jowls | open post.

It barely gives her a chance to admire the view. She's seen Mulder half-naked-- or more-- but always studiously avoided anything but medical detachment. Now, she has free reign to look, but instead he's kissing her.

She doesn't complain.

If she can't look, though, she'll certainly touch, dragging her palms from the center of his chest to his shoulders, reveling in how broad and well- muscled he is. Even if he's not docking boats and hauling cargo, those days still show, and it sends a thrill through her.

And even soft, his cock is impressive, pressed against her thigh. She's not protesting the distraction from it... yet.

He's kissing her, and he's reaching between her legs - just teasing, letting his hand brush up against her outer lips, slipping his fingertips into the wet heat they hold, but never quite reaching her clit.

And her hands are all over him. She must realize he loves her touch - any touch, but especially hers - even if she doesn't yet know the extent of that. His chest under her palms, his shoulders, they retain the heat of her attention even after she's moved on. He nips at her lower lip, affectionate, and mumbles her name against her mouth.

It doesn't come as a surprise that Mulder's attentions are a little overwhelming. When he's interested in anything, he's always all in-- it stands to reason that sex would be the same. Not to mention he has the advantage of experience, of knowing what she likes. Though she's still half-convinced that it doesn't matter-- that what she likes is, simply, Mulder.

The teasing touch is just the right side of torment; she whines in spite of herself, fingers digging reflexively into the muscle of his arms.

His touch is too light for her to lean into it, to demand more.

"Please," she murmurs, breathy and giddy.

The perfect distraction from him has always been her, though usually it hasn't been quite so sexual a problem. Mulder gives in to her plea without hesitation, fingers sliding between her inner lips on their way up to her clit.

He kisses her chin, and then her jaw, moving back along it until his lips are at her ear. His teeth capture her earlobe as he slides two fingers inside her, and for a moment, he's groaning like he's the one being fingered. She's perfect, all of her, exactly the way she is right now - she'll be different later, healthier, but not any more or less Scully than she is right now.

"Hold on," he murmurs, breathing out warm as he begins to fuck her with his hand, overflowing with a kind of cocky confidence that comes from knowing every trick in the book when it comes to Dana Scully. "I've got you."

It gets a soft little cry out of her, too quick for her to hold back-- quiet and sharp, just for him. For the moment she's forgotten about everything except the feeling of his hand on her, in her; he doesn't need direction or requests or anything except the freedom to touch her, which she'd gladly give a thousand times.

That kind of ego would be a red flag from anyone else-- but Mulder speaks it as fact. And as his hand moves--deft fingers making her feel pleasantly full, finding a rhythm that's just right before she even knows what she wants-- she moans again, eyes screwed shut as she turns her head blindly towards him, her spine slightly arched and her hand twisted in the sheets as she gasps his name.

With anyone else, he wouldn't be this sure of himself - hell, with the Scully he's used to, he wouldn't be. But there was a time when she could stand to look at him, and he knew exactly what to do to get her going. His confidence might be shaken in other places, but in this one specific area, he's still got it.

His mouth lingers at her neck, leaving a little mark over her pulse, as his fingers thrust and drag, seeing how long he can stretch the experience out - but considering just how worked up she is, he doubts it'll last much past this. Which is fine with him, really: She might have brought him in here in an attempt to get him to sleep, but he's perfectly willing to stay up until she's ready to go again after.

If she were more collected, she might make more of an effort to stay quiet; but she can't even think about that. Everything is reaction and instinct right now; she finds herself clutching his arm, not to urge him on but just because she needs to touch him, and she can't find the coordination to be more intentional about it.

It doesn't take long at all-- each thrust of his hand earning a breathy little oh. And when she comes with a loud cry-- too loud, maybe, when he's so close, but she doesn't have the presence of mine to quiet herself-- her nails dig into his forearm, her thighs clenched around him.

"Oh my God," she gasps, when the tension leaves her, letting go of his arm. She doesn't even have the energy yet to try to kiss him.

She's magnificent. Beautiful, demonstrative, demanding - her breath light, her eyes huge in the darkness. And he still remembers exactly what she loves, it turns out. No matter how long it's been, he can still drive her to a climax; she clings to him, calling out like she's surprised it could be this good, and he can't help but feel proud.

He's enjoying it, too. Every time he shifts, his cock brushing against her skin, it's a little spark of pleasure - muted, but not entirely absent. It hasn't done much for actually getting it up, but if this is who they spend the night, it'll be fine with him.

After, she's clearly overwhelmed. He kisses her forehead, letting her catch her breath, and gathers her in against himself.

Of course it's supreme foolishness to think of her future self and wonder, how could you leave that behind? No doubt it was complicated. No doubt she had-- will have-- her reasons. And she's not really so shallow that getting off is the name of the game-- but there's something in the way he touches her, the way he holds her even now, that touches the parts of her heart she tries not to acknowledge.

The thing is, she shouldn't love him. And in the past, with other men, she's seen that almost as a challenge-- part of why she'd avoided admitting it for so long was the knowledge that she's been down that road before. But it isn't the same. Mulder loves her, and she can-- God, that sounds sappy-- she can feel it every single time he touches her.

She's oversensitized and overheated and can't even think about pulling away from him; they lay together for what feels like a long while, quiet and-- at least on her part-- content. Though there's a bittersweet edge, the thought that she could have had some comfort like this for weeks, months, if she could be a little braver.

But she ought to focus, she thinks, on whatever the future might be. And so at length she reaches for his cheek again to pull him down to kiss her, hopeful that this time might be more mutual.

They could spend the rest of the night right here, Scully curled up against him, his face buried in her hair, and he'd be happy. This could be the rest of their lives. Nothing matters except her presence beside him, her breath growing steady; she's everything, all the more so because of the cancer. Her very existence is urgent and impossible to tear himself away from.

He doesn't speak because he doesn't need to, and neither does she. Everything that needs to be communicated exists in their touch. But eventually, she pulls him into another kiss, and it might ass well be a sentence. He answers slowly, in no rush to do anything but experience her.

It feels as natural as being with Mulder usually does-- better, because there's an honesty between them they can't usually afford. She thinks about it sometimes-- how much she has to hold back, to keep it professional. To protect him. And she's always thought it was nice, that he wasn't guarded.

But he kisses her deeply, slow and earnest and she thinks: she was wrong. She'd guessed at the depths of him, but Fox Mulder's affections cannot be fathomed.

She settles her hands on him lightly, letting Mulder lead the pace; she's eager, but more curious than anything, wanting to give him as much pleasure as he's offered her, but unsure of what he needs.

The problem with Mulder is, he doesn't make a move this time. She kissed him, and he kisses back, but he doesn't so much as try to cop a feel.

In the moment, it's enough that he's able to be here with her, maybe. Maybe. He wants more - of course he wants more - but nothing's happening to him below the waist tonight, and he's stymied by the desire to give her more than he has on offer.

It could be enough, really. She didn't know what to expect-- it's mildly surprising she got him into bed at all. And it's not like she really needs to come again; she's still pleasantly exhausted, warm but not heated, and there's something to be said for the glow of deep affection even in the absence of sex.

The thing is.

The thing is it's Mulder, and even though she can't fully turn off the clinical part of herself-- it's not uncommon, any number of totally insignificant reasons, he could be on something that suppresses libido-- it feels... significant. Troubling. There's a wild part of her that wonders if this has been a mistake all around, if it's evidence that he'd really rather not-- but the way he's kissing her, still kissing her, she can't bring herself to doubt him.

And probably there's nothing to be done about it, and even acknowledging it will ruin what has otherwise been-- well, one of the most emotionally draining days of her life, actually, come to think of it-- but she somehow can't stop herself.

"Can I touch you?" she asks, breathy and quiet and as neutral as possible, like she won't be bothered if he'd rather not-- and impossibly, somehow, she won't. But she has to try, or at least try to try. Maybe some more direct encouragement would help.

"If you want to," and he means yes, of course, please, but there's too much doubt in him these days.

It's not hard to believe that she wants to be here. When Scully doesn't want something, you'll be hard-pressed to get it from her, and she opened up to his touch like she'd been waiting for it for years. More difficult is the idea that she wants to be here with him. Not the Mulder she knew in the 90s, whose face she's presumably been superimposing over his own. With him.

But she asks, and it's not like his answer was ever going to be no. He lies there as he couldn't allow himself to before, letting her observe and touch as she wants. He's older, softer, built like a man who gets his muscle through hard work rather than forty-minute workouts, and he can't get it up. But if that's what she wants, she's welcome to it.

Certainly it's a strange situation; it's not something she'd imagined, in her embarrassingly frequent fantasies of what if, what if. And it's hard to explain-- that as he is distinct from himself, so he is also the same; unquestionably the man she loves already.

If it had come to this that first day-- it would have been different; if she'd arrived here from a time earlier, before she really knew him, it would have been different. But here they are.

She shifts to prop herself on an elbow, better able to move, and kisses him again; light and maybe reassuring as she places her hand on his chest, tracing his collarbone, aimless and intimate and with any luck, relaxing.

"You've got the advantage here," she teases, voice wry and soft. "You'll have to tell me what you like."

"You," he answers, his smile crooked. It doesn't matter if it's sappy; it's true. He lifts a hand, pushing her hair gently back from her face. "It's not often you come up with something I'm not into."

(Falling into the present tense is so easy, despite the fact that it ought to be past. She's here with him, and even if it's the first time for her, it feels like a continuation of everything that's come before.)

And he is relaxing into her touch, grateful to give up some measure of control. Sometimes, all he wants is for someone else to take over for a while, and now's no different. Who knows? Maybe she has the magic touch tonight.

That is terribly sappy, but it makes her heart feel close to bursting anyway; she beams down at him, her palm over his heartbeat, her body pressed against him. Maybe this won't go anywhere and maybe it will, but what matters is-- she loves him; and he ought to know that.

And so she takes the opportunity as offered, letting her hands roam; she traces his broad shoulders, the dusting of hair on his chest, the lines of taut muscle backing up his stories. She tangles her fingers in his hair and kisses his neck.

No urgency. Just fond, slow attention.

And he luxuriates in it, painfully aware of just how long it's been since anyone's touched him like this. Or at all, really - before he'd found her, it must have been months. Some clerk's hand brushing his when he got change back, that's all there's been.

She handles him like she wants to know every inch of his body, and he leans into it, shifting to make it easier for her fingertips to find whatever they want. Every angle of his frame, every flex of his muscles, all for the sake of understanding it. She's gentle, and she's persistent, her mouth hot on his throat.

"Scully," he murmurs, one of his own hands sliding lightly along her spine, down to the curve of her ass. It occurs to him belatedly that his cock is responding, however sluggishly. "Dana -"

This could be all they have-- all she gets, all the future she ever gets to know. They could be wrong about everything; she could disappear tomorrow, or die here. But she has him, right now, and for once the stupid live like you're dying advice feels meaningful.

She's kissing his sternum by the time he rouses to speak her name, and the hand on her back makes her shiver pleasantly, pulling herself up so she can look him in the eye.

"Fox," she answers softly, sweetly. She'd thought it might feel strange, but everything about this moment feels perfect. Natural. Inevitable.

Hearing that, his name in her voice, the weight of it imbued with a kind of love she already feels...it's like being home again.

"I've missed you," he murmurs, before he can stop himself. It's the wrong thing to say, he's sure of it as soon as it leaves his lips, but he can't pull it back. His smile manages to be affectionate and melancholy in equal measure. "You make it sound good."

Fox. . He gives her ass a little squeeze, just because he can.

It's only the wrong thing in that it breaks her heart a little; he never seems to lose that edge of sorrow, and she knows that ultimately it's there because of her. The same way he is and isn't himself, her future actions are a part of her, unknown but implicit. And there are moments when it makes her feel guilty; other moments where she feels angry.

But in the moment, all she wants is to ease it. His hand on her, that teasing squeeze, feels like a good sign. (And feels good, too, but at this point she's more interested in him than herself.)

She kisses his jaw, and then his throat, and then a haphazard trail down his body, slow and leisurely but her intent pretty obvious.

Maybe he's just a sad old man these days - maybe there's no helping it, and this is where he was always destined to end up. Not in bed with a time-traveling ex-girlfriend who apparently wants to suck him off - that seems unpredictable by any measure - but looking at his life with more regret than contentment.

It's really having to fight for dominance at the moment, at least. There's anticipation in there, too, and an affection so overwhelming that when they finally wear themselves out, he's going to hold onto her all night. If he can't sleep, he'll still stay there in bed, breathing in her scent and letting her slight frame rest against him.

He watches as she moves down his body, moving a hand over her hair with the hint of a smile playing at his lips. Beneath her, his cock's half-hard, and at the moment, he's got the faint hope that he'll manage to get harder.

Maybe it's a risky proposal. Chances are she won't live up to his memories of her; Mulder is in so many ways more than she's accustomed to.

She looks up to meet his eyes, intent and fond, as her hand finally wraps around the base of his cock. She strokes him lazily, casually; making him feel pressured won't help, she knows, though God she wants this to work. Wants everything, in case it's all she ever gets.

Finally she bends to run her tongue teasingly along his shaft before taking the head into her mouth with a soft, pleased sound.

He sighs as her hand finds him, his gaze locked on her as she touches him. Every stroke sends a shiver up his spine; when her tongue touches his skin, he groans her name aloud. Scully, that is - if he says Dana, it's something deliberate, a comment in and of itself. When he's working off instinct, she'll never be anything but Scully to him.

And she's incredible, exactly the way he knew she would be. One hand closes in her hair, not yet pulling, and he watches her, telling himself to enjoy this. All the pressure in the world, to show her a good time, make this worth her while, connect like he's wanted to since she left - it doesn't matter, he tells himself. Scully's what matters. The heat of her mouth, the comfortable pressure of her hand enclosing his shaft, that's everything.

It doesn't work, but it's what he tells himself. Even with her best efforts, he remains stubbornly half-hard, and he can feel it. It's like discovering a door in one's house for the first time, and being unable to open it. Eventually, exhaling a frustrated breath, he mutters, "It's not you."

"I know," she murmurs, idly dragging her thumb along his thigh. She doesn't sound disappointed; this whole gambit was one of those it's the journey, not the destination things. Has to be, because otherwise it's self-defeating.

And it doesn't matter, really; not for her sake. For his sake, she's still a little worried, because it's not her. (Because, in a way, maybe it is about her. Someone she has yet to become.)

She eases herself back towards him, stretching out alongside him, resting her head against his shoulder and absently tracing his collarbone with her fingertips.

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