jowls | open post.

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.

She doesn't have to sound disappointed; he feels disappointed enough for them both. Embarrassed, frustrated - emotionally and sexually - and generally inclined towards moping about it. It all comes down to him, when push comes to shove, and he's clearly incapable.

After so much time, it shouldn't be this difficult. This is a fantasy come to life, having her back. And yet here he is, lying there with anger eating away at his stomach, even with Scully moving up his body. He wraps both arms around her, kissing the top of her head.

"Is it a cliche to say that's never happened before?" he asks, unable to keep some bitterness out of his voice. It's not strictly true - but it's never felt this dire. They'd been able to laugh about it, knowing they'd manage it later.

There isn't an easy way to respond to it; like he says, it's not about her-- so her reaction is going to be secondary. She can try not to make it worse, but she can't do much to truly make things better.

"In fairness, none of this has ever happened before," she points out, shifting so she can look at him, her chin on his shoulder. There's a part of her that wants to pick it apart, to talk about all of it-- not what happened or didn't, but the history behind it-- but she's not ready to get into it. Not in the middle of the night, still thrumming from the feel of his hands on her. The better thing would be to salvage the mood as best they can, and maybe convince him to sleep a little.

She's beautiful, looking up at him like that. He leans in and pecks her mouth, trying to recapture what it felt before they discovered the extent of his body's refusal to cooperate. It can't be helped, can't be overcome - but earlier, it hadn't mattered.

"Let me make it up to you," he murmurs, giving her a little squeeze.

As worried as she is about him, she still smiles easily.

"Because you want to?" she asks, tone light, a little wry. Not because he thinks he needs to for her sake. She doesn't feel cheated, so she doesn't need a consolation prize.

But that doesn't mean she's going to turn him down.

And of course-- she knows him, after all-- whatever he's offering to do isn't solely for her sake, the same way she'd greedily wanted to blow him.

She leans in again to kiss him properly, with a little more heat, inviting him to make it up however he'd like.

"I'll let you in on a little secret, Scully," he answers, after that kiss. He's nudging her onto her back, moving to cover her body with his own. "I always want to."

It's not much of a secret, not even in her own time. He knew better than to let his interest touch her directly, but he didn't make any effort to cancel his subscriptions or take his video collection home. But it's still worth saying, looking into her eyes now, closing the distance between them for another heated kiss.

He starts at her mouth, but soon, he's at her jaw, then her throat, down to her collarbone. Eventually, they'll get where they're going, but he's pausing at her sternum first, looking up at her from between her breasts. "You have the best rack I've ever seen, you know."

There's a part of her that has to admit she's nearly always known that, and that she's never been bothered by it. The tension between them started early, and though she'd thought they might never act on it, it's become... oddly comfortable. Familiar.

It's never made a difference to the way he treats her; that, she thinks, is why it's never bothered her. When he's challenged her opinions it's because he genuinely disagrees, not because he doesn't respect her; when he champions her, it's because he knows she's right, not that he's trying to curry favor. It's a dynamic she wouldn't have believed if she hadn't been living it.

So she rolls easily with him, her hands coming back to his shoulders; now that she has license to touch she's not going to quit. She lets her eyes fall shut as he kisses her, focusing all her attention on sensation until he pauses and speaks, making her grin as she looks back at him.

"That means a lot," she says, too earnestly to be serious. "You're a connoisseur."

He laughs, and for the moment, it doesn't matter that his cock won't work. He presses a little kiss to her breastbone. "An expert in the field."

And they've paused here for a reason. If they're here together, he's going to linger on her breasts for as long as he can reasonably justify. Little kisses to the soft flesh, little nips, mouthing lightly at her nipple - and then less lightly, catching it between his lips, letting his teeth graze over it. He's rolling over the other nipple with his thumb, sensitive to her reactions: the feel of her under him, the sound of her breath.

She hums agreement, and threads her fingers through his hair. It's such a simple pleasure just to touch him; there's been this odd tension since she arrived, and in retrospect there's no question that it was just distance,, that he wasn't letting her get as close as she was accustomed to, like he didn't quite know where the boundaries should be. But the boundaries, for them, have never quite worked right.

It makes it doubly clear that this is as much for his pleasure as her own; she watches him until she can't anymore, tipping her head back with a sigh. Mulder is undeniably an expert; he has the advantage of experience, but really, she thinks his enthusiasm would be enough even without that.

And it doesn't take her long to forget entirely about any awkwardness; beneath his lips and fingers she's soon flushed and wanton, shifting against him, her fingers tracing abstract paths on his scalp, her breathing a little ragged. God, she didn't know she could get this hot and bothered just from this.

(But Mulder, of course, is never just anything.)

Once she's worked up, her hands in his hair, he draws back and lets his breath blow cool over her breast. This time, he doesn't say anything - but he flashes her a knowing smile. Whatever else is true, he's still got it in this one respect.

He keeps moving down her body, dropping the occasional kiss on her soft stomach, his eyes never leaving her face. Once he's in position, he presses another kiss to her mound, tempted and tempting all at once. "You told me once that you knew I'd be good at this because I eat so many sunflower seeds."

The rush of air gets a little gasp from her; she twists a little so she can look at him again. He looks pleased with himself, which she has to admit is well-deserved. She can't help a little shiver of anticipation, realizing his intentions.

"Oral fixation," she murmurs, a tease with no sting because, well. She'd be self-conscious in this moment with anyone else, but not with him. How can she be? She shifts her knees apart to give him a little more room, eager to find out what she's been missing.

"With you? Always." He's smug, but there's something almost joyful about it; there's a real pleasure to knowing what he can do to her. For her. Scully's a puzzle he'll never tire of solving, rewarded each time by the ways she responds. For years, he'd honed his technique, finding new and ever more satisfying ways to get her off. Having the opportunity to show her everything he's got is a surprising new horizon for him.

When he lowers his head to her pussy, he starts slow, wanting to drag things out as long as he can. Little flicks of his tongue, long swipes, the teasing stroke of his fingers - tasting her, listening for the hitch of her breath and those soft sounds she makes. She's already hot and bothered, just from her tits, and in a just world, he'd be fucking her the way she deserves. Until that's where they are, though, Mulder sets about getting her to come undone - leisurely, completely - beneath his mouth.

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