Tiltle: Night Flight
Author: diehard
Rating: NC-17
Classification: MSR/vignette, 
Spoilers:The Truth
Keywords: Chagall, dream, flying

Feedback: alvaradomccain@earthlink.net

Dedication: To the wonderful people on the IWTB list

The pale gray light from the parking lot stipples 
the motel room floor and the rain keeps coming---
sheeting down, down, down---washing away desert 
dust, tire tracks, and the last vestiges of two people's 
former lives. It's the middle of the night, hours 
since he crawled in bed and pulled her to his side.  

They're still lying face-to-face, Mulder's 
leg draped across her hip. He's dreaming,
eyes moving back and forth beneath closed lids.
Scully's been awake for a while, watching him, 
watching over him. 

"You're mine," she whispers, and loosens the tie
of her robe, and pushes it down and away. 

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He's the only family she has now, and instead of grief 
weighing her down, she's oddly elated. She said her 
goodbye to her mother, who was sitting in the living room 
when they came back to the apartment, holding themselves 
in suspension for the verdict. Doggett had just floated 
the idea of an 'extraction,' with Skinner and Reyes nodding 
their assent. They all looked at her when she mentioned 
she and Mulder'd hidden extra weapons and fake ID's in what 
used to be her hope chest right before he left. Gibson
never said a word. 

Dry-eyed,  it was Margaret Scully  who showed amazing 
clairvoyance, telling her she knew that her daughter was leaving, 
that she loved her, to not worry about the rest of it. That she loved 
Fox, too, and that all that mattered now was taking care of 
each other. She promised to explain it all to Bill and Tara, 
to Charlie, to Matthew. It was Scully who started to cry
as her mother said her goodbyes to the assembled 
gathering and let herself quietly out the door. Skinner just 
shook his head as he followed her into the hall, dreading
his return to the base.

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Mulder can't believe how vivid this dream is, how real.
They're the man and the woman in a Chagall painting,
in a room drenched in color, and they're levitating off 
the floor, kissing, he's hovering off the ground, and 
she's right there with him. You make me fly, Scully,
you make me fly, he thinks, and the dream starts to 
slip away. But now there are small, warm hands on 
his chest, burrowed underneath his shirt. 

'You're mine,' he hears and reality pulls him toward
the image of her robe slipping down around her waist 
as she reaches for him. He thinks he must still be 
dreaming, too much has happened too soon, but her 
mouth finds his, her moist, open mouth on his 
convinces him otherwise.

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Her tongue plunders his, she's amazed at how hungry 
she is for him. She strokes the ridges of his teeth,
drinks in his breath, grabs the sides of his face just like 
he claimed her in that cell. Then she pulls away to tell
him again, to prove to it to herself.

"You're mine."

"Fraid, so..." 

He seems rueful, just a little, but a little is too much.
She will not allow it.

"No regrets, Mulder...I mean it." 

"None?"

"Only that you haven't told me yet."

"Told you what, Scully?"  He needs final permission 
to say it, to make it real.

"Tell me."

"You.   Are.   Mine."

She moans softly as she feels his hands shove the robe 
aside. Then his hands are cupping her breasts, his thumbs 
sweeping her nipples. Somehow, she manages to yank off 
his T-shirt, without him missing a beat. He keeps thumbing 
her with one hand and then the other, as the offending 
garment gets unceremoniously pulled off and tossed away. 
Undoing his fly, she helps him scramble out of his jeans,
and then they are both naked in the faint and flickering light.

"What were you dreaming about?" she asks as she takes him
in her hand, feels him rise and swell within the curl of her 
fingers.

"Flying...you and me." He smiles at her and she smiles back.

"Make me fly, Mulder."  

He rolls on top of her and she guides his cock in between 
her legs, rubs him against her aching clit. Easing him inside, 
she pulls and tightens around him, and they move with a 
purpose. Her legs wrap around the small of his back, and she 
grips his shoulders as he finds the spot, levers against her and 
strokes her beautifully hard bud.  Her thighs start trembling, 
she feels it, he can feel it. He starts slowly shuddering, 
unspooling like a hot ribbon.

"Fly," he says.

"Fly," she says.

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And the temporary sky in this motel room breaks open, 
and the two of them soar and up and away.


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