jowls | open post.

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.

For all the time she's spent idly fantasizing about what it would be like to be with Mulder-- she had it all wrong. Or not all wrong, but not complete. It's like nothing else, because she loves him. Because he loves her, in a way she has never been entirely sure she believes in.

And so, as good as the physical is-- and, fuck, he knows just how to touch her, his fingers deft against her as she shifts and grinds in his lap-- it's the emotional connection that's really got her lost in the moment. It's not easy for her to say-- even seventeen years later, apparently-- that she loves him. But if she can show him, maybe that's enough.

In a perfect world, she'd be able to draw this out, but it isn't long at all before she's clenching around him, face pressed into his shoulder as she shudders, crying out hoarsely.

He's not far behind her. Once she's coming, her pussy viselike around his cock, he gets both hands under her ass and takes things all the faster, holding her as he fucks up into her a few quick, hard strokes. It's an incredible feeling, Scully clinging to him with everything she has, and the intensity can't be borne long. One final jerk of his hips and he's shooting up into her with a moan.

It occurs to him in the first moments after, as he slumps back into the couch, his arms limply cradling her against him, that he should have thought about protection. As far as they know, she's infertile right now, but it won't stay that way - and who knows how things can change when time travel is thrown into the mix? But he wouldn't trade the last few minutes for anything, nor would he settle for re-experiencing them with the equivalent of a raincoat in the shower. Nothing's actually going to come of this, except some comfort for each of them. Already his heart's aching at the thought of sending her home.

"You," he murmurs, when he trusts his voice to speak, "are radiant."

It makes her cry out again-- louder, wavering, completely ignoring the fact that her face is right next to his ear. She doesn't care; she's seeing stars, his thick cock dragging against over-sensitive flesh, and she thinks it's possible nothing will ever be this good again. And if that's true, she doesn't even care. He comes inside her and all she can think is how fiercely glad she is-- that she can have this, that she can give this moment to him.

Exhausted, she burrows her face into his neck, sweat-sheened and floating. She could stay here forever, wrapped around him. For all the things that are subtly wrong with this time she's found herself in, Mulder is a lodestone of what's right; in this moment, in an utterly irrational way, everything feels like it makes sense.

She rouses enough when he speaks to pull back to look at him, shooting him a wry smile.

"Not so bad yourself," she says, almost drowsy-- understatement of the century.

His smile is broad and beatific as she looks at him; he feels lazy, relaxed in a way he hasn't been since she left. Sure, he's jerked off since then, but nothing in the world is comparable to being with Scully. She's beautiful and incisive, even when she's got that post-coital tipsiness to her, sleepy and flippant all at once.

"Mm," he agrees, leaning up to lay a gentle kiss on her mouth. Sure, he's okay - things certainly went better this morning - but compared to those brilliant noises she'd made as he'd finished off inside her, the entire world pales. "We're okay, Scully."

She can't help but smile back at him; a little dazed, the kind of smile too dopey for anyone but him to see. It's different, when they're both bathed in the afterglow, when he's still in her, looking at her like she hung the stars in the sky.

(And she's too pleased to think of it now, but eventually the question will rise like bile: how could she leave this behind? What could possibly have changed? And, unfairly-- what the fuck is wrong with her elder self?)

She sinks back against his shoulder with a little sigh, impossibly relaxed, tracing his collarbone with her thumb. They could both use this-- a little real rest, some pleasure in amongst all the tension and confusion. He needed this, she thinks. Not the sex, she thinks-- not to get off-- but to put all that longing somewhere concrete.

But she's not ready to solve the mystery of her future, not yet.

"That was perfect," she murmurs. It's funny, but somehow she's missed him-- even though he's been right here, even though she's never been with him like this before. The distance between them feels lessened.

"Let's just. Take today like this." Together, with nowhere to go and no agenda, nothing between them.

They're a couple of dweebs sitting there on a borrowed couch, and Mulder couldn't care less. He wraps his arms around her as she settles in against his chest, his cock slipping wetly out and lying soft against his leg. All he's ever wanted is this closeness, and the inherent trust that comes with it. Scully's a singular comfort in a discomfiting world; her presence is the one thing that always makes sense, even when nothing about her presence actually makes sense.

"Sure," he agrees, brushing a gentle kiss over her hairline. "Just you and me. I'm at your service."

A quiet day, the two of them living like they're supposed to be here together. She might get a taste of the reality of what their life together was like - the better parts of it, at least. If they can't find anything else to go on, at least they can enjoy their time together.

(And maybe it'll give them time to figure things out. Maybe it's like watching Plan 9 - he lets his mind wander along some kind of fantasia over Scully's existence, and free association leads to a way to save her.)

The truth is she's had fantasies like this, too. Not about sex, but about closeness-- just getting to put aside all concerns about professionalism and boundaries and resting her head on his shoulder. Letting herself take comfort in his presence without wondering if it's too much. An simple, domestic kind of desire that sometimes feels ridiculous when applied to Spooky Mulder, but here he is. They can curl up on this couch, her against his chest, and the rest of the world can't say a thing about it.

(The sexual fantasies might be less embarrassing, honestly.)

And for a while she does, blissfully, nothing; idly letting her fingers wander over his shoulder, her mind drifting, drowsily enjoying the solid warmth of his body. It's the kind of thing that can't last but she does her best to hang on as long as she can, until the inner voice that wonders what next? and what she'll say to Mulder if she ever makes it home-- and what he might be doing in her absence-- gets too loud to shush.

"What do you think about a shower," she asks eventually. "And maybe more coffee, and after... we could watch a movie?"

What do normal people do, when they're not trying to fix a timeline? It's her best guess.

"Hm," he says, rousing himself from the comfortable stupor he's settled into. Scully on his lap and sunlight on his face, the scent of sex hanging in the air around them - instead of plans, he thinks he could exist in this moment with her forever. (He'd get bored, of course. But right now, he can't fathom that.) "Want to go out or stay in?"

For the movie part, that is. His inclination is staying right here with her, not least because she's much less likely to be interested in getting handsy at a theater. But he's also aware on some level that being confined to the house - any house - is a recipe for losing her. She might not know it, but the truth isn't buried all that deep.

Fortunately, there's no signs of losing her yet, not when casual affection's written all through her touch. Maybe he can keep it up until they get her home. (Maybe, if she stays, it'll just be...different. Somehow, it'll be what it was supposed to be, when she doesn't have to go through all the heartache awaiting her.)

"Stay," she says. Having to go out in public, surrounded by the noise and uncanniness of this decade, doesn't sound relaxing at all. He can pick some other stupid action movie, if they can get Scully's television working.

"We don't have to go anywhere." Part of her thinks they should go back to his place, but this feels somehow like neutral ground, even if it's the furthest thing there is from neutral. And that shower should be nice for two to share.

She presses a light kiss to his jaw, lazy and fond.

About the only thing he'd like to get from his place is a change of clothes - but that's more for Scully's sake than his own. He's not unfamiliar with the fine art of wandering around in days-old outfits.

"Then we'll stay," he tells her, chasing her kiss with one of his own, to the tip of her nose. "I like having you all to myself."

It makes her grin-- broad and guileless, the kind of smile she wouldn't let anyone else see. Could it have been like this-- could it be like this? Easy and sweet and... she hasn't got words for it, really. It feels natural, in a way she's not accustomed to relationships being.

(And she'll leave this behind, someday.)

In spite of the pang that thought gives her, it leaves her a little giddy. She kisses him again before slipping off his lap, offering him a hand up. Sure, he just showered-- but she doesn't want to let him out of her sight.

She's beautiful, and he's disinclined to leave her side, either. Given the chance, all he really wants is to be here in her presence - and whether that's on the couch (which he'll have to wipe up later, but that's definitely a later problem) or showering off with her.

And sure, he just took one, but the idea of steamy water and Dana Scully's slippery body is hard to resist. So he gets up, taking her hand, and lets her lead him as far as she wants to.

In the bathroom, he reaches into the shower to turn on the water, finding it's still hot, and waves her in. It's a decadent space for sure, the kind of thing Scully chose because she's Scully, and comfortable bathing is high on her list of priorities. And despite the fact that he doesn't belong here, and he knows it, he can't help but love just how much this one room feels like her.

The air is still warm from his shower, the mirror still half-gogged. She flashes him another bright smile as she steps in, eyes shut, sighing pleasantly. She understands very little of her future self, but this one room shows that her tastes haven't changed entirely.

She ducks her head under the spray for a moment, and when she surfaces, wiping the water from her eyes, she reaches out toward him.

"Come here," she demands. Now that she's got permission to touch him, she's impatient every time they part.

He knows where this is going, and where he'll end up, but letting the moments stretch out has a strange sweetness to it. Letting her lead and watching from a step away, letting her wet her hair and savor the water for a moment by herself - it's one more moment when he can see her looking relaxed and content. And so he hangs back, admiring the view and letting Scully decidee just when she wants company.

Of course, as soon as she commands him, he's stepping into the shower, wrapping his arms around her newly slippery body and pulling her into an embrace, his lips landing for a moment on the crown of her head.

Of late, Scully has really tried to embrace the notion that even if you're facing a foregone conclusion, the journey can be worth it.

Her arms slip around him in turn, palms sliding up his back so she can splay her fingers over his shoulderblades; she smiles at the feeling of that light kiss, and then she tips her head up to ask wordlessly for the next one, her eyes dark with want, cheeks flushed with more than just the heat of the water. As best she can she's got her whole body pressed against him.

She doesn't have to do more than tilt her head before he's craning his neck down toward her. Given the chance, he'd be tempted to never let her go - though at the moment, it doesn't seem like she'd fight the possibility.

Mulder kisses her long and slow, meeting that longing of hers with some heat of his own. Whether anything happens in here or not, he'll be happy with the results; just holding her, a hand skimming lazily up and down her hip, has been the stuff of fantasy for a while now.

If all they did was stand here in the steam, it would be enough. This is why her attraction to Mulder has always felt so dangerous-- it isn't as simple as passing lust, or the makeshift intimacy of proximity. Rooted in friendship, their relationship-- even without any formality, without having touched or kissed-- was crucial and enduring.

Fucking him changed nothing, and everything; the truth is they'd passed the point of no return long ago. And at the moment, at least-- humming pleasantly against his mouth, tongue sliding across his lower lip-- she has no regrets.

(That said-- since the indirect approach has been more successful-- if his body decides to cooperate, she's absolutely going to make good use of all this space.)

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