouthed
kisses, again and again and again, until Fox makes a low,
strangled moan in the back of his throat and pulls back, sitting
rigidly straight in his seat and squeezing his eyes shut.

I decide it's time to sit down.

I glance Dana Scully's way.  Her head is lowered, but I know
she's smiling.  As I watch, he fumbles for her hand and brings
her fingers to his lips.  Eyes still closed, he presses two quick
kisses across her knuckles and drops her hand.  He sighs, and
twists in his seat, edging her body around so he can link his
arms around her waist.  He settles her back against his chest and
dips his head, rubbing his cheek against hers.  "Definitely yes,
Scully."  He nuzzles her hair.  "But I had fantasies about
popping the question, you know.  You just made them all
redundant."

"I'm sure you have other fantasies, Mulder."  I can hear the
smile in her voice.

"Yes, I do."  He's smiling too, and his arms tighten around her.

I know he's forgotten all about me, but I don't mind.  His head
is still bent over hers, and I notice again the tiny red mark on
his neck.

Hmmm.

You know something about those marks?

They look like imprints - imprints from teeth.
 
 

******
END
******

AUTHOR'S NOTES:  In the past month I've flown from Sydney - San
Francisco - New Orleans and return, so I was determined to write
a "plane-fic", an innocently rated PG one at that.  But it seems
I just cannot write smut-free PG fics, dammit!  Anyway, I've had
this lying around for a few weeks and finally decided to post now
that jetlag has passed. :)

Dec 1999