jowls | open post.

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.)

So far, so good. For the moment, he's genuinely not thinking about what his cock is or isn't doing; kissing Scully is its own reason for being, a goal in and of itself. He opens his mouth to her, his own tongue slipping into hers, and runs a hand along her wet back.

Ribs too prominent, spine too defined - and yet all he could possibly want. It comes into his mind again, what if it was like this for the rest of our lives?, but he pushes the thought away. For once, it's possible to live not in thoughts of the past or fears of the future, but in this steam-drenched moment. He nudges her back against the tile wall, reaching down between her legs.

If this was the rest of her life-- she could do worse. She might do worse, if she returns home and things have changed too much, if they can't find whatever solution he found back then.

She's stopped thinking about it. Mostly. At the moment she's really stopped thinking entirely, and she sighs as he walks her back against the wall, her hands sliding down his body so one rests on his hip; she lifts the other to cling to his shoulder.

"God, yes," she murmurs against his mouth, too aware of the throb of her own racing pulse. She wants him so much, she can't imagine ever having her fill of him.

He breathes out, a laugh that could as easily be mistaken for a sigh, if someone else was listening. "My name's Mulder, actually."

It's the worst joke, and he doesn't care. He'd forgotten, somehow, just how generous she could be with her praise; maybe he'd retained it as a fact in his mind, Scully loves it when you touch her, but he didn't retain what it felt like. She's holding him, already reduced to invocations, and he's hardly done anything. The pad of his thumb moves lightly over her clit, his mouth at her jaw in hopes that she might speak again. Slowly, but deliberately, he begins to stroke her.

It's a stupid joke, but the confidence thrills her. She wants him cocky and joyful and affectionate; she wants to believe that maybe she hasn't really ruined everything for him.

And at the moment she's easy to please; he could reduce her to trembling just talking, she wants him so terribly.

"Shut up," she mumbles, laughing around it; her gaze is a little unfocused, her face flushed. It doesn't take him long to win a little whimper from her.

"You love it," he says, stealing a kiss as her laughter disappears into a needy little sound. The hot water would have brought that little tinge of colour to her face regardless, but there's no denying that his touch is doing the heavy lifting this morning. She's gorgeous about it - hair wet, eyes huge - and her body's more than ready for him.

Mulder slips two fingers past her slick entrance, bracing his other arm against the cool tile above her head. And just being able to talk to her, to tease her - even if the necessary equipment isn't rising to the occasion right now, he's having an incredible time.

Oh, but she does love it. Today, she loves him; seventeen years ago, she loves him. He leans on the wall, and she leans on him, and it feels perfect. It feels right.

She groans softly as his fingers slide into her, her fingers clenching on his shoulder. The whole world narrows in scope; she can forget where and when they are, as long as they're together. She reaches up to stroke his jaw, trying to pull him down for another kiss, a silent yes. She loves it. She loves him.

Scully loves him; Scully wants him. It should be as obvious as breathing, a shadow following him any time he ventures into the light. And for once, it is.

He gives her what she wants, all of it: an easy rhythm, a scorching kiss, the water spraying over them the whole time. (Does this happen often in here? It's hard not to wonder what else this house has seen, in the time Scully's lived here.) It's not what it could be, fucking her the way they both want him to, but it feels like enough, from this vantage point. He's happy with the drag of his fingertips against her inner walls, the gentle pull he gives her lower lip.

It's perfect, she thinks. Then again, anything he gave her would be everything she wants, in this moment-- she wants him more than anything else, any way she can have him. In a quieter moment she'll worry again, but not right now. (In a quieter moment, she knows, she's going to have to ask.)

He gets a kick out of her little noises, she can tell, so she doesn't hold back; she lets herself whine as she chases his kiss, her hands restless, sliding over his wet shoulders, raking nails lightly through his chest hair. Her back arches, shoulders pressed against the tiles, her breathing a little ragged.

His jaw bumps lightly against hers as he moves in to nibble at her earlobe. The warm spray of the water continues on as he fucks her with his fingers, palm pressing up against her clit.

"Scully," he mumbles against the shell of her ear. The scent of her in the heated air is intoxicating. "You're so beautiful, Scully -"

Everything is warm; even the hard tile at her back has lost all its chill, and the heat of his hand between her legs is the only thing that really matters.

"Oh--" it's warbling and broken, the pressure of his palm just right, his voice murmuring against her raising goosebumps down her neck. This is as close to perfect, she thinks, as anything could be-- it's better than perfect, just off-kilter enough to be real rather than fantasy.

She wants it to last forever-- but all things must end.

"Mulder," she pleads, clutching at his shoulders and urging him on until her whole body tenses-- until she slumps into his arms, face pressed against his chest, the water still beating down upon them both.

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