Maybe she could have moved on, if she'd wanted. If she worked for it. She never thought of the people she dated as long-term prospects, and frankly if any of them had wanted that, she might have fled. The excuses would be easy to make: she worked too much, she was too old, she couldn't offer anyone a family.
More than once she'd considered making a cleaner break, not because she wanted it but because she thought he deserved it. That if she couldn't stay with him she ought to set him free; their lingering legal entanglements were a lifeline to check in on him, to meddle, an excuse to talk to him when they had so many reasons to avoid each other.
When she left, it wasn't because she wanted to. She'd never quite known if he understood that, if it would even matter to him. Now-- years later, in their bed again, in his arms-- she can only feel incredibly fortunate. Forgiven, maybe. But lucky above all else.
"Yeah, Mulder?" She mumbles back. She laces her fingers with his, yawning against his pillow.
Mulder hadn't actually thought ahead to what he'd follow up her name with; he just hadn't wanted to stop talking, despite the fact that he's crashing hard. Sleeping's great, sure, but now that he's got an arm wrapped around Scully, he doesn't actually want to miss a moment of lying here beside her.
There's a relevant but truly terrible Aerosmith song he's resolutely not thinking about.
But now she's waiting, and he should probably say something. Anything. (Well, anything besides I love you, which seems like a one-way ticket back to lazing around in bed alone. Besides, she knows.) He dips his head, kissing the edge of a shoulder blade. "'m glad you're here."
She knows. Saying it would probably be too much, too soon; she hopes he knows she loves him, too; enough that it's always scared her, enough that it's worth it in spite of that.
Humming a soft agreement she reaches up blindly, stroking the rough stubble on his cheek. It's so familiar, to have her back pressed to the warm breadth of his chest; she's always felt so safe with him, in a way nothing else quite measures up to. And she's aware, too, of how long it's been since they could be here, like this. Being here doesn't feel like slipping back into the past; they've both changed, and she'd like to think for the better.
"Me, too," she sighs.
And what she means is more complicated than that-- something like, I'm glad we're able to be here, together, that we can be good for each other, at least this much, because she isn't quite sure what any of this means long-term. But she's glad she's here with him, either way.
"Maybe," she murmurs drowsily, "less property damage next time."
"We can wreck the house -" not mine or ours, seems too decisive even when his breathing's evening out - "next time."
One more kiss, this time to the sharp angle of her jaw, just under her ear, his stubbly chin dragging against her skin. And then he's dozing off, asleep until lunchtime, snoring lightly into her hair.
If she were more awake, she might point out that the furniture downstairs wasn't exactly an unprompted redecorating spree. But she's not nearly that awake, and soon, she's not awake at all.
As long as she's known him, Mulder has tended towards insomnia; Scully, meanwhile, is a champion at finding odd moments and places to snatch some rest, a habit absolutely essential to her educational career, and extremely useful in any number of cars, planes, and terrible motels over the years. It's a little different to curl up together in the middle of the day, though, and if they weren't both dead tired from an all-night date-cum-survival adventure, this would feel wildly indulgent.
Actually--it still feels pretty luxurious, she thinks, when she eventually starts to surface. The last vestiges of her mascara have ruined Mulder's pillowcase, his breath is rustling her hair, and it's perfect. She tugs his arm a little closer around her.
Mulder sleeps, and eventually he wakes to the sensation of his arm being pulled nearer, and he's pretty sure this is the closest he'll ever get to understanding what Scully feels when she walks into a church. Opening his eyes and finding sunlit hair and soft curves under his hands is a miracle.
He's still groggy, but it's the kind of muzzy sleepiness that means they could lie here all day and it'd be the best use of their time Mulder could think of.
"Hey," he murmurs, and this kiss ends up in her hair, pressed somewhere around the base of her skull. "You awake?"
It's nice to wake up soft and fond and unhurried; she rolls a little, shoulder against his chest, so she can look at him.
"I think so," she says around a yawn. The unguarded, admiring way he looks at her when she's just woken up is one of those funny things she never expected she'd miss so much.
Reaching up to stroke his cheek she pulls him closer for a proper kiss, which is probably a terrible idea; she imagines she tastes like sleep and stale coffee. But she wants to, anyway.
She tastes like Scully, and he's never been opposed to that; the memory of bad diner coffee can't mask the reality of her, here and now. She's grown sharper over the years, the angles of her body given new definition, and he knows he's grown softer. But not less agile, for the most part, maneuvering as he kisses her until he's half atop her.
He wants to see her face, is the thing, without neck strain for either of them. And he misses the feeling of her body tangled up with his, specifically here, somewhere between Mulder's Side and Scully's Side of the bed. She's radiant in the sunlight, a golden glow in a world that's muddy brown more often than not. And for a moment, all he can do is look at her.
I missed you, he wants to say. I missed this. Instead, he dips his head to kiss her again.
Time has changed them both, but their time apart, somehow, has not changed the way they fit together. Instinctively greedy in her groggy state, Scully leans up into his kisses, shifting to make room for his knees, sliding an arm up over his shoulders. They could spend the day like this: aimlessly together in a nest of blankets until they need to eat again, and then, back to bed.
Ignore all the big questions of what this means, how long she's staying, where they stand: just enjoy each other and the time they have together.
She sighs against his mouth, her other hand stroking his jaw. How can anyone be so lucky-- not just to have this, but to have it again?
They could spend all day like this, and he has half a mind to, if the hand sliding up under her shirt - his shirt - is any evidence. Mulder wants so badly to rechristen this bed in both their names, like breaking a champagne bottle against a new ship. It's ours again, he'll think to himself, and even if Scully leaves and never comes back, he's starting to think that he'll never bring another person back to this room. When he kisses her, he remembers just how poorly the rest of the world compares when stacked up against her.
And he could keep all those thoughts to himself. They could fuck, and his house would be her house again, in more than just a well, your name's still on the deed kind of way, and when her glassy condo is fixed, she can go on her way and maybe come back to mess around occasionally. It could be something quiet and true, and as long as they kept seeing each other, Mulder has to believe he'd be happy. He's been happy, being around her again. And that's what he wants, as his body softens and 'middle age' starts to sound like a polite untruth: happiness.
But he wants the truth, too, and he's never been known for leaving well enough alone.
"Scully," he mumbles against her throat, the same moment that he palms one breast under cover of one of his better-loved t-shirts, "are you gonna stay with me?"
Freezing is probably not, objectively, the worst thing she could do, but Scully suspects it ranks pretty high on the list. It doesn't last long-- almost reflexively she reaches to grab his wrist through the fabric of her shirt-- his shirt-- to keep him from pulling his hand away from her skin.
"Do you really want to have this conversation now?"
A lifetime ago that might have been teasing and coy; now, it's a little bit resigned. She knows him too well, and if he's stuck on this topic now-- with his fingers barely an inch from her nipple, their legs threaded together, the familiar, delicious tension of her body a clear message that whatever the future holds, what she wants right now is only him-- if he's asking, there's no chance of distracting him from it. Not with feminine wiles or UFO sightings or an offer to run downstairs and grab her handcuffs.
Her other hand, she threads into his hair, gentle and familiar and sweet. It doesn't mean no, because she doesn't want to say no. But, really, she can't say yes either-- that she'll just stay here and sell her condo and never look back. It isn't that simple, even if she wishes it were that simple.
"I'm right where I want to be now," she murmurs. "Can't we start with that?"
He's about to lift his head when her hand catches his. They can't lie to each other at a moment like this, and maybe they never could - but especially now, when reading her body has turned out to be exactly like riding a bicycle. You get back on, and it turns out you never actually forgot. And that minute tension is the equivalent of a klaxon, ringing out loud and clear: Stop, Fox. Turn back.
Instead, he turns his attention to her earlobe, catching it lightly between his teeth as he considers her offer. It's all he can really hope for, when they get down to it: Scully's here now, and she might leave, but he'll probably come at least twice between those two points, and she'll fall asleep with her head on his shoulder at least once. Which will beat everything else, even feeling her come when he's inside her, because Scully failing to stay awake for the duration of a movie feels like home in a way nothing else ever has. Mulder can't ask her for more, and he especially can't try to wring a yes, I'm going to stay out while they're screwing, but he wants both to touch her and to talk about this.
"I think we are starting with that," he answers, his mouth still on her ear. His thumb moves over her nipple in a lazy circle. "I'm just interested in where you want to be next week."
She sighs; but it's at least mostly a good sigh, spurred by the relief of his hand moving, her nipple tightening readily under his touch. She turns toward him like a flower to the sun, her cheek brushing his. The fingers carding through his hair slide down the back of his neck, splaying over his shoulders as she arches against him.
"I don't know," she admits. This, maybe, has always been the easiest way to be vulnerable with Mulder; pressed close, but without having to meet his eyes.
"We weren't always good for each other," she reasons. "We were so isolated for so long-- I like my condo. I like having neighbors near enough to get mad at them. But I like this, too."
Now she turns, pressing a delicate kiss to his jaw, letting go of his wrist so she can slide that hand around him, too.
"I miss... being able to see stars from the porch." It's true, and not at all what she means. She misses curling into his side, a blanket wrapped around both of their shoulders, trading bits of astronomical trivia or reminiscing about whatever crosses their mind. She misses when it was enough, to be the two of them against the world; when that felt like floating, rather than drowning.
She smiles against his cheek.
"Not having to make up excuses to call each other."
We weren't always good for each other is going to ring in his head for a while, the truth of it simple and stunning. Time and distance makes it easy to see that she's right, his sense of defensiveness dulled when she's right here in his arms. Scully needs people to thrive in the world; he remembers how much she'd loved the hospital, even at the moments when it seemed like another dead child might kill her, too. He'd kept her apart from the world, even if he hadn't meant to, even if she'd agreed to it. And he can't do that to her again.
There are solutions, some he likes and some he doesn't. All kinds of suggestions he could make. The one he likes best is the first that comes to mind. Mulder whispers it into her skin, rolling her nipple between finger and thumb. "So come see stars from the porch - on the weekends. And I'll meet your neighbors during the week."
Until it turns out he really does hate having neighbors and turns tail out of the state of Maryland. But maybe it could work. For Scully, he could make it work. She had plenty of green space, after all - it was pretty secluded. Nice yard. That little waterway under the front walk. The more he thinks about it, the more he likes it.
Of course, it all depends on whether she minds him inviting himself into her home and her bed. But at the moment, when he's nibbling at her pulse and working a leg between hers, his thigh pressing in against her, it feels like he could ask for anything - not because of some kind of sexual bait-and-switch, but because if she's still into this, maybe she could be into it every night.
Even if she can't say yes, Mulder, I'm staying, maybe I'll go with you could be close enough.
They'd had good reason to hide out; for a while they'd been properly fugitives, and though the shine had worn off the outlaw-on-the-run game real quick, she never regretted going with him. And at first, it had been a hard re-entry for them both-- trying to put down roots when they'd avoided it for so long, careful and suspicious of everything. Even when their names had been officially cleared, it had felt strange to pick them back up; strange to give honest answers, and to try and find a polite way to dodge personal questions with answers involving conspiracy and treason.
She'd never regretted going with him, or staying with him; the truth is, too, that she didn't regret leaving. She hated the necessity of it, but that's not the same thing. Mulder has always-- since the day they met-- been overwhelming; she's been his rational guide, but she's never been able to be rational about him in his presence.
But in their times apart-- by choice or circumstance-- when she's taken the time to reflect, she's never had a moment of doubt that she wanted him. It would make her laugh, to think of him coming into her home and her bed as an intrusion; as though there's ever been a space of hers that he isn't in, implicitly.
And it's hard to ignore the appeal, when she's shifting underneath him; when she rolls her hips, desperate for friction against his thigh. Probably they shouldn't be negotiating the state of their relationship and future cohabitation while in the middle of foreplay, but try as she might, she can't be rational about that, either. Their world has always spun a little off-kilter; if time has taught her anything, it's to pick apart the difference between what she wants and what she thinks she ought to want.
(She ought to want the life she's made; neat, clean, self-sufficient. She does want it; at least, a lot of it. But she also wants to pass out on his shoulder watching movies, to steal his clothes, to watch him order fries at nameless diners so she can take them. And maybe those things aren't inherent contradictions. Maybe she could clear a few drawers and shelves, maybe he could remember to use a coaster.)
(When it comes to Mulder, she has-- after all-- always wanted to believe.)
She kisses his temple.
"We could try it out," she breathes. She's not reluctant; it isn't an attempt to dodge, or to offer something she won't deliver on. Maybe now more than ever she doesn't want to make promises she can't keep; but this much, that she can try-- that she wants to take these tentative steps, wherever they lead-- that's true.
A promise to try is enough. For now, the idea of maybe and we could and at least for a while seems like it could stretch into always - and even if it doesn't work out, it's working out now. Scully wants him around again, morning and night. Scully can handle having him around again, more like. Mulder's built himself a life that's more than self-swallowing obsessions, and they can share it.
The world is different, and they're different, and given everything they've learned in the last year, they're going to need each other. If they catch up to William, Mulder wants them to come home together after. All three of them, if they can.
Nothing else matters right now but we could try it out. Nothing else matters but the feeling of Scully's body already pulling at his, trying to get him closer as his cock jabs at her hip.
"Let's try it." He kisses the corner of her mouth to seal the deal, then sets about getting her shirt over her head. His attention drifts south, along the line of her jugular, down over her collarbone, down to her breast. They've lost the friction of legs and genitals, but she at least has gained his tongue flicking out over her nipple, a little tease with the full heat of his mouth following as it closes around her flesh.
She won't promise always or forever; but she can give now freely, and tomorrow, and the day after is honestly looking pretty good for him, too.
In a way, it could be like the old days-- when they had their own apartments and stole moments to visit, snuck between adjoining rooms on the road. (Except that today she'd dare anyone to try and enforce the Bureau's anti-fraternization policies.) Space when they need it, company when they want it. And the truth is she does want it-- more often than not-- after all this time, God, she still wants him.
Sighing approval, she strokes his hair, nails dragging over his scalp as she arches into his mouth. It doesn't feel just like the old days, actually. This feels new, and strong; it's real, and right. If they need to, they can make it apart; and that makes everything feel possible together, in a way it hasn't for so, so long.
And maybe he can't see it, the way she smiles at him with so much tenderness it feels like it could break her. But maybe he'll hear it when she murmurs his name--
Sometime years ago, they hit a point where his name didn't sound wrong in her mouth. Sometime around when he was introducing himself to people as Anthony Blake and working under-the-table jobs, coming home to the only person left to call him Fox, whispered in his ear at unexpected moments. They'd screw and compare notes on the day and he'd wonder without asking whether Mrs. Blake lying next to him minded that marriage had never been anything but a cover story for them.
From this vantage point, with her body rising to meet his mouth, Mulder'd like to believe he knows the answer.
"You like that?" he mumbles against her breast, letting his teeth graze the wet flesh lightly. She must have a portrait hidden away in storage in her condo somewhere, because she only gets more beautiful as the years go by. The angles of her face, the softer curves of her body - hell, she's still got a rack he figures most women would kill for. "Tell me what you want, Dana."
Nine times out of ten or more, she looks at him and thinks Mulder. There's an intimacy to it that's hard to explain, a language of two names and an infinite number of inflections to indicate meaning; supplemented with gestures and sighs and significant looks. It doesn't mean more or less, to be called Dana or Scully; it's in a thousand other things.
She sighs, curling her fingers into a fist in his hair, still smirking unseen.
"I want you," she says. Maybe she hasn't said it enough, over the years; not in words at least.
"You could ask for anything," he says, pressing a kiss to her ribcage. Another one further down her body, and another, between every sentence that comes out of his mouth. "A million bucks. A puppy. One of those movies where everyone dies at the end after talking about their feelings for three hours. And all you want is me? I question your creativity."
Hell, she could have her choice of sex acts, from anilingus to...well, something that starts with Z. They both can probably guess where this is actually going, to the tried and true method of Fox Mulder disappears between Dana Scully's thighs and almost forgets to come up for air. But there's something to be said for the classics, right?
Classics become classics for a reason; his instinct is perhaps the obvious one, but it's the right one.
"I could ask for anything," she agrees. And yes-- all she wants is him.
Mulder knows her better than anyone-- she's never let anyone else know her so well. That's at least half the reason he's so good at this. The rest, probably, can be chalked up to oral fixations and a tendency towards obsessive perfectionism. There's no need, really, to get specific; it's enough to say, with well-tested certainty, that no one eats pussy like Fox Mulder. (So; why should she want anything else, at least in this moment-- fond and drowsy and back in their shared bed, after a night of inexplicable dangers. It's a lot like the old days. Horny nostalgia, the secret silver lining to growing old, together or apart.)
The hand not tangled in his hair pushes at the waistband of her panties-- not that she's eager or anything. Her grip tightens a little; not quite pulling (yet), but none too gentle.
The smile he gives her is, by nature of the circumstances, a little goofy. Scully's picked the right answer, no matter how tempting a puppy might be; being wanted is as good as being touched, and right now, with her hand snarled near his scalp, he's both.
He nudges her free hand away from her panties, sliding further down the bed so his mouth can land a kiss just below her navel. "Let me."
It's an old trick, and a stupid one, and he never gets tired of it. Catching the elastic of her panties between his teeth, he starts pulling them down. At some point, his hands will take over, but for now, the effort of dragging them down over her pussy is its own reward.
It's a little silly, sure, but honest. And it settles something in her heart, the fact that they can still be a little silly. She doesn't feel guarded, she doesn't feel like she needs to treat him delicately, right now. The heat of his kiss is still burning on her skin, and she props herself up on an elbow to watch.
"Such a gentleman," she teases, but she can't even pretend she's not grinning at him. She'd joked about getting bored with dates and hookups, but it's the honest truth that she's never felt so at ease with anyone else. Some of it was good, but none of it was like this.
He beams up at her, once he's gotten down to her thighs and let his hands take over for the rest of the way. Scully, splayed out in bed with the sunlight pouring over her, is one of the greatest sights mankind has ever produced. That smile alone could start wars. She's beautiful, and right now, Mulder's just here to appreciate his good fortune. "I aim to please."
Including right now, as he settles between her thighs and turns his head to kiss one. And then he sucks at the flesh, just hard enough to leave a mark - no matter what happens next, he wants her to see her inner thigh later and remember he was there. Ancient peoples would carve stone for less than Dana Scully; a brief foray into legacy creation seems entirely reasonable.
Any lingering exhaustion from last night has dissipated in the heat of his gaze. Fox Mulder has learned, finally, to make his own luck; in this moment she could be convinced of nearly anything.
She sighs, tension melting visibly out of her shoulders, dragging her nails loosely over his scalp. The moment feels timeless-- like an endless lazy morning in the gold glow of the sun, unhurried and hazy. There are a lot like this to look back on; the good times, really, were very good.
And maybe there are more ahead. A soft sound, a hummed moan, escapes as he leaves his mark. It's an understatement to say he can get away with it. She nudges him with her other knee; half tempted to drag him back up to keep kissing him, but God, she's feeling too selfish for that.
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More than once she'd considered making a cleaner break, not because she wanted it but because she thought he deserved it. That if she couldn't stay with him she ought to set him free; their lingering legal entanglements were a lifeline to check in on him, to meddle, an excuse to talk to him when they had so many reasons to avoid each other.
When she left, it wasn't because she wanted to. She'd never quite known if he understood that, if it would even matter to him. Now-- years later, in their bed again, in his arms-- she can only feel incredibly fortunate. Forgiven, maybe. But lucky above all else.
"Yeah, Mulder?" She mumbles back. She laces her fingers with his, yawning against his pillow.
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There's a relevant but truly terrible Aerosmith song he's resolutely not thinking about.
But now she's waiting, and he should probably say something. Anything. (Well, anything besides I love you, which seems like a one-way ticket back to lazing around in bed alone. Besides, she knows.) He dips his head, kissing the edge of a shoulder blade. "'m glad you're here."
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Humming a soft agreement she reaches up blindly, stroking the rough stubble on his cheek. It's so familiar, to have her back pressed to the warm breadth of his chest; she's always felt so safe with him, in a way nothing else quite measures up to. And she's aware, too, of how long it's been since they could be here, like this. Being here doesn't feel like slipping back into the past; they've both changed, and she'd like to think for the better.
"Me, too," she sighs.
And what she means is more complicated than that-- something like, I'm glad we're able to be here, together, that we can be good for each other, at least this much, because she isn't quite sure what any of this means long-term. But she's glad she's here with him, either way.
"Maybe," she murmurs drowsily, "less property damage next time."
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One more kiss, this time to the sharp angle of her jaw, just under her ear, his stubbly chin dragging against her skin. And then he's dozing off, asleep until lunchtime, snoring lightly into her hair.
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As long as she's known him, Mulder has tended towards insomnia; Scully, meanwhile, is a champion at finding odd moments and places to snatch some rest, a habit absolutely essential to her educational career, and extremely useful in any number of cars, planes, and terrible motels over the years. It's a little different to curl up together in the middle of the day, though, and if they weren't both dead tired from an all-night date-cum-survival adventure, this would feel wildly indulgent.
Actually--it still feels pretty luxurious, she thinks, when she eventually starts to surface. The last vestiges of her mascara have ruined Mulder's pillowcase, his breath is rustling her hair, and it's perfect. She tugs his arm a little closer around her.
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He's still groggy, but it's the kind of muzzy sleepiness that means they could lie here all day and it'd be the best use of their time Mulder could think of.
"Hey," he murmurs, and this kiss ends up in her hair, pressed somewhere around the base of her skull. "You awake?"
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"I think so," she says around a yawn. The unguarded, admiring way he looks at her when she's just woken up is one of those funny things she never expected she'd miss so much.
Reaching up to stroke his cheek she pulls him closer for a proper kiss, which is probably a terrible idea; she imagines she tastes like sleep and stale coffee. But she wants to, anyway.
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He wants to see her face, is the thing, without neck strain for either of them. And he misses the feeling of her body tangled up with his, specifically here, somewhere between Mulder's Side and Scully's Side of the bed. She's radiant in the sunlight, a golden glow in a world that's muddy brown more often than not. And for a moment, all he can do is look at her.
I missed you, he wants to say. I missed this. Instead, he dips his head to kiss her again.
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Ignore all the big questions of what this means, how long she's staying, where they stand: just enjoy each other and the time they have together.
She sighs against his mouth, her other hand stroking his jaw. How can anyone be so lucky-- not just to have this, but to have it again?
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And he could keep all those thoughts to himself. They could fuck, and his house would be her house again, in more than just a well, your name's still on the deed kind of way, and when her glassy condo is fixed, she can go on her way and maybe come back to mess around occasionally. It could be something quiet and true, and as long as they kept seeing each other, Mulder has to believe he'd be happy. He's been happy, being around her again. And that's what he wants, as his body softens and 'middle age' starts to sound like a polite untruth: happiness.
But he wants the truth, too, and he's never been known for leaving well enough alone.
"Scully," he mumbles against her throat, the same moment that he palms one breast under cover of one of his better-loved t-shirts, "are you gonna stay with me?"
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"Do you really want to have this conversation now?"
A lifetime ago that might have been teasing and coy; now, it's a little bit resigned. She knows him too well, and if he's stuck on this topic now-- with his fingers barely an inch from her nipple, their legs threaded together, the familiar, delicious tension of her body a clear message that whatever the future holds, what she wants right now is only him-- if he's asking, there's no chance of distracting him from it. Not with feminine wiles or UFO sightings or an offer to run downstairs and grab her handcuffs.
Her other hand, she threads into his hair, gentle and familiar and sweet. It doesn't mean no, because she doesn't want to say no. But, really, she can't say yes either-- that she'll just stay here and sell her condo and never look back. It isn't that simple, even if she wishes it were that simple.
"I'm right where I want to be now," she murmurs. "Can't we start with that?"
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Instead, he turns his attention to her earlobe, catching it lightly between his teeth as he considers her offer. It's all he can really hope for, when they get down to it: Scully's here now, and she might leave, but he'll probably come at least twice between those two points, and she'll fall asleep with her head on his shoulder at least once. Which will beat everything else, even feeling her come when he's inside her, because Scully failing to stay awake for the duration of a movie feels like home in a way nothing else ever has. Mulder can't ask her for more, and he especially can't try to wring a yes, I'm going to stay out while they're screwing, but he wants both to touch her and to talk about this.
"I think we are starting with that," he answers, his mouth still on her ear. His thumb moves over her nipple in a lazy circle. "I'm just interested in where you want to be next week."
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"I don't know," she admits. This, maybe, has always been the easiest way to be vulnerable with Mulder; pressed close, but without having to meet his eyes.
"We weren't always good for each other," she reasons. "We were so isolated for so long-- I like my condo. I like having neighbors near enough to get mad at them. But I like this, too."
Now she turns, pressing a delicate kiss to his jaw, letting go of his wrist so she can slide that hand around him, too.
"I miss... being able to see stars from the porch." It's true, and not at all what she means. She misses curling into his side, a blanket wrapped around both of their shoulders, trading bits of astronomical trivia or reminiscing about whatever crosses their mind. She misses when it was enough, to be the two of them against the world; when that felt like floating, rather than drowning.
She smiles against his cheek.
"Not having to make up excuses to call each other."
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There are solutions, some he likes and some he doesn't. All kinds of suggestions he could make. The one he likes best is the first that comes to mind. Mulder whispers it into her skin, rolling her nipple between finger and thumb. "So come see stars from the porch - on the weekends. And I'll meet your neighbors during the week."
Until it turns out he really does hate having neighbors and turns tail out of the state of Maryland. But maybe it could work. For Scully, he could make it work. She had plenty of green space, after all - it was pretty secluded. Nice yard. That little waterway under the front walk. The more he thinks about it, the more he likes it.
Of course, it all depends on whether she minds him inviting himself into her home and her bed. But at the moment, when he's nibbling at her pulse and working a leg between hers, his thigh pressing in against her, it feels like he could ask for anything - not because of some kind of sexual bait-and-switch, but because if she's still into this, maybe she could be into it every night.
Even if she can't say yes, Mulder, I'm staying, maybe I'll go with you could be close enough.
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She'd never regretted going with him, or staying with him; the truth is, too, that she didn't regret leaving. She hated the necessity of it, but that's not the same thing. Mulder has always-- since the day they met-- been overwhelming; she's been his rational guide, but she's never been able to be rational about him in his presence.
But in their times apart-- by choice or circumstance-- when she's taken the time to reflect, she's never had a moment of doubt that she wanted him. It would make her laugh, to think of him coming into her home and her bed as an intrusion; as though there's ever been a space of hers that he isn't in, implicitly.
And it's hard to ignore the appeal, when she's shifting underneath him; when she rolls her hips, desperate for friction against his thigh. Probably they shouldn't be negotiating the state of their relationship and future cohabitation while in the middle of foreplay, but try as she might, she can't be rational about that, either. Their world has always spun a little off-kilter; if time has taught her anything, it's to pick apart the difference between what she wants and what she thinks she ought to want.
(She ought to want the life she's made; neat, clean, self-sufficient. She does want it; at least, a lot of it. But she also wants to pass out on his shoulder watching movies, to steal his clothes, to watch him order fries at nameless diners so she can take them. And maybe those things aren't inherent contradictions. Maybe she could clear a few drawers and shelves, maybe he could remember to use a coaster.)
(When it comes to Mulder, she has-- after all-- always wanted to believe.)
She kisses his temple.
"We could try it out," she breathes. She's not reluctant; it isn't an attempt to dodge, or to offer something she won't deliver on. Maybe now more than ever she doesn't want to make promises she can't keep; but this much, that she can try-- that she wants to take these tentative steps, wherever they lead-- that's true.
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The world is different, and they're different, and given everything they've learned in the last year, they're going to need each other. If they catch up to William, Mulder wants them to come home together after. All three of them, if they can.
Nothing else matters right now but we could try it out. Nothing else matters but the feeling of Scully's body already pulling at his, trying to get him closer as his cock jabs at her hip.
"Let's try it." He kisses the corner of her mouth to seal the deal, then sets about getting her shirt over her head. His attention drifts south, along the line of her jugular, down over her collarbone, down to her breast. They've lost the friction of legs and genitals, but she at least has gained his tongue flicking out over her nipple, a little tease with the full heat of his mouth following as it closes around her flesh.
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In a way, it could be like the old days-- when they had their own apartments and stole moments to visit, snuck between adjoining rooms on the road. (Except that today she'd dare anyone to try and enforce the Bureau's anti-fraternization policies.) Space when they need it, company when they want it. And the truth is she does want it-- more often than not-- after all this time, God, she still wants him.
Sighing approval, she strokes his hair, nails dragging over his scalp as she arches into his mouth. It doesn't feel just like the old days, actually. This feels new, and strong; it's real, and right. If they need to, they can make it apart; and that makes everything feel possible together, in a way it hasn't for so, so long.
And maybe he can't see it, the way she smiles at him with so much tenderness it feels like it could break her. But maybe he'll hear it when she murmurs his name--
"Oh... Fox..."
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From this vantage point, with her body rising to meet his mouth, Mulder'd like to believe he knows the answer.
"You like that?" he mumbles against her breast, letting his teeth graze the wet flesh lightly. She must have a portrait hidden away in storage in her condo somewhere, because she only gets more beautiful as the years go by. The angles of her face, the softer curves of her body - hell, she's still got a rack he figures most women would kill for. "Tell me what you want, Dana."
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She sighs, curling her fingers into a fist in his hair, still smirking unseen.
"I want you," she says. Maybe she hasn't said it enough, over the years; not in words at least.
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Hell, she could have her choice of sex acts, from anilingus to...well, something that starts with Z. They both can probably guess where this is actually going, to the tried and true method of Fox Mulder disappears between Dana Scully's thighs and almost forgets to come up for air. But there's something to be said for the classics, right?
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"I could ask for anything," she agrees. And yes-- all she wants is him.
Mulder knows her better than anyone-- she's never let anyone else know her so well. That's at least half the reason he's so good at this. The rest, probably, can be chalked up to oral fixations and a tendency towards obsessive perfectionism. There's no need, really, to get specific; it's enough to say, with well-tested certainty, that no one eats pussy like Fox Mulder. (So; why should she want anything else, at least in this moment-- fond and drowsy and back in their shared bed, after a night of inexplicable dangers. It's a lot like the old days. Horny nostalgia, the secret silver lining to growing old, together or apart.)
The hand not tangled in his hair pushes at the waistband of her panties-- not that she's eager or anything. Her grip tightens a little; not quite pulling (yet), but none too gentle.
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He nudges her free hand away from her panties, sliding further down the bed so his mouth can land a kiss just below her navel. "Let me."
It's an old trick, and a stupid one, and he never gets tired of it. Catching the elastic of her panties between his teeth, he starts pulling them down. At some point, his hands will take over, but for now, the effort of dragging them down over her pussy is its own reward.
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"Such a gentleman," she teases, but she can't even pretend she's not grinning at him. She'd joked about getting bored with dates and hookups, but it's the honest truth that she's never felt so at ease with anyone else. Some of it was good, but none of it was like this.
She lifts her hips to help him out.
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Including right now, as he settles between her thighs and turns his head to kiss one. And then he sucks at the flesh, just hard enough to leave a mark - no matter what happens next, he wants her to see her inner thigh later and remember he was there. Ancient peoples would carve stone for less than Dana Scully; a brief foray into legacy creation seems entirely reasonable.
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She sighs, tension melting visibly out of her shoulders, dragging her nails loosely over his scalp. The moment feels timeless-- like an endless lazy morning in the gold glow of the sun, unhurried and hazy. There are a lot like this to look back on; the good times, really, were very good.
And maybe there are more ahead. A soft sound, a hummed moan, escapes as he leaves his mark. It's an understatement to say he can get away with it. She nudges him with her other knee; half tempted to drag him back up to keep kissing him, but God, she's feeling too selfish for that.
"You always do."
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