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tlynnfic [at] gmail.com
Author: TLynn
E-Mail: tlynnfic [at] gmail.com
Feedback: Yes, please
Distribution: Anywhere, just let me know so I can visit
Rating: R
Category: MSR, angst
Spoilers: post-IWTB
Summary: 'You can't remember a time before him, before his scent in
your nose, his breath in your ear, and your heart in his hand; you
don't want to.'
Disclaimer: Not mine, never have been, never will be.
Thanks: to Carol for the beta and Circe for giving my fic a home.
Note: This is a companion piece, of sorts, to Out of Practice in
that it takes place the morning after. You don't have to have read
that in order to read this, but I hope you do all the same.
* * *
'In that book which is
My memory...
On the first page
That is the chapter when
I first met you
Appear the words...
Here begins a new life.'
-- La Vita Nuova by Dante Alighieri
* * *
You wake early, before the alarm clock goes off, and look out the
window to the pre-dawn light bathing the winter landscape in a crisp
grey hue. Lying next to you, Mulder sleeps soundly, both of your
bodies deep under the covers in a warm cocoon of cotton and down. You
turn to face him, to watch him for a moment before you have to get up
and head to the hospital.
Conflict over the past six years was minimal, the chance to live a
life together almost nearly out of danger had been enough to assuage
any anger at one another for the little irritations of living with
another human being. To look at him now, to again see the cuts and
bruises that mar his face, you don't regret your anger, yet can't
assuage your guilt at bringing that danger to him, however indirectly.
The door had been opened again and shutting it was no longer an
option; the life you simultaneously regret the loss of and never want
to return to was crashing through.
You turn away from him again and savor the quiet of the morning, the
peace, memorizing the detail and calm. Mere minutes pass before you
feel him stirring behind you, shifting until he's spooned up against
you, his hand gravitating to the swell of your hip. You feel the
charge of his want and need immediately, feel his need to reconnect to
you, to each other. His breath is warm and heavy against the nape of
your neck. His fingers are needy and insistent and his fingernails
press into your flesh; you can already feel the crescent-shaped
indents that will be left behind. You could say no if you wanted,
could retreat from his advances, but you don't, can't, wouldn't.
You shift your body back, press against him, and feel the heavy length
of his arousal settle against your bottom. The warm, familiar,
overwhelming desire you have for him quickly settles in your groin and
you are amazed the effect he has on you is still so strong. He slides
one hand around you to clasp over your left breast, kneading it
forcefully over the thin cotton of your camisole, and you feel your
heart pound against your chest. His teeth and tongue take turns biting
and licking at the flesh of your neck. You know he'll leave a mark if
you don't stop him now, so you move away just enough to turn on your
back, to wrap your arms around him and pull him on top of you. The
uncertainty that has plagued you these past days fades with the
security of his weight atop you and you welcome it, don't ever want
him to move. But move he does, deft hands pushing and pulling clothing
and blankets aside, revealing you to each other in the ever-growing
morning light.
Your breath is labored as he braces himself above you and his head
falls to your breast, his tongue gentle now where his grip had just
minutes before been rough. Your fingers slide through his hair and you
hold him against you as you arch your back, demanding without words
that he never, ever stop. You don't realize he's moved a hand until
his fingers are inside you, wrenching your head from the pillow and
forcing a gasp from your lips. He catches your surprised eyes with
his, and watches as your eyelids flutter with each flick of his wrist,
with each pass of this thumb over your most sensitive spot. He knows
your body, knows it well, learned quickly what you respond to, what
makes you quiver, what makes you scream; the years have only allowed
him to refine his skills. You feel yourself ready to fall over the
edge when he withdraws his hand and captures your open, panting mouth
in an almost violent kiss. Your hands fist in his hair, pulling it,
returning his ardor with equal force.
The sudden desperation is palpable and your pulse increases not from
the passion, but the anxiety in the air. You grab at his shoulder, his
back, handfuls of flesh, pulling him into you, within you. He whimpers
into your mouth as he enters you, and you feel his body begin to
tremble with the sheer force of his actions, his body taut not with
excitement and arousal, but with unease and distress. You will
yourself into calm, uneven though it is, and place your hands on his
cheeks. He breaks his hold on your bottom lip and lifts his head,
meeting your eyes, as his hips and his claiming of your body slow. You
see fear and trust and exhaustion and devotion and doubt and love. It
strikes you that you are here with him again, that after the security
you've shared, in each other if not in circumstance, there is still
any room for doubt. You hold his gaze and move your hips against him,
slowly, but deliberately, establishing a new pace. He takes your cue,
each thrust into you long and slow, and you can feel the tension begin
to melt from his body. You press your mouth against his again and tell
him with your tongue and your lips and your soul that he need not ever
worry; all the forces of the universe combined could never, will
never, tear you away from him. His eyes slip shut as he pulls away and
rests his forehead against yours, as you lift your legs and pull your
knees up to frame his torso. The room, the world, the only world you
care about at the moment, fills with the sound of his labored breaths
and your own groans as he loses himself deeper and deeper inside of
you.
But as the pleasure builds you can feel something inside of you begin
to break, a crack in the foundation. This life with him isn't perfect,
isn't normal, no matter how hard you've both tried to make it so, not
with the shadows of the past before you and the weight of knowledge
about the future ahead of you. And though it's the life you chose and
would choose time and time again, though you pride yourself on your
strength, on your resolve to live it to the best of your ability,
sometimes it's too hard to ignore the exhausting uncertainty. Your
defenses down, open completely to all he has to give you, you are
flooded with emotion as you reach your climax and your body throbs
with intense pleasure as memories of the past years mingle with the
past days: abductions and cancer, conspiracies and distrust, death and
resurrection; feeling your child move within you, watching your belly
grow, giving birth, giving him up; the new fight for a child's life,
for the right to keep fighting; the panic and fear when you couldn't
find him, when this wasn't supposed to happen anymore. You feel
exposed, raw, unable to push down all that you can't and don't want to
think about anymore, and you feel the promise of tears sting at your
eyes. His movements above you are sloppy and hurried as he seeks his
own release and finally he finds it, his face contorting, his lean,
sweaty body collapsing next to you.
Your tears are hot against the skin of your temples, sliding down to
mingle with the sheen of sweat that has formed along your hairline,
and you wipe them away quickly before he notices. You don't want your
sudden rise in emotion to be misunderstood, don't have the words right
now to explain it to him should he see it on your face.
So you turn into him, wrap your arms around him and hide your face in
his neck. You can't remember a time before him, before his scent in
your nose, his breath in your ear, and your heart in his hand; you
don't want to. His arm comes up and rests loosely around your waist,
fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin as his body recovers. The
shadows move slowly down the length of the wall as the sun finally
rises, bathing the room in light, but little warmth. You shiver and
pull the covers up over you both, settling even further against him.
"Hey," he says softly.
It takes a minute before you look up at him, but you do.
"Hey," you say.
He almost looks like he did when you first knew him, the renewed
energy for the work giving him a familiar spark and youthfulness that
delights you despite yourself. And morning stubble as opposed to a
full beard, a change you once again approve of with a small caress of
his cheek.
"Stay home today, Scully," he says.
"I can't," you say. "I need to check on Christian."
He nods his understanding.
"I wish I could, though," you tell him.
And you do, more than anything. You want to steal away any moments
like this that you can, make them last, just in case the opportunities
for them start to run dry. You think maybe he feels the same.
"Can you go in late?" he asks, moving his head closer.
You shake your head ‘no’.
"Come home early?" he asks into your neck, breathing warm puffs of air
onto your skin. You shiver, not from the cold this time.
"I’ll try," you promise, lifting your hand to his head as he places
the softest of kisses along the line of your collarbone.
"Deal," he says, lifting his head to flash you a smile.
You kiss him one last time before getting up and out of the bed. You
shower and dress, smell coffee and breakfast wafting from the kitchen
downstairs as you pull your hair back into a ponytail. You look at
yourself in the mirror and you wonder when this life together, no
longer new, will end and what life together awaits you.
"You're going to be late!" he shouts.
"I'll be right down!" you shout back.
You smile. Here begins another new life.
* * *
end
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