By diehard
alvaradomccain@earthlink.net
 

Rating: NC-17
Classification: MSR, Post Theef/post-ep
A response to a BtS challenge and the gauntlet thrown
by one lovely sallie.

Feedback: alvaradomccain@earthlink.net

---beta by sallie, too, so it's no accident that
this is dedicated to her
 

Most people visiting Marin County California,
get their fill of Big Sur, surf, Highway 1 and
the good life--not revenge-filled fathers,
poppets and being struck blind.

Mulder and Scully weren't most people.

So far, this year'd been filled with brain salad
surgery, execution of a necrofetishistic demon,
con-men magicians, and a less than memorable
appearance on television which did nothing to
enhance the reputation of the Bureau. To say nothing
of being bitten by conjure rattlers following the orders
of Bible-toting snakehandling cultists.

'All and all, pretty typical,' Scully thought.
Seven years in, and the stuff that usually would have
her unable to sleep without the lights on even a few weeks
ago, now just left her wishing for a hot shower and
some strong Irish wiskey. She deliberately tried to overlook
being soaked to the bone and covered with mud.

Equally typical, was the sound of Kersh's voice reaming
out Mulder, as he sat on the edge of her bed wringing
wet and filthy, giving his explanation of why they'd
missed their flight out of San Francisico. She could hear
the dressing down as she searched for more than just
a single, threadbare towel in the bathroom of their equally
typical dingy digs. They were stuck in Parsons Corners,
in the Wayfarer Inn, to be exact, and this motel pretty
much resembled every one they'd  been in since
the start of their road show.

How they got there was a particularly horrible upshot
to what was a decent moment of downtime. They'd just
left a roadside diner, where after shocking her partner
by ordering the cheeseburger, he pleased and amused
her by performing the reappearing quarter trick for a little
red-haired girl, her parents and her wailing baby brother.

The family, all wearing party hats, had just finished
dishing out birthday cake, when Mulder caught
the girl's eye.

"Ready for a super-special birthday trick?" he queried.
The child wouldn't look at him until her mother leaned
down and whispered something that made her grin.
Little Ms. Birthday then scrambled out of the booth and
scampered over to him. After a majestic wave of his arm,
a coin mysteriously emerged from her left ear.

The girl giggled, Scully smiled, and Mulder smiled back,
and it was clear by the look on his face that his partner
was the only audience that mattered.

Scully asked how old she was. "Seven," the girl yelled
as she ran back to her mother's side.

"Must be a sign, partner...seven's our lucky number."
Mulder whispered as he slid closer to her and
waived the waitress over for the check.

They drove off, and both of them felt unusually
bold in the silence of the car. As the county
road unfolded before them, Mulder snuck his hand
across the seat, and wrapped it around hers as
she wondered what else luck had in store for them.
Unfortunately, they were preoccupied with the
soft, warm feel of skin touching skin or they would've
noticed the roll of black stormclouds coming toward
them in the rear view mirror.

They only got a couple of miles down the road when
they were hit with the mother of all thunderstorms,
with sheets of rain so dense that  Mulder had
to slow to a crawl along the waterlogged blacktop.
They could've made it at that speed, gotten to
the airport eventually and taken the red eye.
But a bolt of lightening, a skittering doe, and
a nosedive into a ditch had pretty much determined
where they were right now. That, combined with
an unavoidable climb out of the passenger's window,
being forced to drag themselves out of the little
culvert, and having to break open the trunk of the
rental to get their luggage.

And who would want to forget the coup de gras,
the three mile trek back to town?
 
At least they found a motel waiting for them in a
back lot across the road from the diner. The only other
good news in all of it was they were otherwise
unscathed, save for a almost non-existent cut above
Mulder's right temple.

After slowly trudging up to the front desk, they stood
silent for what seemed like an ungodly amount of time.
The person behind said desk was apparently too
absorbed in his cup of coffee and the paper.
When they didn't get any response, he started
tapping his fingers on a clock with a cracked LCD display,
matching the screen of the TV perched in the front of
what could be charitably called the lobby. The place
was run-down all right, but clean, and frankly, that
was enough, Mulder thought.

The clerk took one look at them--a small, sopping wet,
redhead, dressed in what seemed to be a black pant suit
and maybe an olive blouse, holding her muddy shoes in
one hand and her suitcase in the other. Standing next to
her was a tall, dark man who'd just kicked his luggage,
wearing a waterlogged suit whose color he couldn't even
make out.  A man who definitely looked like someone
who was not in the mood to be fucked with.

"Rooms.  Now.   And I mean right now."

Hurriedly, the motel guy got them registered into the last
available adjoining ones--which brings us to the
present moment.
 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Unbeknownst to her, Mulder's watching her
the whole time he's on the phone, aware enough
of the conversation with his boss to know Kersh
is handing him his nuts on plate. The missed flight
tonight means they won't be at the quarterly
departmental budget review tomorrow morning.
Mulder gets the gist from the other end, despite not
really listening. What's got his attention is a
bedraggled, filth-encrusted force majeur scurrying
around a tiny second rate motel room. Scully's silently
declaring victory as she spies two folded towels
on the chair next to the dresser, unaware she's
the subject of scrutiny.

He's mentally filing this image away, intently
focused on the sway of her hips as she stalks
spare linen, when she busts him. Just like in the
diner, she smiles, he smiles, and he starts
to make some room for her next to him on the bed,
but she speaks before he can cajole her over.

"Something good from Kersh?"

"Only if by 'good'  you mean another write-up for my
 personnel file."

"Mine, too, I'm guessing...."

It's the price you pay for the company you keep..."
Mulder's flip rejoinder couldn't keep her from seeing
regret wash over his features. Kersh never mentioned
it, but as soon as Scully spoke, it hit home. There's no
way she'd ever get off without a reprimand.
He glances away, but not before she catches
something sad deep in his eyes.

Leaning against the pseudo-walnut furniture, Scully
slowly smiles, feeling something vast as history
shift, crumble, and fall away. Seven years has
eroded something, what was surprising was how
easy it was to walk over to him, and kneel down
so they're face-to face.

"I wouldn't change a thing."

Without thinking it through, without hesitating,
he captures her around the waist and pulls her
on top of him, ruining the bedding,  the two of
them becoming a horizontal soggy, dirt-laden
knot of arms and legs. "Scully," he whispers,
as that old sorrow evaporates,  "I could be wrong,
but I think this is the part where I kiss you."

He doesn't give her a chance to answer.

Softly, so softly, his lips brush back and forth
across hers. Then it's so still, he waits for her
waits to see if he's read the signs, if it's really,
and finally their time. Pressing her mouth to his,
warm, willing, lips slightly parted, she answers
his silent question for both of them.

Cupping her face in his hand, he effortlessly
learns the taste of her; it's the easiest thing
in the world. Languidly tracing her mouth with his,
he's memorizing every breath, every slip of
her satiny mouth.

Scully pulls back a hairsbreadth, slipping her
fingertips between them, stroking his lower lip.

It's unbelievable, it's an out of body experience, but
somehow she's able to murmur, "Wait, stop...."

"Mulder.."

His heart's drumming against her chest, and one
of her hands is still woven through his damp,
messy hair.  Aroused, his cock's pressing
against her hip, and it's amazing to both of them
that he in fact, does stop.

"What, Scully, what?  Tell me.  Just don't tell me
this was a mistake."

"It's just...I don't want it to be like this."

Sliding his head down to curve of her neck,
stilling himself, he tries to say what he's
sure she's thinking.  "I know you deserve more
than this...a fleabag motel..."

Scully smoothes his hair, and stops him
before he can finish..."No,  Mulder, what I
was trying to say is that I'd like to not resemble
a dirt devil the first time we take each other to bed."

Talking into her shoulder, he smiles into the heat
of her skin, "Are you saying you want to have
your way with me?"

"Eventually. After stripping off these filthy clothes, after
a hot shower for both of us, after you pull back the sheets
on that nice, clean bed in your room. Yes, Mulder, sex.
Sex with you, sex with the one one person I can't
imagine myself without.  Is that clear enough?"

"Cleanliness is vastly overrated, Scully." He starts
nuzzling on a soft spot near the base of her throat,
pushing aside the sodden and dirty collar
of her blouse.

A luscious laugh bubbles up from her, "Mulder, "
she drawls, " You're not helping..."

Nipping and kissing her collarbone, "You sure,
Scully? This seems...extremely helpful..."

Several long minutes pass and he makes a
streaky, messy daisy chain up and down the vee
of her neckline. It does cause her to reevaluate
the whole hot shower idea, but drawing on inner
resource, she rallies. "Mulder,' she breathes,
turned on but determined,  "Get. Up."

It's the well-placed swat to the back
of the head that does it.

Hauling himself up and off the bed, he
pulls out his shirttail, yanks down his tie,
and starts ambling toward her bathroom.
Scully's on her feet like a shot and wedges
herself in the doorway, stopping him just
as he starts undoing his belt.

He's not really planning to take it any further,
but he's dying to see how she's going to deflect
this one. Mulder knows she needs a little time
and space, and asks himself what's a few
minutes more after years of waiting.

"I think you're headed the wrong way,"
pointing to the adjoining door with one hand
and pressing firmly in the center of his chest
with the other.

"Is this not the bathroom, and did you not say
a shower was in order? This indecison of
yours is surprising, Scully." Despite his efforts
to plaster a unknowing, innocent look on his face,
the glint in her eyes tells him she's already
seen through his ruse.

Enunciating slowly as if she was explaining
something to a five year old, she lays it out
for him. The last time she used that tone of voice,
he was tanked on narcotics after being fished
out of the Sargasso Sea.  She plans on revisiting
the his bedside confession though, once she's firmly
situated in his bed.

"Be a big boy and go to your room and
take a nice, hot, shower, OK?" It's a soothing,
sing-song delivery, dredged up solely for his benefit.
"And while you do that, I'll take a nice, hot shower,
too. Then, I'll come see you in your room."

Biting the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing,
she waits to see how he's going to try to weasel his
way past her.

"I'm right here, and the shower's right behind you.
It's not very logical to try and stop me, Scully. Who
knows what could happen if I lose momentum now?"

"I plan on doing some deeply private, personal, female
things."

"You're not making your case, you realize that."

"Need I remind you that I'm still wearing my
service weapon?"

Throwing his hand up like a suspect, he walks
backwards until he bumps against the connecting
door. "Killjoy."  Wearing a sly grin, he slowly turns
and fishes for the doorknob, and lets himself out.

Scully peels off her ruined things, tossing them into a pile,
sighing as she drags her suitcase on top of the dresser.
Catching a look at her naked self in the mirror, she
gives a Mona Lisa smile to the dirty, disheveled woman
who just finished necking with her partner. Daydreaming
about where the rest of the evening will take them is
interrupted by her phone ringing. Walking over to the
night stand, she gives him credit for his impeccable timing.

Picking up the phone, "Yes?"

His voice, rich and warm, like eighteen year old scotch,
"Hurry up."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

About forty five minutes later, she's squeaky clean,
smelling of Ivory soap and the faint tang of iron in the water.
All the little rituals have been completed--teeth brushed,
hair towel dried, and lotion applied in even, long strokes.
Today's clothes have received their proper burial in
the wastebasket,  and after slipping into a pair of soft,
cotton pajamas, she starts for the door. Before she can
make it all the way, she notices his trench coat on
the floor by the bed. Scooping it up, something falls out
of his breast pocket. As soon as it tumbles to the floor she
recognizes what it is.

The poppet. Her poppet. Not sealed in an evidence bag,
not tagged for the local PD or Quantico. It was hidden
away, the nearest thing to his heart. He took it for
safekeeping.  For keeping her safe.  Protecting her
the only way he knows how, the only way their world
will allow.

Her throat tightens with something she
can't express in words. She doesn't want to talk
anyway. She wants to show him, to give him
something else to keep.

Leaving his coat on the chair in her room,
she hides the tiny figure behind her back.
With her free hand, she raps softly and the
he yells, " C'mon in...I'm as decent as I'm gonna be."

When she opens the adjoining door, he's sprawled
on his back in bed, wearing gray sweats and T-shirt.
Glancing around as she ushers herself in, she spies
cans of soda in a flimsy plastic ice bucket chilling
on the night stand, bracketed by mini bags of chips
and candy bars. Barely audible are the muted sounds
of the TV as blue images flicker along his torso.

"Hey," he says quietly as he pats the bed,
not making eye contact, pretending to watch the
screen. "Never let it be said that I underestimate
the importance of foreplay." He's joking, trying to
cover that part of him's secretly convinced she's
come to her senses. This gives them a safe way
out, and he'll figure out a way to hide his heartache
if he's right.

Without saying a word, she pulls out the doll,
then places it carefully next to the bounty
next to the bed. Still silent, she climbs in
next to him, takes the remote from his hand and
turns off the TV.

Before he can say anything, make a joke,
she wraps herself around him, takes his face
in her small, strong hands and brings her lips to his.
It's a tender, exploratory kiss, and he lets
her tease him, lick the corner of his mouth.
He doesn't know how long it lasts, but when she's
done, she whispers, "Now it's your turn."

He doesn't hesitate, he doesn't hold back.
The tip of his tongue flicks against her lower lip,
and he hums low in his throat as she draws it
into her mouth and nips at it. Soon, his tongue's
polishing the ridges of her teeth, and hands
are stroking the nape of her neck, and she's
making a little moaning sound that must be
the most erotic thing he's ever heard. Despite
how much he loves what he's doing, he pulls away
and kisses a trail along her jawline, down the curve
of her throat. He wants to know her, every inch,
he wants to feast on her, and when she bites his
earlobe, he knows he's on the right trail.

His hands are under her pajama top, and the heat
swirls over her breasts, and his silky mouth is licking
her collarbone, and she's lost in the scent of him,
the feel. She's whispering in his ear as her hands slide
underneath his waistband, and she grips his hips,
thumbs the solid ridge of bones.

She's telling him everything, everything, and she's
so wet now, and he's got to know how she feels,
what he's doing to her, and she can't wait, she has
to touch him. Her hand slides down, finds him,
strokes the length of him, and now he's saying
all the things he thought he could never say,
slipping back and forth in the cradle of her palm.
Moisture starts beading at the tip of his cock, and
he wants to close his eyes against the sensation,
but he wants to see her more.

Soon, one of his hand's trailing down her belly, rasping
against that thatch of hair, teasing open that cleft,
spreading her apart, swirling over her clit. The feel of her,
slippery, slick with want is unreal. It can't be real, nothing
is this good, can be this good. But it is, she is, he's feeling
all it and he sees her, the way she breathes his name
over and over, the way she tenses and moves against
his fingertips.

"Mulder..." she rasps, her breath shallow and thready.

He already knows, "Too many clothes?"

She nods her head, "Hurry...."

She doesn't have to say another word.

It's a blur, it's clothes being peeled away and tossed
aside, piling alongside the two of them, dropping on
the floor.

At last.  All sweet, naked skin, a tangle of limbs,
they fall into each other, fall back into the bed.
They don't talk, their eyes say everything now,
burning hot with pleasure, saying all the things
unsaid, once and for all.

He's on top, and licking his fingers, he draws a
trail from the hollow of her throat to where
her legs are slightly parted. Ruffling the hair
at the nape of his neck, she then takes her fingertips,
stroking down, down down to the base of his spine.
Angling himself on his knees, he lowers himself
and her hand comes around to guide him inside.
He's there, sliding in, sliding down, and she closes
around him. Wrapping her legs around his hips
she feels each perfect stroke as he surges into her.

"Love, Scully," he whispers, "Love."

It's a verb and a noun, and it's what she is to him,
what they become together.

"Yes," she whispers back, "I do."

Then things speed up, the room expands, and the
cosmos blinks--they're a newly born constellation.
He comes fast, comes hard, pulsing into her
like light, like a revelation. She's right behind him,
bursting with starlight.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Hours later, in the new-born universe, the two of them
tell stories in the dark, salt the bedding with spent
secrets, and finally, dream of charms that protect
and the ties that bind.