jowls | open post.

He's easily led this morning. As soon as Scully's touching him, the idea that she might stop is beyond the pale; what he wants is her, always and everywhere, the only intimacy that's made sense to him in years. He sits down on the couch, cool against his bare back, and lets her get as close as she wants. An arm wrapped around her, his skin still warm and damp and smelling of her soap, and all is right with the world.

Until she speaks again, that is, and what's wrong comes back into focus. He's too comfortable to be bothered by it right now, letting himself instead luxuriate in the weight of her body leaning against his. It's a rare comfort these days, to be this close to someone else. "I hate to say it, but we might be coming up on a dead end. I don't have much in the way of leads for us."

"I think you're right," she murmurs, stubborn enough not to want to admit it, but out of other options.

It's funny, because she doesn't want to leave him-- but at the same time, she misses... well, him, and she misses not feeling so out of place every time she looks at anything around her. And there's the elephant in the room, the intrusion in her skull, the clock ticking down towards an end that might be inevitable after all.

There are worse places to die than beside Mulder, of course. But she doesn't want to. More than ever, she doesn't want to.

She twists and leans up to kiss his cheek, because it's all she can reach without risking spilling her coffee over both of them.

That draws another smile from him - smaller, but still warm - and the desire to ask what's that for? He doesn't, of course; he already knows the answer. But he wants to hear it in her careful, precise words, looking up at him like the sun rose today just for them.

"We'll keep searching," he tells her, because it's not like there's an alternative. They'll try until there's nothing left to try for, and then they'll push themselves even further. "But today...I don't know, Scully. What do we do with today?"

The ball's in her court; it's her life they're leaning on here. He's still an interloper, swathed in a towel that could stand to be re-tucked and drinking a French roast he's never tasted before.

The dutiful answer is: they keep looking. Which at this point is no easy feat-- because he's right; they've exhausted the few leads they had, and there weren't many to begin with.

This... feels more like progress than anything else has, somehow. She's not used to being the one leading by intuition, but if there's a next step to their investigation, she's pretty sure it has to be tell me why I'm going to leave you. It's been on the tip of their tongue for days now, even before the confirmation that she was ever there to begin with-- it feels like fairy-tale logic, and as much as she resents that fact, she can't deny its pull.

She has to ask, she knows.

Leaning forward, she sets her coffee on the table and turns, twisting to face him, settling on her knees.

"Maybe we don't do anything," she says, and this time if he isn't going to kiss her, she'll make the first move.

He might be a sad bastard, but he's not stupid. She sets down her coffee cup, and he does the same - and she won't have to make the first move, because she's radiant in that moment. It's not hard to understand why Scully liked this house, seeing the living room filled with morning sunlight; it's beautiful, and she's beautiful within it, both of them spare and angular but shining with all the sunshine that can be had. No one could resist her then.

Mulder turns as well, not noticing the fact that his towel comes undone in the process, and he kisses her full on the mouth. She tastes like coffee, and without a second thought, his arms go around her. He wants only one thing right now, and it's to pull her into his lap and keep her there as long as possible.

It hardly counts as a seduction, given last night, but it gives her a fierce thrill when he finally kisses her. Her hands land on his shoulders and it's the simplest choice in the world to climb into his lap, to deepen that kiss.

After last night, she's not worried in the least that he wouldn't want her-- but she could imagine him having some crisis of confidence, deciding that it was a mistake. She's quite confident in all their decisions, but clearly Mulder's been wrestling with doubt since she got here.

In the morning light, he's as handsome as he ever has been, and God, she feels lucky to have him looking at her like that.

She's bolstered his confidence, at least for the moment. However doubtful he might be about everything else, there's no denying the fact that Scully's interested.

And that makes two of them - he's got her pulled in close, an arm weighting her down at her hips, a hand sliding over her cheek and into her hair. Whether he can do anything about it today remains to be seen, but he's certainly going to try.

If nothing else, maybe she can make him feel wanted. Because she does want him, desperately-- in any century, evidently. If the woman who moved into this house doesn't, then it's her loss.

If all they do is make out on the couch and watch a movie she'll be satisfied with that, as long as he holds her. But when she pulls back a little to look at him, her gaze is hungry, her pupils wide and dark. She raises a hand to cup his jaw and leans back in to kiss him, to nip at his lower lip.

Wanted, it turns out, is an easy sensation to summon up when Scully's sitting on his lap. She can see him in full daylight, all the marks of age clear on him, and lean in to kiss him anyway. The look on her face speaks volumes, when she meets his gaze.

(He wonders if he's getting off easy by virtue of that same age; it's not like Scully doesn't have a history of being hot for teacher. But he's able to quiet that thought without much trouble, by virtue of the fact that it's Scully. If she's the love of his life - and she is - then he might have to accept that he's hers.)

Mulder follows her lead, letting her take ownership of the kiss - partly because it's sexy, partly because it's working. He doesn't want to do anything to jinx it, but when her teeth graze his lip, his cock twitches under her.

In her opinion, he's a fool if he thinks there's a version of him she doesn't want. (Never mind the apparent evidence of this house. Scully has, frankly, lost interest in her future self's opinions on the matter.) By now he's become familiar; the changes in him aren't jarring, just hints at stories she doesn't fully know-- old and new scars, hard-earned muscles. It's a promise that for a while at least, they can grow old together.

She makes a soft, needy noise at the feel of him beneath her, shifting slightly in his lap, intentionally dragging the soft satin of her stolen pyjamas over him. Without breaking the kiss, she unhooks a few buttons on her top.

If he's a fool, he's at least a fool in a good position right now, groaning as Scully's silky pyjamas slide along his cock. She really does want this, and if they can make it work, he does, too.

Mulder trails slow, hungry kisses down her neck, unbuttoning her pyjamas one-handed with experienced ease, and lets the satin fall back from her chest. He nips another kiss at the rise of one breast, sucking hard enough to leave a mark behind. It won't last, but she'll remember it long after it's gone - he has no doubt of it, mostly because he thinks he will, too. Everything about this morning threatens to live on in his memory, a moment forever light-filled and affectionate.

The low sound sends a little shiver of pleasure down her spine-- however this ends up, it feels leaps and bounds past his frustration last night. She sighs as his lips brush her throat, head tipping to the side to give him more space; this time the rocking of her hips is all instinct. Already she can feel herself getting wet-- for Mulder she's an easy mark.

She's in the midst of dragging her palm down his chest, experimentally teasing his nipple with her thumnb, when he sucks hard on her breast; it makes her cry out, hips bucking, the nails of her other hand biting into his shoulder.

He likes that, her thumb flicking over his nipple, drawing it out small and stiff - but not nearly as much as he likes her reaction to his mouth. The arm slung around her hips presses down, bringing her down just a little harder against his cock. Every silky shift of her body seems to go straight to his groin anyway; he's doing everything in his power to ignore that fact, like his hard-on might disappear if he looks directly at it.

"You like that?" he murmurs against her breast, chasing it with a gentler kiss to her areola, undeniably pleased with himself.

"Yes," she murmurs, voice low and husky. Yes, she likes that; she likes him; she likes the idea of him leaving a mark on her. She likes the way he feels beneath beneath her, though she shares the faint superstition, after last night, that it's better not to say so.

(And, yes, she likes the faint sense of the forbidden-- though that's less to do with him being her decades-older colleague, because he's also himself. But this isn't his house, and even if it's her house it isn't hers.)

"More," she demands, unspecific but vehement, tangling her fingers in his hair and bending to kiss his temple.

"More," he agrees, and while he's trying for cocky, there's a little too much breath in there for him to carry it off. Every touch is lighting up his nerves right now. "Pull my hair again."

With that - as if she needs the inspiration - Mulder dips his head the fraction of an inch necessary to catch her nipple between his lips and sucks it into the wet heat of his mouth.

She whines, arching her back to urge him on. His mouth on her is revelatory; she can't get enough of it. Maybe everything ends terribly, but being here with him like this, she doesn't doubt the good parts are worth it.

Needing no further direction she yanks his hair again, hard. She's not shy about it. Not even a little bit nice, her nails dragging across his scalp once she lets go.

"Mulder," she pleads, not even knowing what she wants from him, but trusting that he does.

He groans again as the pain sparks through him. This is exactly what he wants right now, to feel her as intensely as possible, turning everything between them electric.

"You're overdressed," he manages to grind out, tugging at the elastic waist of her pyjama bottoms. This morning, he doesn't have it in him to take things slow; neither, he suspects, does she. They'll fuck, or try to, and after, it'll be gentle. Right now, he wants her riding him.

Of all people, Scully understands that sometimes you need a sharp edge to things. It doesn't unsettle her-- not after last night, when he was so tender, so earnest, his affection overwhelming. If he needs it to sting a little, in the light of day, to round things out, she doesn't mind obliging. Certainly it seems to be helping, judging by the way he's half- hard beneath her, thrilling and thick and so close to where she wants him.

There's no help for it-- she has to wriggle off his lap enough to straighten her legs, shoving her pants down abruptly and kicking them off across the floor. For good measure she lets the top flutter off too, and then back on his lap, straddling his thighs. In the daylight she knows she's too thin, too pale, and doesn't want to call attention to it; not when she can kiss him instead, deep and hungry.

While Scully's off his lap, he gives his cock a couple jerks, trying to get himself the rest of the way there. They're close to making this work, she wants it as badly as he does - the pressure's off, he insists to himself, it's all a matter of desire.

He doesn't get anywhere, but maybe Scully has the magic touch. Mulder's not ready to give up yet, not when she's so close to him. They're both of them imperfect - Scully made fragile by her cancer, Mulder a useless lump beneath her - but in the moment she kisses him, nothing matters except her mouth. He draws her back in toward him, an arm around her, a hand reaching between her legs, and matches that deep and hungry kiss as his fingers find her clit.

If she notices his ineffective efforts, she doesn't react. All she's interested in is getting back to where they were-- his mouth on hers, him clutching her tight, her body grinding down on him-- now, without the barrier of clothing, he can no doubt feel how wet she is.

His touch is electric. She could get off like this-- just the friction of him beneath her, his fingers on her clit-- she wants more, but it could be enough. She moans against his mouth, and reaches to pinch his nipple again.

It's Scully that makes or breaks this. Get her heated flesh sliding along his, and his cock reacts. Any real effort on his part doesn't do a damned thing.

And that's how he ends up fully hard as she tweaks his nipple, making a satisfied little noise in her mouth. As soon as he's sure he can manage it, he abandons her clit in favor of guiding his cock to her entrance. Hurry, some instinct says, or it won't be possible. Now or never.

She'll take now. Every moment they have might be all they get, after all. And God, she's ready for him. Her breath hitches as he lines them up, and her eyes fall shut as she sinks down onto him. It's at once too much and not enough; it's close to perfect.

"Mulder," she murmurs a little dreamily, pleading, her arms settled around his shoulders as she rocks her hips, desperate to take him deeper even as she's overwhelmed by his size.

"Scully," he's growling at the same time. She's ready for him, wet like she's been dreaming about this since she woke up, but she's still tight around his shaft, her body pressing in on all sides. It's as close as he'll ever get to believing in heaven, being inside her - now especially, long after he'd given up on the idea that they'd ever be together again.

She begins to move, and he follows her lead, letting her set the pace. There's the temptation to ask if it's okay, if she needs any time to adjust - but if she does, she'll take it. He's confident of that. Instead of asking, he kisses her, the long deep kiss of earlier.

She's been dreaming of this much longer than that. Not that she ever imagined it would happen like this-- but it's a relief, finally to cross this threshold. To have him inside her, filling her up, this depth of connection.

It's just on the right side of too much, the stretch unfamiliar but delicious; if this is all they get, at least it feels close to perfect. She might slow down, if it didn't feel so urgent-- but she wants the world, all at once, and as he kisses her she presses on until she's fully in his lap, as close as two people can get, her palm sliding up the back of his neck to tangle again in his hair as he kisses her.

She's perfect; she always has been. For all the misery of the last year or two, all the complicated feelings of being in this house, Scully herself elevates everything about his life.

And this is probably the best way to get into it together, letting her set the pace, being able to kiss her easily and keep an arm around her while he's teasing her clit. What they have in this moment is delicate - precious, even - and she's what makes it matter. She's what's real in the world, even knowing that she's not supposed to be; as soon as she's in the room, he's pulled gladly into her orbit, grateful just to be there.

It feels like the old days, being together. Like nothing's changed, like he's still thirty-eight and making a difference in the world. Like love is enough, even pitted against the entire world. It's good enough that he can stop thinking entirely, giving himself over to Scully's rhythm and matching it with his touch, murmuring her name against her lips before diving into another heated kiss.

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