Title: Luminescence Author: Dreamshaper ( dreamshpr@aol.com ) Archival: Goss, Ephem, Spookys, sites that already asked. Others, please send an email. :) Rating: NC17 Category: MSR Spoilers: Season 7, but forget Requiem ever happened. Summary: "Lightning strikes only a hundred people a year across the country, Scully. I'm not lucky enough to be one of them." Disclaimer: They belong to CC, this story belongs to me. Notes: Big big thanks to Shawne, who knows how to nitpick in a wonderfully supportive way. :) Also to Robbie, who knows her non sequiturs. And to Shannon, who unknowingly provided inspiration in the form of a list of favorite things. **************************** I remember being eleven and sitting outside on my porch, watching the sky, lonely but not imagining that I would be alone for long. This was before aliens and abductions were more than fascinating subjects on the TV screen, back when Samantha was still with us. That night she was sleeping over at a friend's, but there was no doubt in my mind that she would be back, and she'd have had fun. I remember thinking that I would have to pull her pigtails just because they were there, because she was there, and I didn't want to admit that I had missed her. It was one of those incredibly still, humid days that almost always brings about an evening full of storminess. Accordingly, my parents' tempers were high--they were indulging themselves with a quiet, vicious argument, and had sent me scrambling out of their way. Get caught between them while they were fighting, and you more often than not wound up catching a slap to the face. I bolted into the safety of the yard. Boys--some of them islanders, some vacationers, all my age--had trickled over gradually after I started playing with my basketball in an attempt to block out the angry voices in my house. We couldn't seem to get a game properly organized so we dropped it, ended up telling stories, discussing favorite comics, and making games with no rules at all. When the sun was past setting, we watched the sky and took bets on which of us would be the first to go to the moon on vacation. That was a common conversation, and fun. But clouds had begun to cover the stars quickly, black and angry; I could smell a storm in the air. And when I whispered about it to the other kids, everyone went still for a moment, waiting. I felt the hair on my forearms rise, felt my skin tingle, shivered. The other kids were reacting the same way, and were just as amazed by the sensations--for all of ten minutes. Our attention spans were so short then; we forgot about the moon and the storm as quickly as we'd been entranced by them. Someone got distracted by a little blink of light, and then we were all trying to catch the fireflies that had come out to dance in my yard. Looking back now, I'm amazed by the power of our imaginations. We spent so much time that night catching fireflies gently in the palms of our hands, trying to decipher their secret codes. It was a game, and the first one to figure out their firefly's code was supposed to win. There was no prize, no way to verify the truth of the firefly's supposed statement, no way to prevent cheating. But the game worked for us then, when we were young and competition had no undertones of desperation. Now, if I met the men those boys had become, everything would be different. Memories of childhood fun don't make for a good buffer against the competitive nature of every comment and confession. They'd talk about careers and investments and golf scores, and we'd all smile at each other while our gazes remained sharp and measuring. That's how we're taught to function as adults. But that night, none of us knew what the future would hold. We were just boys who didn't know that fireflies gleamed because they were searching for mates. We were just boys who wanted to wait outside while thunderstorms threatened to break overhead. We were just boys who wanted the thrill and terror that came with the prospect of a lightning strike or hail big enough to break through the roof of my shed; natural fireworks coming down from the clouds. The storm held back for a long time that night, breathing still, moist air down on us, tainting the sky until it was a deep orange with patches of darkness. It fairly crackled with potential fire. Mothers across the neighborhood called their sons back home, and one by one they went. They grumbled, knowing they'd have to watch from safely indoors, with their parents bustling about to make sure there was water, a platter of snacks and plenty of candles, but they went. And eventually, I was left alone. My mother never opened the back door, never called me in. She and my father just continued to fight in hushed tones, probably not even realizing that I was outside, maybe not even caring. I sat on the porch, watching the eerie colors of the pre-storm sky, fighting back tears for no reason at all. Wondering what lay beyond the storm. That was the last summer I enjoyed. The last summer I spent without incessant nightmares about my sister. Now, decades later, I sit on a picnic table chained to a stunted tree behind a motel. The sky is boiling over with a storm in the making, and I can't help remembering. Wondering. Strange how everything can change over the years, how a person can change almost completely--but still keep one little characteristic. One place inside of you that has never succumbed to the pressures of life as you're supposed to live it. I used to wish that I had never wondered what lay beyond everything. I might have been like all those other boys, those other men, if I had gotten over that wondering stage and moved into accepting things as they seemed to be. As I was told they would always be. It's taken a long time to move past that... And even now, it's hard not to fall back into the habit of torturing myself by imagining what could have been different. Life-long patterns don't completely disappear just because you've done your best to work through the issues behind them. I'd had a dream last month, that Samantha and I had dinner with my mother, pot roast and potatoes in the old house. Lots of conversation, laughter, a few minor arguments--the kind of squabble a lot of families have at dinner, cheerful and mostly automatic. When I woke up, I couldn't remember what we'd discussed, or what Samantha had looked like, how the meal had tasted. All those details were right on the edge of my conscious mind, but slowly faded away as I tried to hold onto them--the way it seems all good dreams go. A few years ago, a few months ago, I might have spent the rest of the night tormented by memories, then carried the pain with me all day. But thanks to the fact that I was doing my best to let go--and thanks to my partner--all I had to do to go back to sleep was curl up on my couch and bury my face in the pillows. They still carried just the slightest hint of Scully's scent, her skin and shampoo, her delicate perfume-- Dependence on Scully for comfort is bad, I remind myself as the storm overhead moves closer, electricity and moisture crackling in the abruptly cooling air. It'd annoy her if she knew I was out here thinking about the way she smelled. And she'd probably never sleep in my apartment again if she knew how much I liked it when she did. Professionalism good, dependence bad. But on summer nights when the whole world is quiet and breathless in anticipation of heavenly pyrotechnics, it's hard to focus on work. Especially when the case is solved, your flight home leaves the next afternoon, and you're going to have a weekend off, and it's absolutely free of anything that *needs* to be done. Behind me, a door creaks open and slams shut. Gravel crunches beneath someone's feet, someone who's heading for me leisurely, no rush. Just steady, even paces. Scully. My smile widens but I manage to bring it back under control by the time she's come around the picnic table to stand in front of me. "You're going to get soaked if you stay out here much longer," she tells me, very seriously. "Or worse. Sitting out here in an open area, under a tree, waiting for a thunderstorm? Not a very good idea, Mulder." "Lightning only strikes a hundred people a year across the US, Scully. I'm not lucky enough to be one of them." She's wearing a white T-shirt that fits comfortably, white sneakers, and baggy grey drawstring pants--boredom and excess energy had been plaguing both of us all day and we'd finally given up and gone running together earlier. She's not as fast as I am but she can go just as far, so we came back a little tired and sweaty, and hadn't bothered to change. Ordering some take-out before going to our regretfully separate beds in neighboring rooms didn't seem enough reason to hop into the shower and then climb back into suits. Thank God. She's absolutely adorable in casual clothes, and while the shirt is baggy enough to be quite conservative, it still hints at the shape of her, and so do those pants. I almost never see Scully-in-jeans or Scully-in-shorts, so I can't help but enjoy Scully-almost-in-pajamas. Doesn't seem to matter that I've seen Scully-naked. "Come on up," I invite her, patting the space beside me on the table. "We can watch the lightning for a little while before the rain hits, or it gets close enough to be dangerous." She eyes the rough wood a little warily. "You don't have any splinters or anything, do you?" she asks, and I laugh. "No. I promise, it's not as bad as it seems. There are lots of names carved in--I'm pretty sure I'm sitting on a 'D' and maybe an 'E', it was too dark to know for sure when I sat down--and it's a little warped, but that's all part of the atmosphere." "Atmosphere. Right. Good thing I'm used to warped." She balances her hand on my arm and pulls herself up, then settles down a little uncomfortably beside me. "My pants are catching on the wood," she mutters. "If there are any little holes in them when I get off this table, you owe me a new pair." I grin. "I'll look really hard for little holes in your pants, I promise," I assure her, and cross my heart. She snorts, but finally sits still, her arm and hip close to mine, knee almost bumping against my thigh until she tries to cross her legs. "Don't bother," I tell her. "The bench is too far away, really. Just sit like a man." "Where are your shoes?" she asks me, uncrossing her legs but ignoring my suggestion. Her tidy sneakers rest neatly side by side on the bench beside my big, bare feet. I wiggle my toes; it's nice to be barefoot on a picnic table in a semi-grassy courtyard. A very relaxed, summerish thing to do. "Under the table, with my socks. They ran away from home together," I tell her seriously, even as I wonder if I could talk her into going barefoot with me. Probably not. I pat her hand when she sighs her 'What am I going to do with you, Mulder?' sigh. "If I get a splinter, or step on a rusty nail, or lose a toe to a vicious weedmonster, I'll take care of it all by myself," I say, and then curl my fingers around hers. Maybe I won't get bare Scully toes, but I can make do. And little things like holding her hand thrill me. Off in the distance, lightning crackles across the sky, a sudden and vivid display of power. Just like when I was a kid sitting alone on my porch, I shiver a little and feel the electricity raise the little hairs on my arms and the back of my neck. Scully's fingers twine through mine, and when I look sideways at her, I can see her shiver too. "It's going to be a powerful storm," she murmurs, not looking at me. "We should go in." I hear the low grumble of thunder and realize I was counting off the seconds subconsciously. "Sixteen one-thousands, Scully. We have a few minutes." If we go inside, I'll probably end up pouncing on her the second the door is closed behind us. But I like the energy in the air. I like the anticipation that's building as steadily as the storm. And we're not supposed to let ourselves give in while away on a case. It's damn frustrating... She acquiesces to the hand-holding, maybe sensing what I'm feeling, maybe feeling it herself. I can see something in her face, despite the cloudy, hazy darkness preceding the storm. I just can't be sure what that something is. "I barely pay attention to storms anymore," I tell her as another streak of white light cracks through the clouds in the distance. "When we're home, anyway. By the time they *really* hit, my power's usually off anyway because nobody can survive without their air-conditioners running all day, every day. Lightning flickers kind of like my television. And thunder...maybe I'm just deaf to it now." "I've seen you sleep through them." I turn my head to study her profile more intensely, and only then notice that her lips have curled a little, into an almost-dreamy smile. "We've had quite a few storms this summer." "They wake you up?" "Sometimes. I rarely fall asleep with the television on." For some reason, it disturbs me that she doesn't wake me if the storms wake her. We don't spend a lot of nights together, so it probably hasn't happened all that often, but still... "Don't be awake alone next time," I tell her, and squeeze her hand gently. "I wouldn't mind at all if you got me up." "I know you wouldn't." She looks at me, and I watch her smile widen a little. "Really, Mulder, it's just--I know you've always been something of an insomniac. If it looks like you're going to sleep the night through, thunderstorm or no thunderstorm, I'm not going to wake you." "I've been sleeping a lot better these past few months. Right after my mother died...was rough. You know that. But once I was over blaming myself for her death..." I want to reassure her, want to convince her--but even though her smile has faded, I know it's pointless to try. She doesn't need my reassurances. She knows that for now, my long cycles of intense guilt, obsession, and recrimination are finally evening out. "It's not a big deal, Mulder," she says, trying to convince me this time. "I wake up. I stay awake for a little while. I fall asleep again. If I dragged you out of your sleep, you'd just *keep* me up after the storm is over." I study her eyes, searching them as deeply as I can. Emotions flicker between us, highlighted and intensified when the storm washes light over us again. Almost immediately, the light is followed by a surprisingly deep wave of noise. Beneath my bare feet, the rough wood of the picnic table vibrates. "It's time to go in," Scully whispers when all is steady again. "Fireflies flicker when they're looking for a mate," I reply, the words surprising me, embarrassing me a little. Talk about non sequiturs, I chide myself, uncomfortably aware of old memories and new needs in the momentary silence that follows. Then Scully says, "When I was little, I thought they were talking to each other in code." My look of surprise is illuminated by more lightning, underscored by thunder. I stare at her as my eyes readjust from sudden daylight back to sudden dusk. It's so amazing, how she can be so perfect and so surprising even after seven years and a thousand insane conversations. "What?" she asks, off my look. I grin at her, then use my grip on her hand to pull her into a tight, affectionate hug. I nuzzle her hair for a second, breathing her in, then release her. "You're wonderful," I say, and it's her turn to look completely surprised. I can't help but laugh as I slide down from my perch on the table and grab my socks and shoes from under the table. "Come on." I hold my hand out to her, help her down. "The rain is going to hit us any sec- -" I don't even finish the word before the skies open and a wall of water hits us. We bolt instinctively for the safety of our motel, and I don't feel the rough-edged stones of the parking lot underneath my bare feet until I'm in front of the door to Scully's room, moderately protected from rain by the eaves overhead. It seems to take her an eternity to get the door open, and then we hurry in. "Wow," I say, dripping my way over to her window. "Think we'll be able to get a delivery guy to come out in this kind of rain?" "I wouldn't want to risk some poor person's life in this kind of storm, Mulder, just for some take-out," she murmurs, and pads into her bathroom. The light goes on, and I can hear her wet clothing plopping into the bathtub. She doesn't shut the door. I smile at my reflection in the window--it'd be just as easy to drop the wet clothes on the floor, which I'd do automatically, but she's just the type to think about the mess she'd have to clean up later and make it easier on herself. In a second, I catch a glimpse of flickering, golden light, and realize that she's lit candles. I turn away from the light show outside the window, walk to the doorway, and watch her kneeling beside the tub and as she carefully wrings out her clothes. She's wrapped in a thick towel, and her wet hair is sleek and shiny. Her pale skin gleams beautifully in the dim light. I can feel every cell in my body give in to the temptation of her, feel blood rushing southward. In seconds, I'm almost fully aroused, all the anticipation and electricity pushing me on despite common sense. "So," I say quietly, "if we're not going to be able to eat anytime soon, what do you want to do?" Suddenly motionless, Scully stares at the sodden clothing in her hand, then turns her head to look at me. I don't bother trying to hide my arousal, that'd be stupid--she heard it in my voice, can probably see it in my eyes even in the nearly dark bathroom. "Dry off?" I ask when she remains silent. An expression almost like nervousness passes over her face, makes something in my gut clench painfully, but before I can take a step back, apologize for pushing too hard, too fast, she's on her feet and taking a step towards me. "That'd probably be best," she murmurs, advancing another step. "We don't want to get pneumonia in this weather." Absurdly grateful, relieved, I chuckle, and proceed to strip in record time. Following her lead, I toss my wet clothes into the bathtub as fast as I can, then I follow my own instincts and move forward. She gasps as I pick her up, and set her on the countertop. Her hands come down behind her as she checks for anything unseen and dangerous--natural instincts for caution rising to the surface--but I'm not so lost as to risk her. I've put her down dead-center in the only clear area available. Her essential toiletries are lined up neatly behind the sink, the bag with her makeup rests on its side near her hip. The candles are scattered around the room, two on the back of the toilet, one on a little shelf near the mirror, another perches almost precariously on a wide shelf in the shower itself-- everything is far enough away to be safe. Scully's watching me, her eyes wide and serious. We've never made love in a motel before, never made love away from our homes because it'd be one step closer to destroying the fine line between personal and professional. But it seems right, now. For me, anyway... "Yes?" I ask her, my fingers tangled in the little knot she's used to fasten her towel, the back of them brushing against her skin. "Yes." Her fingers push mine aside, and she slips the knot loose herself, allowing the towel fall around her. We both sigh then, and I move forward, pressing my damp body against hers. The countertop is high but not high enough; that's all right because I'd prefer to take her back to the bed tonight so we can go slowly. No rushing new firsts. After a moment of holding onto her, I move away and grab a towel off the shelf beside the counter. Briskly scrubbing myself dry, fully aware of her total attention to my actions, I have to use the storm as a distraction from her. In the windowless bathroom, the lightning is barely noticeable, but the thunder announces its presence grandly and the cool, wet tiles beneath my feet vibrate. I mark the seconds between a lightning strike and wave of sound; they happen almost on top of each other now. When I'm moderately dry, I turn my attention to Scully. The towel is a little damp but my only other options are extremely tiny washcloths, so I just use it and take my time. Across her slim shoulders, over her muscled arms, extra gentle down her back. I pause at the base of her spine, massaging, watching in the mirror as the towel hides and reveals her scars and her tattoo. Up again, and she tilts her head into my hands as I tousle her hair with the cotton, her eyes closed and her lips slightly parted. The invitation is too much to ignore. With my hands cradling her head, I kiss her delicately, sweetly, like I had kissed her the night she slipped between my sheets after falling asleep on my couch. She's smiling when the kiss is over, and so am I. "Lean back against the mirror," I whisper, and she does, without hesitating, eyes still closed. My throat tightens--every time I watch her let go of just a little of her self-control, it reminds me that she trusts me. Her faith makes me feel incredibly strong, and more than a little emotional. Carefully, I work the towel down over her chest. She sighs and shudders when I dry her breasts, but I don't stop, just continue down her stomach, over more scars and muscles that ripple under my ministrations. Then I reach her thighs, which part as I rub them, and which she raises obligingly when I ask her to, so that I can get the backs of them. Then I kneel, wincing a little because my knees are older than they ought to be and tiled floors are unforgiving surfaces. But pain is forgotten when I kiss the soft skin of her inner thigh, right above her knee, and she moans. I am *not* going to be distracted, I tell myself, and dry her calves, then her feet. They look small cupped in my big hands, all delicate bones and arch and obvious feminine pampering. Her toenails are very neat under a light, simple polish, and each toe gets a kiss, just because they're all cute as hell. Then I rock back on my heels. The towel is worthless at this point, nearly totally soaked. And I only missed the one spot... Because it's convenient for me to do so, I ignore the fact that the towel she'd had wrapped around her is basically dry and pooled up around her hips, quite useable. I lean forward, pull her hips closer and urge her thighs apart--and instead of the soggy towel, I use my tongue. Above me, Scully gasps and her hands are suddenly curled up in my hair. "That is *not* the way to get me dry." Her voice is octaves lower than usual, and sweetly husky. I lean back again and smile up at her. "Towels soaked, so that's not the way either. And we have to try, Scully," I say, forcing an almost normal tone. "Pneumonia is serious business." She laughs at my solemn voice, expression-- then moans again as I return to 'drying' her. Unfortunately for both of us, I can't kneel on the tiles indefinitely. My knees begin to protest so loudly that even the pleasure and arousal rushing through my system can't drown them out, and I groan, stop, rest my forehead against her thigh. "I gotta get off the floor," I tell her through gritted teeth, and look up. "What?" she asks, breathlessly, and for a moment I get lost in her heated gaze. My fingers caress her stomach, where the muscles are tense and gleaming, almost as hot as the folds between her thighs. "Knees," I mutter. "Tiles. Pain." For a minute more, she doesn't seem to understand, and I get to rejoice in the fact that I've dulled Scully's sharp mind with pleasure. Then she's trying to help me stand, a smile trembling on her lips, her eyes still hot but also filled with an emotion so deep that I wonder if it's a trick of the candlelight. "Come on," she whispers when I'm standing before her, a little shakily. "To the bed." I let her lead me out of the bathroom, and flop down onto my back when she pushes gently on my shoulder. For a minute, we just stare at each other in the near-darkness. Lightning still flickers outside, thunder still crashes, the rain is still pounding on the roof--the storm has an urgency to it, as if it wants to come in and share this moment with us. I lick my lips, taste her, shiver. "It's still raining," I tell her stupidly, feeling all of my brain cells combust because of the way her skin gleams and her eyes glow. "I know," she whispers, and finally moves, coming to rest on my hips. I groan and feel my eyes roll back into my head as our bodies make contact; she moans as her body begins to slide down around mine. "We didn't pull back your blankets." More stupidity, I think dimly, but forgive myself for it because Scully's kneading my shoulders with the neat, oval edges of her nails, like a pleased kitten. "S'ok," she says almost incoherently. "We can sleep in your bed tonight." That sends a shockwave through me--I hadn't expected to be allowed to sleep in the same bed for long tonight, because we're out of town and technically on business, and we're breaking enough rules *already*. Scully just took a giant leap forward on the intimacy scale, I realize. And maybe it was passion-induced and she didn't mean it, but by God I'm not going to let her take it back... She comes to rest against me, taking me in completely, killing my train of thought, and we both sigh. When she begins to rock gently, slowly, I open my eyes and seek out her gaze. Clutching her hips in my hands, I help her rise, and whisper her name until she finally looks at me. Both of us are quiet then, because neither of us needs to say anything, neither of us needs to express the pleasure vocally. With eye contact maintained, our breathing is enough. The sound of our bodies coming together is enough. The rustling of the blankets is enough. We drown out the thunder. We invite the lightning in. And then she comes to rest against me like a fallen leaf, so light and delicate that I almost forget how vividly alive she is, how strong, and I fold my arms around her with extreme care. We both fight to catch our breath, and I savor the way her heartbeat is racing in time with mine, bruising both of our chests. In a few minutes, she's recovered enough to sit back up, her back arched a little, her ribs in sharp relief. She brushes my spiky hair down with her fingers. I close my eyes, rest my hands on her hips again, rubbing in gentle circles, and relax. It's time to try and call my brain cells back from the corners of the room, where I think they scattered when I came. "If we had been fireflies just now, you would have busted my light." Above me, Scully freezes, and then her body shakes. I open one eye, and find her looking down at me with a grin on her face to rival all other Scully grins, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. "You're ridiculous," she says and leans over to kiss me. I like the way she tastes; somehow like passion and laughter, electricity and love. Then she's gone, headed for the bathroom. "Call for takeout," she says over her shoulder. "It's almost calm out there." The door closes with a gentle click, the light comes on, and I hear her blow out the candles. I roll over and grab the list of delivery places that sits on her nightstand, pull the phone close enough that I can dial without sitting up. As the phone rings, I wonder if I can talk Scully into using this blissfully free weekend to go storm-chasing with me. Probably not, I decide, and remember the idea of Scully barefoot in the courtyard of a third-rate motel. But something makes me think that we won't need the cover of a storm to produce this kind of intimacy again. In any case, there's still a lot of long, hot summertime left to experiment with. And for the first time in a long time, I look forward to the heat. ****************************** Look, ma, no Requiem! :) Just some light summertime reading enjoyment. I hope. Drop me a line if you were entertained! Dreamshaper http://www.geocities.com/dreamshpr220/dreamshpr1.html dreamshpr@aol.com