Category: MSR/Angst Rating: NC-17 Spoilers: Up to sixth season United States Archive: Nowhere, thank you. Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. CC does. Feedback: We Love It! Send to: allie_reardon@juno.com and/or cicilean2@aol.com ======= THE DELUGE by CiCi Lean and Allison Reardon, 1999 cicilean2@aol.com allie_reardon@juno.com ======== The flood was already beginning to recede. Retreating brown swirls of water were rolling back to their source, moving as quickly as they'd come on. The tempest had fed on everything in its path, eating dry land, cars and homes, consuming them in a single bubbling flow of liquid and mud. It had destroyed an entire town in less than an hour and swamped two nearby ones underneath a gray sea so thick, that a less knowing observer would have thought that no land had ever existed there let alone an entire population, one that could claim its roots back over a hundred years. But it was over now and the bare earth was making its stand once again. Dana Scully listened to the radio reports without interest. The flood had been her savior the night before and she wasn't glad to see its retreat. It was then, at midnight when the waters had been at their highest that she and Mulder spent their first night together, wrapped up with and within each other, feeding from each other's warmth. It had happened with the lightning speed of the flood itself. --------------------------------------------------- The night before she'd been driving back from the local morgue after a late night autopsy of a murdered girl, sixteen years of age. Head bashed in so badly the facial and dentals were a no go. Hands and feet rotted past the printing point. The victim was short, Caucasian...pregnant. Six months along and showing heavily. She'd heaved a deep sigh of relief when she didn't find any mutilation of the fetus or womb. There were just some crimes that she didn't want to deal with at certain times, like an office worker who dreads auditing day. She took her time with the extraction, said a quick prayer and carefully examined the evidence. It was perfect. Five tiny fingers, five little toes. Full face and nose, eyes closed tightly. Arms and legs curled inward, protecting itself against an outside world it would never live to see. It was a ... depressing sight. Time to call it a night she thought quickly and Scully closed up without a backwards glance. Began the drive back to the motel just as the rain was coming down its hardest. She was bone weary and it showed. It was at times like this that she wondered about her chosen profession, wondered if the sights and the smells and the nightmares were worth it. Felt an uncomfortable knotting at the base of her neck and tried to stretch it out as she drove, while keeping her eyes peeled on a road that was disappearing underneath small lakes of water and the wash of rain against the windshield. Life was just as slippery this road, she thought sleepily. She felt warm, drowsy... uncomfortable. Hot even. Wondered vaguely if she were coming down with something and was just about to pull over for a short break... When the flood came roaring down. It had sounded like a train, at first. A distant rumble passing by, certainly nothing to be alarmed at. But it had grown louder, more distinct and much less benign as the seconds ticked by. Its full force hit her without warning. She stared in confusion at her steering wheel when the car began to turn of its own accord, slowly, as if performing a stately dance. She spun in a circle, then another and then, was traveling in a straight line again, only this time, sideways. Fast. Her feet were covered with water. The brakes pumped uselessly beneath them. Outside her door window she saw the flood rising, a river of water where there had been none just minutes earlier. The confusion gave way to terror. She was going to drown, she was sure of it. She was caught, trapped and going to die. She'd never remembered feeling more helpless as the car spun and bobbed past the remnants of battered trees and broken homes. There was no rhyme, no reason to the movements -- it was chaos of the worst order. She was caught within a deadly motion, utterly indifferent to the life it held in its grip. Scully could barely breathe. The water inside the car had risen past her ankles. It was thick and bone-chillingly cold. Scully fought the urge to struggle her way out by any means necessary and the battle took every ounce of will she possessed. She wanted control, she had no control and those were the parameters she had to work within. Or die. Those were two shitty choices. Trembling, Scully forced herself to remain calm. She'd ride out what she could of the flood and if it became apparent that she had to bail out or suffer the consequences, she would deal with that then. She would allow herself to spin down the makeshift river for as long as necessary, even though the mere thought of doing so went against every fiber of her being. The water rose to the middle of her shins. The car began to tilt and sway, thudding against unseen obstacles. Her hold on her herself was growing as unstable as the vehicle itself, which began to spin at a faster pace down the quickening waters. She grew dizzy as it spun and crashed, held onto the dashboard with both hands and began to pray. First silently, then aloud, the fear in her voice ringing through the car. The water crawled up to her knees. She finally drew her legs up onto the seat, reluctantly giving away her last bit of ground. Noticed lights in the distance, but they were blurry, washed out. Rolled down her window as far as she dared to get a closer look. Saw police lights, emergency workers in boats straight up ahead. Along with a helicopter buzzing above. Scully thought she'd never seen such a beautiful sight. She rolled down the window further and shouted out into the rain, into the darkness. Prayed they could hear her over the roar of the flood. The lights zeroed in all around her and she blinked in the sudden flare. She suddenly felt safe ... secure, just that close to being grounded once more, but a sudden lurch of the car corrected that misconception. A huge wave of muddy water crashed through the window, soaking her head to foot, making her sputter and choke. Her eyes stung, her hair clung to her face and she flailed momentarily, trying to regain her sight ... her balance. She was truly lost now, there was no hope of saving herself. For the first time, Dana Scully had to rely completely on the skills of others, on their compassion and speed. She had to trust in something other than herself and a God whom she'd always honored but never abandoned herself to. She had to let go. Part of her dreaded rescue almost as much as disaster, but she had no choice. The boats were bumping up against the car, keeping her in place as best they could while the chopper hovered overhead. Scully heard shouts and curses, words of comfort and encouragement, felt strong hands compelling her to climb through the window, as blind as she was and she followed them. There were slippery, terrifying moments, one were she nearly tumbled headfirst into the raging flood, but the arms held her fast. Held her above the waters and kept her from drowning. Kept her from death. When she felt the solid floor of the boat beneath her feet, she felt no elation. Just a numbness crawl its way slowly up her spine and knot at the base of her neck. She was freezing in the night air, trembling as the boat sped toward shore. When they'd landed she felt more warm hands helping her, warm voices telling her to watch her step, that she'd be all right and felt a blanket being placed around her shaking shoulders. Heard one familiar voice ring out clear over the din. "How are the roads to the hospitals?" "Not good, Mr. Mulder. Everything south of here is washed out. If you can go north to higher ground, you'd be better off. Besides, I think she's okay. Just wet and shaken up. Are you okay, hon?" Scully blinked and nodded vaguely. Felt a familiar arm tighten around her shoulders and she melted into its warmth, fighting back the sobs that were threatening at the back of her throat. She tried to, but couldn't speak. But Mulder spoke for her. "Then I'm taking her back with me. You don't have another blanket to spare do you? I'd appreciate it. Thanks." She heard a soft voice in her ear. "It's going to be all right, Scully. Just let go. It's going to be all right. You don't have to think about it anything here, I'm taking care of it." She blinked once more, blinded, but this time with tears. "Mulder, I..." "No," came the firm reply. "I have it. You're going to follow me, just this once. All right?" For a moment she wanted to refuse. To fight for control. But then, she remembered the river and she relented. In truth, she had no choice. Her reply was a whisper. "All right." "Good," he said, and she felt herself being led to a car, buckled securely inside and the solid feel of the road, the comfort of dry land, was once again rolling beneath her. ----------------------------------------------------- Mulder tried hard to be very gentle with Scully, reckoning she was in shock. She moved like a sleepwalker, her hair a nest of twigs, mud and leaves, left over from the flood, her clothes torn and filthy wet. Stark eyes, eyes of a survivor, and it broke his heart. "Come on, Scully," he told her quietly, unlocking his door, "Let's get you into the bathtub." Scully leaned into him for a moment, just a heartbeat, and he tightened his arm around her shoulders. Led her into the bathroom. He'd been terrified for her. He hadn't had a lot of time to be terrified, thank God, she'd been a little late. And then the news bulletin on the television, he'd put facts together and gotten the hell out there. She looked so small out there in the water, he'd watched, fingernails digging into his palms, hadn't drawn a full breath until they had her on land again. She'd let him hold her, thank God, he'd needed to hold her there, to reassure himself that she was okay, in one piece. Shaking like a leaf, but in one piece. Looking down now, he saw her lost look. Sighed inwardly and leaned over to turn on the hot water tap, checked the water temp and flipped the plug. "Can you handle it, Scully?" Scully shivered, watching the water. Probably not, Mulder thought and helped her get the jacket off. The sodden blouse and trousers. Her shoes had been lost in the torrent, and she was wearing those knee highs that women wore under pants suits, she let him peel those off, holding on to him. Still mute. He balked at the underwear, it wasn't any more fabric than a swimsuit, but his hands shook at the thought of removing it, he thought it better just to pretend he hadn't noticed it. "Ready?," he asked softly, and tested the water, hot, but not too hot. She took his hand, shivered as she stepped into it, but this was still water, not raging, this was clean water, not choked with debris and mud and tree branches. The shivering eased as the hot water nibbled at the chill of the flood and she offered him the ghost of a smile, her gaze still far too distant. It worried Mulder. He found the small bottle of hotel shampoo, carefully lathered her hair, delicately seeking any sign of trauma or a knot, but to no avail. She closed her eyes, tilted her head back for him, let him rinse, sitting still except for the rise and fall of her breasts. There was sensual pleasure in tending her this way, it was healing, for both of them. Not sexual, but sensual, an innocent sensuality that calmed him, that eased the residual fear for her. He lathered the cloth and washed her body as he would have washed a child's, talking to her of inconsequential things. Forgetting, for the moment, that she was his partner, that she was Dana Scully, who was always in control, or almost always. Who almost never broke down. She was his friend, who had been through a bad time, she was shocked and exhausted, and he worked as quickly as he could. She felt fragile when he helped her stand, wrapped a towel around her. "How you doing, Scully?" Softly and she leaned against his chest, her face pressed against the damp t-shirt he still wore. He hugged her. "Come on." Scully nodded, let herself be led. Less shocked than exhausted, he guessed and found one of his t-shirts, put it in her hands. Her face tilted up, she studied him, her face utterly clean of makeup, fair skin with just a few freckles across the bridge of her nose that seemed somehow endearing tonight. "Mulder?" "Yes?" She rose on her tiptoes and kissed his mouth, letting the towel fall. Mulder's arms went around her automatically, he felt warm skin under his hands, the satiny texture of the back of her bra. She kissed him hungrily, her tongue sliding between his lips, he nearly fell backward, caught his balance and fell instead off the precipice of good intentions, kissed her back, just as hungrily, pulling her up, harder against him. She tasted of coffee and flood waters, the faintest trace of grit at one corner of her mouth, and he couldn't get enough, drank her down, a man dying of thirst in the desert, and her arms went around his neck and held. Somewhere, the cold, dispassionate voice of reason was whispering, telling him that this was a mistake. For once, he ignored it, tumbled them both onto his bed, arms still around her. Scully pushed him over, straddled him, suddenly wide awake and aware and yanked the hem of his t-shirt up. He managed to lean up enough to free the back, balanced on one elbow while she tugged it up, switched to free his other arm and let her tug it off. He was breathless from that when she assaulted the buttons on his jeans. A momentary pang, "Scully, are you all right?" Scully got the buttons open, leaned up and kissed him hard. "Shut up, Mulder." He shut up. Hissed at the feeling of cool fingers inside the waistband of his shorts. Lifted his hips to let her tug those off, too, but toed his shoes off himself, before she reached his feet. He was hard already, felt that pang again, a faint sense of the ludicrous. Your partner nearly drowns and then has at you, Agent Mulder, and you didn't suspect she might not be in her right mind? That voice of reason again, and he was tilting toward listening to it, no matter what his body thought, but Scully popped the clasp on her bra. Mulder's mouth went dry and his brain went south. Way south. The panties followed the bra and there she was, straddling him again, his throbbing cock pressed into the warmth of her. Leaning over him, her breasts--God, her breasts, and he stopped thinking, leaned up to take a coral-rose nipple in his mouth, stroked it with his tongue until it came to life. His hand came up unbidden to cup the other breast, silky skin and hot nub of erect nipple and he groaned into her flesh, arched up underneath her. Scully's head tilted back, she ground her pelvis against him until he could feel her wetness. Little panting breaths that moved her breasts tantalizingly. He let his head fall back and pressed up, letting the wetness spread. "I couldn't *do* anything," she told him, breathless. "Nothing, Mulder. I had to trust them." He nodded, but the one working part of his brain was trying to remember if he had a condom in his suitcase. And if this would all come to a screeching halt if he tried to get up and get it. "You had to trust them," he gasped, struggling to focus. "I *had* to," she said again. It meant something. He was damned if he knew what. He put his hands on her waist, let his fingers splay. "Oh, Jesus, Scully, that feels good." "Like I trust you," she told him, still grinding against him. Trust. Him. It seemed churlish to ask just when she had trusted him, and in any case, his ability to form coherent sentences was slowly being obliterated. Condom, he told himself again, more urgently this time. Scully leaned down and nipped at his lower lip, sucked at it gently and then they were kissing again, hard and hot, and Christ, he was going to come like a kid, before he ever got inside her, and right now he just couldn't be bothered to worry about it, never mind it was his sexual reputation that would be destroyed. Releasing his mouth, Scully leaned back, Puffy lipped, her eyes half-closed, she was quintessentially female, glorious and terrifying and oh, Christ, "Scully?" "I trust you," she repeated, bent to nip at one of his nipples, an act that sent a jolt of electricity straight to his groin. "I trust you, Mulder, do you have anything?" He hoped to Christ he did. "I think so," he groaned, "God, Scully, let me check." "I'll check." Reckless voice, Scully tossed her head and moved away from him. The chill that replaced her satiny warmth made him groan again, she rummaged ruthlessly in his dopp kit and found one, held it up triumphantly. "So, if I trust you, why shouldn't I let things get out of control, Mulder?" Rip, and she had the latex in her hand, teased him with her fingers before unrolling it over him. And he'd forgotten the question already. "Don't you agree, Mulder?" He certainly did. Right now, she could have asserted that extraterrestrial lifeforms were impossible and he'd have agreed with her. Especially as she guided him, sank down on him, all heat and the clasp of flesh and he nearly shouted in pleasure and delight. Thrust up into her, and that was the end of anything that resembled intelligent thought. She was making heated little sounds in her throat, and he brought his fingers to their joined flesh, stroked her until she tossed her head again, wanton and glorious and oh, Christ, who knew that she could kiss like that or feel like that, or move like that--his other hand splayed across the base of her spine, guiding her movements, feeling muscle shift as she moved on him, with him, around him. Until he was biting his lip, and she was moaning steadily, rising and falling, damp hair whipping as she tossed her head, closer and closer to the edge. Until she cried out, no control, no containment, no carefully marshaled defenses. Only Dana Scully and heat and pleasure and delight and he heard himself cry out seconds later. Not in triumph. In gratitude. In joy. Scully sank back down on his chest, her head tucked under his chin, her still damp hair smelling of the generic motel shampoo. He took in a ragged breath, felt her body going utterly boneless against his and reached, tugged, pulled the bedspread over both of them. His heart was still thumping hard. "...trust you," Scully murmured against his skin. He tightened an arm over her. "I trust you, too." A whisper. Felt her lips curve. "And I'm alive." So faint, he had to strain to hear it. "Yes, you're alive." Fiercely, even if he whispered. And felt her breathing change. -------------------------------------------------------------- The flood was already beginning to recede. Retreating brown swirls of water were rolling back to their source, moving as quickly as they'd come on. The tempest had fed on everything in its path, eating dry land, cars and homes, consuming them in a single bubbling flow of liquid and mud. It had destroyed an entire town in less than an hour and swamped two nearby ones underneath a gray sea so thick, that a less knowing observer would have thought that no land had ever existed there let alone an entire population, one that could claim its roots back over a hundred years. But it was over now and the bare earth was making its stand once again. Mulder watched it with a sense of loss, of sadness. While the waters had been high, this room had been their refuge. And he was afraid of what would happen with the waters gone. Would he find that the wreckage of the flood included the two of them? Would Scully regret the loss of her protective walls? Regret the intimacy that had brought them together in the night, regret the giving of trust? He watched her brush her hair, dressed again in her professional garb, as restrictive as a nun's habit. Felt an ache in his throat until.... Until she closed the travel case and turned to him. Smiled. "I trust you, Mulder." His throat was too tight to speak. He held out one arm and she came to him, hugged him hard. "Me, too," he said, and admitted in his heart that he hadn't, not completely. Until now. ----------------- fini All comments are welcome. Please send to: allie_reardon@juno.com and/or cicilean2@aol.com Category: MSR Rating: NC-17 Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. CC does. Spoilers: Up to US Season Six Archive: Nowhere, thank you. Feedback: Sure! Send to allie_readon@juno.com or cicilean2@aol.com. Summary: The sequel to "The Deluge" ======== DELUGE II: Crash (1/2) by Allison Reardon & CiCi Lean cicilean@aol.com allie_reardon@juno.com ========= There was something about a thunderstorm in winter that never made sense to Dana Scully. Thunderstorms were supposed to be a purely summer phenomenon, a burst of light and sound born of well-heated air rising up from a scorched ground and hitting the cold clouds above. They went hand in hand with barbeques beside swimming pools, long walks through green grass and were meant to refresh instead of depress. But the one that was raging outside of Scully's living room window didn't seem to understand that logic. It was a loud and furious thunderstorm, right smack in the middle of December. The rain crackled against the ground and the sky lit up right before the each peal of thunder sounded. She stood watching by the window, shivering in the slight chill of a draft that was seeping through the glass and thought how the winter rain must feel like arrows to anyone unfortunate enough to be caught in it unawares. How cold, how miserable they must be, those few who are caught unprepared by such a storm she thought. Some of them without possible shelter or hope of retreat, having no control over their fate underneath such violent skies. Scully shuddered at the notion as another bolt of lightning lit the darkness surrounding her. She thought about the flood she'd survived the previous weekend, including the events that followed and shivered even more. If she'd thought that a night of lovemaking wouldn't change her and Mulder's relationship, she now stood corrected. Everything was different, but in ways that were so subtle, so nuanced, only she could discern the change. To everyone around them, Mulder sounded exactly the same as he always did. Wry, occasionally shy, sometimes infuriatingly obtuse. To Scully's ears, the very timbre of his voice had changed. It had softened, almost unbearably and she longed for the return of his familiar obstinate tenor. She'd even tried to goad some of the old anger out of him by being even more stubbornly skeptical than usual, but he conceded to her points with an ease that began to frighten her. To everyone around them, he looked exactly the same. Rumpled and vaguely unapproachable, liable to lash out without warning and greet orders or suggestions with a well-defined sullenness. But to Scully's sharp eyes, his gaze had softened as well as his tone and the open tenderness he now graced her with fueled doubts that gnawed at her. Doubts that flooded her with fears. Fears about her new place in Mulder's life, and the possible dire repercussions it would have on her own formerly controlled one. The repercussions it would have for them both. With all of her other lovers, Scully had always been in complete control from day one, never once succumbing to mindless passion or spontaneous loss of self. She'd planned everything carefully, not leaving a thing to chance, occasionally up to and including their eventual departure from one another. Eventually, it would become easy for Scully to forsake their company altogether to lose herself in something like the X-Files, something that would consume her and her imagination like no lover could dream of doing. She could leave no movement, no obstacle to chance and she would be left feeling secure within those cold walls. Safe and completely in control. But the night she'd spent with Mulder after the flood had changed all of that. She'd lost her control in spades. It had been wrenched from her hands by forces beyond her comprehension and then wrenched from her by the sweetness of his lips and gentle hands. He'd been caring, befuddled, frightened and sweetly confused. Tender and so hot she thought her bones would melt within her body every time he touched her. She was alive and he made sure that she was well aware of that fact with every kiss. The fires he ignited were ruthless and completely random. As random as the raindrops that were now sliding down her bedroom window following their weary paths to nowhere. She watched them for a while, occasionally tracing their demise with her fingertips, her heart aching for each one that disappeared. There but for the grace of God, she thought. Or ... did it have to be that way? She suddenly heard a familiar voice, the cold voice of reason sounding in her ear. Perhaps she might be able to retrieve the situation, if she acted quickly. She could talk with Mulder and give him a thousand excuses that could be used to regain her control. Used to regain control over her life, her work...her heart. Her pulse thudded as she debated the explanations she could offer Mulder, with blocks of rationality falling into their usual comforting places, one after the other. She'd been in survivor's shock, filled with manic elation over the sparing of her life. It caused her to celebrate with someone who happened to be nearby, someone she certainly loved, but not quite in that way. She hadn't been thinking straight, she'd been careless and she now deeply regretted the terrible misunderstanding she'd caused by her thoughtless and random actions. She didn't want it to be that way between them, she wanted nothing to compromise their hard earned trust and comfortable working relationship. The trust that their work, the partnership and their true happiness depended on for survival. Surely ... surely he would understand that. Her heart pounded as she bent and grabbed a pair of shoes. Slid them on and quickly hunted for her coat. It wasn't that late, it was only ten thirty, and besides, she knew that Mulder was probably up at any given hour of the night. Snatching her car keys, she made sure to snatch her umbrella before braving the storm that raged outside. It was all going to be all right. She would straighten out this unfortunate incident with Mulder and they could go back to the way they'd been. With their partnership, their work and her control completely and irrevocably intact. For the foreseeable future. Because, surely... he would understand. ----------------------- There was something about a thunderstorm in winter that always pleased Fox Mulder. Thunderstorms were supposed to be a purely summer phenomenon, a burst of light and sound born of well-heated air rising up from a scorched ground and hitting the cold clouds above. They went hand in hand with barbeques beside swimming pools, long walks through green grass and were meant to refresh instead of depress. But the one that was raging outside Mulder's windows didn't seem to understand that logic. It was a loud and furious thunderstorm, right smack in the middle of December. The rain crackled against the ground and the sky lit up right before the each peal of thunder sounded. He stood watching by the window, exhilarated by the proof that not everything in nature was sensible and ordered, that even a thunderstorm could strike during the long winter's night. Not even frozen rain, just a winter's storm, complete with lightning. How amazing that something so attuned to the turbulence of spring and searing heat of summer would appear now, at the tag end of the year. Why didn't more people see it as the miracle it was, as the proof that nature was never going to be completely quantifiable or measurable or tameable? People ignored it, or shivered and bundled up that much more fully during a storm like this--he couldn't blame them for the latter, but if not for the possibility of hypothermia, he'd be standing out there now, daring the lightning to strike him. There had been a thunderstorm the first time Scully had admitted that he was right, back during their first case. And another thunderstorm had brought them closer together after a long period of feeling at odds. His expression softened as he remembered that night, remembered her as fire caught and held in his arms, but the burning held no pain. Everything was different, now, he felt their bond as something that would hold them together through disagreements. It eased his need to argue fiercely to prove his points to her, he could stand back a few paces and know that she was there, he didn't need to wrest agreement from her. To everyone around them, Mulder thought Scully sounded exactly as always, patient, focused, and a confirmed scientist. To Mulder's ears, her voice remained unchanged. Her gaze was different, It had softened, almost unbearably and there were time he longed for the return of pale blue ice, to keep him from doing something cataclysmically stupid. To everyone around them, she looked exactly the same. Professional, precise, as neat as a pin, and controlled in every movement. But to his eyes, she moved with a different, more sensual rhythm, and the look in her eyes, even at her most obstinately skeptical moments, combined to turn his bones to water. He wasn't afraid of her leaving, wasn't afraid of losing her... In his experience, everyone left. Or died. Or was taken. Or stopped loving him. But Scully's gaze, even during her most controlled shredding of his theories, remained his assurance. She was still here, having nearly died, having been taken and returned, and now he knew that would never change. He surrendered to that knowledge, let the power of it exhilarate him and turned back toward his living room. Spurred suddenly by exhilaration to pick up the files scattered across his coffee table, to turn some of his chaos into order. She come to him, aflame. He wasn't stupid, he knew what had pushed her, that desire to celebrate continued life after being so close to death. But he was sure that it was more than that, she had let him care for her, tend her, had leaned on him. She had trusted him. She *was* alive and he made sure that she was well aware of that fact with every caress and kiss, even though he'd thought he was going to be consumed. And he hadn't been. That trust had gone both ways. He heard an unfamiliar voice in his head, the voice of hope. They'd had their difficulties the last few years, tensions that had arisen between them and nearly shattered their partnership. But this....this hadn't damaged anything, why had he thought it would? This had repaired damage they'd both done, things they'd both said, times they hadn't trusted wholly, times that he'd tried to protect her by leaving her behind, times she'd been angry with him for 'ditching' her. This bonded them, it sealed their hard earned trust and the comfortable, almost intuitive mesh of their working relationship. He paused, putting files in his briefcase, saw himself in the reflection from the window, a tall, rangy man with a big nose and a disastrous career history. Saw himself smiling foolishly, absurdly and raised fingers to touch his own lips, remembering the feeling of her mouth against his. Shivered suddenly in a draft and shook his head at his own fatuous behavior and turned, heard the knock on the door. It was Scully. --------------- Despite her best intentions Scully arrived wet. Not quite soaked, she'd been careful on her way over to avoid arriving in anything but a tightly controlled condition, but she was damp enough. She grimaced with annoyance when she felt her natural curls fall onto her cheeks, still wet from the downpour. To her utter dismay, her mask was already slipping before Mulder had even answered her sharp knock. It was not a good omen. The second bad omen was the light, the happiness, that shone in Mulder's eyes when he opened the door and saw her standing there. For a brief second, she wondered exactly who it was that he was seeing and if she hadn't become just another invention of his very active imagination, changed from Dana Scully into someone else entirely. Someone flexible and soft, a woman that she couldn't possibly become. A woman he'd fallen for instead of her. A lump formed in her throat at the thought, even as he was ushering her inside. He took her coat and umbrella and steered her to the couch. Snagged an afgan from his chair and wrapped it around her shoulders while cracking a joke about some case they'd been on long ago. She watched with a sinking heart as he went into his kitchenette, filling the tea kettle with water. His manner was ever poised, his tone still wry, but things were not the same. "It's pretty amazing isn't it?" She started at the sound of his voice, suddenly close. "What?" she stammered. He pointed to the window, where the flashes of lightning were still flooding the night. "This storm. A summer storm in winter. Warm rain, hours of thunder... it's great isn't it?" Scully bit her lip and shifted uncomfortably beneath the afghan. "Well, honestly Mulder, I find it rather disconcerting." Mulder blinked, but the grin didn't waver. "Did I ever tell you about my global warming conspiracy theories, Scully? Thunderstorms in winter, snowstorms in the desert, frogs falling out of the sky? If you'd like, I have a whole file right over..." She felt a faint smile form in spite of everything. "No, and that fine with me. Besides, I think I've seen the frogs already." "Yeah, we have seen a lot haven't we? So many things. " The soft, thoughtful voice was there again and Scully shivered at the sound of it. Shivered with what she was positive was fear, but within the fear, she recognized touches of something else. Something softer, wilder and much more disturbing. Taking a deep breath, she fought for her next words. The ones where she'd calmly and rationally begin the discussion, and then the dissolution of their newfound relationship, but he interrupted. "I was thinking," he began. "Strange storms have that way with me, they always make me think. And I don't want to hear any cracks about a burning smell, Dr. Scully." A wry grin was bestowed. She flushed and looked down. Feeling slightly chagrined as her control was sliding away again, and her heart made no move to stop it. He smiled before continuing. "Anyway, while I was watching and listening to this storm tonight, it made me think of our first case. That storm in Oregon. Remember that?" She nodded. Her mouth was dry. "Yes." "And that reminded me of little secret I've been holding onto for the past few years. A secret I was going to tell you..." He hesitated, his voice turning tender. "Well, I wasn't sure when I was going to tell you, but since you are here now..." Scully flushed furiously, her composure faltering and fought desperately for the strength to regain it Mulder leaned in, his voice low. Conspiratorial. "Did you know Scully, that the first day I met you, the first day you showed up at that basement door..." She looked away. Dreading what was to follow. "... that I didn't like you one damn bit?" Her head snapped around. She gaped at him. "Excuse me?" He nodded gravely. "I'm afraid it's true, Scully." His expression softened and Scully felt his hand sneak into hers, lacing their fingers together. "But, please, believe me, it had nothing to do with you. Nothing at all. You see, it... it had everything to do with me." A low whisper. "You'll probably find this hard to believe, but back then, I was pretty much the control freak. Especially over the X-Files -- over what I considered -my- life's work." He sighed. "See, I was the king down there. I know, big deal, king of nothing, but it was mine. All mine and I didn't want to share. Worse yet, I not only didn't want to, I just *couldn't* lose control over that space. Because that office, those files, they represented a core part of me that was too precious to part with. And I wasn't in any mood to share either. Even with a brilliant, beautiful woman." He smiled and ran a thumb over her knuckles. Scully stared at him. Astonished. "But you were sent down there, and even though I'd fought it at every level I could, the deed was done. It was terrifying, the thought of losing that control. Of having to trust someone with all that I held dear. All that I -was.- At first." Scully blinked hard. Had to turn away to keep Mulder from seeing the wetness in her eyes. Heard his voice next to her ear. "But I think you know the rest of the story and how even a stubborn ass like me can make one hundred and eighty degrees turn toward sanity. However, as you see now, with what's happened between us, now I'm afraid of something else entirely." Scully shook her head, tried to speak, but her voice was nowhere to be found. "I'm afraid of our partnership changing, Scully. Afraid of it shattering, I guess. That we'd lose our trust, that...I don't know." The thoughtful voice, and his gaze became distant. "That we'd lose each other. I realized something tonight, that I had always been afraid of losing you. Of losing your respect, of losing your friendship, of losing period. Always. And instead, now, I feel like--I feel like I don't have to fight quite so hard, as if maybe I was holding back that last bit of trust. In you, in fate, I don't know." His gaze came back to her. "I do trust you, Scully. I trust you enough to tell you what I'm feeling, to tell you that I love you." She stared at him, her thoughts a tumble of emotion and reason, control and chaos, opened her mouth to speak and closed it. Closed her eyes briefly, too, and then released her rigid grasp on reason, on order, on her need to keep things safe and sane and solid. Opened her eyes and studied his face again, seeing that softness there.... She felt the true wonder of the storm. ------------------------------------------------------------------ Scully had that look in her eyes again, the look that melted his synapses and left him torn between two methods of approach. The old method, making jokes and pretending that he wasn't stirred at all, or the new method, still untested. After all, she'd essentially taken control in their last encounter, no matter how much he'd agreed--and his other impulse was to slowly seduce her. Considering the latter made his hands want to tremble, and considering the former was--well, it was out of the question, he couldn't go back there. Not any more. "Scully," he murmured and compromised, lifted one of her hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the palm. Sure, it was corny, almost idiotic, but she shivered when the tip of his tongue brushed the warm skin. The shiver seemed a good omen. He did likewise to the other palm, leaned forward just as she did, kissed her mouth carefully, tenderly. Not really wanting to push her too fast, he was still too afraid of losing her, but oh, God, she smelt of rain and whatever perfume she'd worn during the day; she tasted of the tea he'd prepared for her, and his tongue swept across her lips, delicately testing. Her lips parted for him and she was in his arms, the afghan discarded, the cold dampness of her clothes at odds with the heat of the kiss. He put a palm at the small of her back, felt a small, bare crescent of satiny skin, heard a sound escape his throat and molded his palm to it. Scully drew back from the kiss, gasping a little, cupped his face in her hands and smiled tremulously. "Oh, Mulder." Faintly. But when he kissed her again, she didn't resist. Instead, she kissed him back, running her fingertips along the hair at his temple, a circumstance that was more erotic than any passivity would have ever been. She was more than his equal, she was strong, sometimes too strong at times when he would have liked to lend her his own strength of soul; she was more than a friend and he pulled her closer, heedless of the damp, slid his hands under the shirt she was wearing, groaned into her mouth at her heat. She kissed hungrily, as hungrily as he did, that flame ate up the fuse until he could feel it at the base of his spine, until he was so aroused it was hard not to moan. But not here, not on the couch, not where he'd pleasured himself in solitary fantasy, where he'd brooded over fate or grief and anger. Not here. Drawing back, he kissed her mouth lightly, kissed each eyelid. "Not here," he repeated aloud and managed a sheepish smile. "Um, I do have a bed, Scully." Tentative suddenly, fearful of rejection even now. But her smile was one of the brilliant ones, one of the kind he treasured. "You mean you don't sleep on your couch?" He thought about explaining that he usually had, but that the bedroom had suddenly been cleared out and the bed--hell if he could figure it out, it was on his Visa, it looked like his signature, more or less, it was just another X file, and the last thing he wanted to bring up. "Well, sometimes," he conceded and winced, thinking about the mirror. "It's kind of a cheesy bed, Scully, but..." She giggled. Dana Scully giggled. He stared at her, amazed and charmed at the same time. "Oh, Mulder, who cares." Rose and held out her hand to him, smiling. His stomach did a lazy roll, desire and anticipation and God, delight. No survivor's syndrome here, she was letting him in again, deliberately, choosing him. She stopped in the bedroom door and giggled again. He silently thanked God that he'd gotten rid of the waterbed mattress--it was hell on his back--because that, he was afraid, would have sent her into hysterical laughter. "Mulder." Amusement and astonishment combined in her voice. "This is *some* bed." He blushed, grinned sheepishly. "I think I suffered amnesia after I bought it, Scully. Or maybe Kersh induced Multiple Personality Disorder and my Disco self bought it." She leaned back against him, tipped her head back and grinned. "It's a bed," she repeated. He leaned down, kissed the top of her head lightly. "Well, yeah, that's sort of what I figured." Thank God he'd gotten rid of the seventies bedding, too, he thought and shuddered inwardly. Plain navy blue and white, and Scully moved forward, sat on the edge of the bed, testing it. Gave him that smile again, and he was there in an instant, kneeling at her feet. Her gaze softened again, peculiarly sweet. "No, Mulder." Leaned forward and kissed his forehead, kissed his mouth. 'Never on your knees." A wicked smile this time, the likes of which he'd never seen on Dana Scully's face. "I like the playing field even." His mouth went dry, he was spitted on a shaft of lust so intense that it was dizzying. It would take his lifetime to learn every facet of this woman, and he found that he was suddenly willing to devote that long to it. He pushed up from his knees to sit on the bed, took her into his arms and kissed her hotly, hungrily, and she melted for him, wanton and hungry. They both tumbled back on the bed, broke apart, suddenly needing more than kisses. She leaned up on her elbows, glanced up and giggled. He followed her gaze, winced. "Oh, I keep forgetting about that." She shook her head, that wicked smile again, sending his capacity for thought south. Sat up and pulled off her sweater. "Get naked, Mulder." His brain shut down for a moment. He watched the rise and fall of her breasts, temporarily incapable of figuring out what to do next. Hooking a finger in the neck of his t-shirt, she tugged him close, kissed him hard. "Shed the clothes," she teased. Oh, Christ, he sat up, stripped off his t-shirt, rolled off the bed to get rid of his jeans and paused, feeling awkward, for a moment. On the bed, Scully scooted out of her leggings, sat there in bra and panties, arching an eyebrow. "I'll show you mine," she told him slyly, "If you show me yours." "Scully!" But it was a yelp of delight, and he was certainly in favor of that. And then they were skin to skin, hot and Jesus, for a small, slight woman, she felt lush against him, her body undulating beneath his as they fed on each other's mouths. Lush and delicious and he made a plaintive sound when she pushed him over on his back, pulling away from him for a moment. "I love this," she murmured, eyes bright. Stroked her palm over his skin. "I came here to tell you we couldn't do this again, Mulder." A faint trace of alarm seeped through the haze of desire and need. "What--" "Shhhhh," she murmured and bent to kiss the spot exactly between his nipples. "I was being an idiot again, Mulder. I forgot what I knew when we did this last time. I trust you." He stared at her, still faintly alarmed. "Scully?" Her palm traveled down his chest, down his belly, to his sex, cool fingers closed around him and her head bent, her tongue flicked out to touch him, to taste him. "I do trust you," and her breath was warm on taut, stretched skin. "And more than that, Mulder--" She suddenly raised her head, one of those joyfully brilliant smiles. "I love you." The fear evaporated again, she slid up to kiss him deeply, cupping his cheek with one hand. His arms came up, went around her, he was drowning in her, warm in places that fate had left chilled. Scully laughed into his mouth. "We're a terrible risk, you know. *I'm* a control freak, and you....you're a maniac." She shifted to straddle him, sat up, her hair tousled, her face flushed. "But you're my maniac, and I guess I'm your control freak." He nearly laughed with her, but the sight of her, the feel of her, the openness--there was a lump in his throat abruptly, he tugged her back into his arms, hugged her tight, his arousal diminished, but not dead, his desire muted by relief and affection, but not burnt out. She nipped at the curve of his ear. Leaned up on her hands and kissed *his* eyelids. "I hope you've got something in the refrigerator, Mulder, because I plan on staying the night." He did laugh then, felt the fire renewed and rolled both of them over, rested on his elbows. "Dr. Scully, if you stay the night, I'll even make a special trip out in the wee hours to get you something special for breakfast." She smiled up at him, pulled him down, and then the time for laughter was past, there was nothing but desire, the sleek curves of her body against his, the taste of her skin, the wetness of her desire and need for him. He wondered distantly if it was as good for her, and then she turned the tables on him again, once again seeking out places he'd forgotten or never known as erotic, the flat surface of his hipbone, his fingertips, every nerve ending shivering to life under tongue, lips, the slight graze of her teeth. He lay on his back, all but whimpering, obedient to her whim, and she raised her head from his chest, mouth puffy from kisses, tilted her head back. "Look at us," she told him throatily. "Look at how beautiful you are." He looked. No longer embarrassing, the mirror reflected something other than a lonely man, something other than a dirty joke left over from an earlier era, she was almost incandescent with desire. He saw only her, scarcely recognized the man she touched and set aflame. Husky laughter and she pounced on him, he groaned and reached up, cupped her breasts, nipples erect under the touch of his thumbs. "God, Scully, I'm not the one--" "Shhhh," almost crooning, "Shhh, you are beautiful." She settled herself, reaching to guide him, he tipped his head back, groaned as he felt her sheathe his rampant cock, heated silk closing around his swollen flesh. Groaned for her. "Ah, Christ!" She, too, cried out softly, but wordlessly, seated herself and began a slow, posting rhythm, riding him. He slid his hands to her waist, guiding her, drowning in sensation and emotions he'd closed off for far, far too long. He stroked her skin, caressing, slid his palms up the curve of her waist, felt the shift of muscle over bone, the shape of her ribcage. Around to her back, pulling her closer as need drove them both, leaned up and kissed her mouth, her throat. Took a nipple into his mouth and suckled at it, groaning deep in his throat. It was exquisite pleasure, there weren't the words to label it, to name it, he shaped the curve of hip and buttock, letting her set the rhythm and she was making soft, throaty sounds, rocking on him, driving him crazy. He wanted to hear her scream, to lose all control and steal his from him in the falling. One hand on the small of her back, he brought the other to their joined flesh, stroked wetness over the swollen nub there, in time with their rhythm and felt her tighten on him, heard her moan. She tossed her head back, shook her head wildly. "Oh, God!!" "For me," he rasped, so close to the edge he thought he might die of waiting, stroked her ruthlessly and arched into her. She sped the movement of her hips, head still tilted back, her expression taut in ecstasy, a look almost of pain, but not quite. He felt the first tremors before she cried out, felt those tremors push him over even as he vainly tried to wait. She cried out, "Yes!" and her voice was thick, "Oh, God, Mulder, yes!" Tightening on him again and he felt himself fall with her, crying out her name, giving her back the gift of his own, holding her hips. More tremors and he let himself sag back onto the mattress, panting a little, holding her against him. Her face pressed against his throat, one arm crept around him. "Oh, Mulder." Dazed, sated. A sigh warmed him. He caught his breath, let his heart slow. Brought a hand up to the tangled skein of her hair, carded his fingers through it. "You know, I think under the circumstances--" A giggle. "I should call you, Fox. I dunno, Mulder." She lifted her head, resting on the other elbow, propping her chin with the heel of her hand. "I kind of like calling you, Mulder," she teased. For all he cared, at a moment like this, she could call him whatever she wanted. "Okay," he agreed. Accepted the kiss she offered him, another gift. More nuzzling and then she sighed. Nipped at his lower lip. "I want a nice, hot bath now." That impish, wicked smile again. God, it made his nerve endings throb. "A nice hot bath," he said, his tone thoughtful. "I have some ten-year old bath salts." She laughed, delighted. "A fine vintage?" He rolled his eyes. "Office Christmas gift draw. I'm, ah, sort of a packrat." "A blessing in disguise," she teased. He couldn't help it, he had to kiss her again. She was right, they were both sticky and sweaty, a bath would be a luxury he seldom took, and with her in it...."You plan on taking that bath alone?" Long look, wicked smile. "I'd better not have to." He smiled, gleeful as a boy. "Oh, good." --------------------------------------- The candles in the bathroom had burnt out, and the water had drained, leaving them both languid. Scully's body curved inside his, spooned up against him, and his palm rested against the scar on her belly. He'd kissed it earlier, a blessing, a giving of thanks for her life, for her presence in his home, in his bed, in his arms. She knew each scar of his, each weakness, each strength. He knew hers. He'd waited so long, too afraid of risking loss, too frozen in old grief to reach out for this woman. Like the Ice Queen in the fairy tale, his heart had been frostlocked by the shard of mirror there, but it hadn't taken tears to wash it away. Instead, it had taken fire to melt it. The flame was usually kept controlled, locked away behind strong walls. She'd freed it for him. And had freed him in doing so. "Scully," he murmured, just for the pleasure of saying it, for the pleasure of hearing her sleepy murmur in reply. Closed his eyes and listened to the hiss of the rain, the low rumble of the thunder and the crack of the lightning. Listened to the sound of Scully's breathing, listened as it slowed, as she drifted further toward sleep, warm and safe against him. He loved a winter thunderstorm. It was the proof that not everything in nature was sensible and ordered, that even a thunderstorm could strike during the long winter's night That something else could strike as well. Something wonderful and strange and undeserved. Outdoors, the sky opened again, the hiss grew louder. Sometimes, a deluge washed things clean again. -------------- Finis Feedback keeps our muses employed! Please keep them out of the soup kitchens of our minds! Send all comments to: allie_reardon@juno.com and/or cicilean2@aol.com