Title: Swings and Roundabouts Author: Fialka Rating: NC17 Category: Story, RST, MSR Summary: between the blanket and the bed, it's anybody's guess... Spoilers: vague for season 7 to 'all things' Archive: Auto-archives, Gossamer OK. Others please write for permission, though I generally give it. Disclaimer: Don't own them, just borrowing, promise to put them back in a reasonably unmutilated state. First Posting: 4 May 00. Beta thanks to Yes Virginia, with special honours to the Mighty Machete of Marasmus. Note: This story exists in the same universe as Seesaw, though it's not necessary to have read that to understand this. Should you wish to, you can find it at The Candybox. Feedback: Yes. Feed me. More candy: http://welcome.to/TheCandybox The real meal - The Annotated X-Files: http://smart.issexy.com ===================================== SWINGS AND ROUNDABOUTS by Fialka They are at his place and Scully is making tea, moving around his small kitchen, every gesture precise and full of purpose. Mulder knows this without watching. He sits on the couch, eyes closed. For once the TV is off and even his new CD, the one he's been obsessively playing all week, stays mute in his player. Mulder is listening to a better song, the kettle burbling while Scully's stockinged feet patter a syncopated rhythm on the cheap linoleum tile. The hinges of both cabinets to the left of the stove creak as she opens them, making him smile like a fool. She's standing on the bottom shelf to reach the mugs at the top. He could have moved them two months ago, when they first started making love. Years ago, even. One does not need to be having sex to let one's partner get herself a cup of tea without climbing the furniture like a child. He knows that if he walked in on her right now, she'd be more embarrassed than if he'd walked in on her naked, doing something deeply female and private. So he doesn't move, but he doesn't move the cups either. Sometimes Scully seems so huge, so overwhelming, that he needs to remind himself how small she really is. The cabinets creak shut, the mugs clink on the counter and the kettle snaps itself off. Scully pours water into a pot, the way she insists on making tea though it's still Lipton teabags at his place no matter how nicely she serves it. She keeps a toothbrush here and a complete change of clothes, but so far she's resisted leaving other pieces of herself. There are no shampoos, no creams, no fancy herbal teas or half-eaten packages of bee pollen or wheat germ or whatever she's into this week. There isn't even a hairbrush. He's never been sure what that means. He leaves things at her apartment every time he's over there, which may be why she generally prefers coming to his place. It's certainly not because it's homier. Or even closer to work. She's humming a tune now, something so off-key he hasn't got the slightest idea what it's supposed to be. Scully can only sing if he has the radio on, and occasionally she does, her voice soft and low and breathy. It always gives him the most incredible hard-on, listening to her whisper her way through some familiar tune, sounding way too much like Marilyn Monroe. Before he was allowed to touch her, Mulder had grown to hate it when she sang in the car. Now he keeps the radio on her favorite oldies station and hopes. She'd kill him if she knew. The humming doesn't mean she's happy, it means she's so preoccupied she doesn't notice that she's doing it. He knows this about her now. It's a comfort device left over from her childhood, one she was always careful to hide from him before. The fact that she no longer does fills him with that strange indefinable quality he thinks of as loving Scully. It's a mixture of blank, breathless terror and a tenderness that threatens to dissolve him every time they really touch. ------------ Side by side on his couch with their feet on the table, Mulder contemplates how stupidly his apartment is set up, how it screams bachelor. Sitting on his couch like a normal person, Mulder is looking at two armchairs no one's ever used, at a wall with framed catalogue prints. If he lies on the couch to watch TV he's sure he lives here, but facing this part of the room he could just as well be in any motel anywhere. He looks at Scully slumped beside him. She's quiet now but she's been talking for hours and her voice is ragged. He can't even begin to process the story she's told. Which is less Scully? Visions in a Buddhist temple or an affair with a married man? Or her sitting here telling him all about it? She's making him guess again. He suddenly feels like he's on a date, not sitting beside the same woman he's been sitting beside for the last seven years. He hears himself babbling and when he looks at her again, she's fallen asleep, the way she always does in the car on stakeouts. One moment she's with him and the next she's not. Like a stubborn two-year-old, Scully will keep going till she drops in her tracks. He wonders if it's his fault, if it's the result of trying to keep up with his nervous energy, his insomnia, in the same way she's developed a tight, brisk walk to keep up with his long strides. He touches her hair and she becomes familiar again, his very own dearly beloved. Behind that thought is a rush of others, thoughts of the hearts and flowers variety which -- should he ever try to express them -- would only wind up embarrassing them both. He'd like to carry her to the bedroom, take off her clothes and slide her under the covers, but he's pretty sure she would not appreciate the gesture. He knows the smoker did something like that and the very idea of that man's tainted hands on Scully's unconscious body ... well, he wouldn't blame her for being angry, since it makes him absolutely livid to think about it. He's constantly amazed at how quickly his thoughts grow primal and possessive when it comes to her. Caveman Mulder. Protect the small and the weak. Scully is small, but she's definitely not weak and he's going to do something stupid if he just keeps sitting here, looking at her. He covers Scully gently and makes himself get up. ------------- He wakes when she comes to bed, sliding soft and naked beside him. He opens his eyes so she'll know he's awake, but he waits for her to show him what she wants. He'll be the first to admit he doesn't always know. Since she went off with the smoking man things have been strained between them. At first he was too angry to talk about it, then they were too busy. The crop circles were a ruse to take her away for a while, to England, to a place he'd once loved. After Avebury and Stonehenge, he would show her Oxford: the old colleges, the Bodleian Library, his favourite pub where ancient school ties covered the ceiling and walls. He would buy her tea in the cafe where he'd gone every Friday at four o'clock, Earl Grey served with fresh clotted cream and raisin scones. Then there would be a cottage in the Cotswolds, already reserved, maybe even a honeymoon of sorts. She hadn't wanted a honeymoon. She hadn't wanted anything but to be left alone, so he had gone to England and there was nothing. No circles, no Scully. Then he comes home to hear the story of this married man that she once loved. Mulder doesn't know what to make of that; he's always had the strange idea that he was Scully's first real love. She throws the covers back and slides down the bed, moving his arm out of the way to rub her cheek against his stomach. Scully's not much on talking during sex, and she doesn't make a lot of noise either. Mulder is more used to women who babble their way through the entire act, complete with stage directions and critical reviews. Scully's not passive or unenthusiastic, but her signals are subtle, and her body often needs a lot of coaxing before it can give up its usual rigid posture and relax. It's a different way of making love, one that often climaxes without him ever getting inside her. Getting into Scully's body is a lot like getting into her heart - advance and retreat, advance and retreat, easing his way slowly past each line of defense until the moment when she finally surrenders and accepts him being that close. It's the most meaningful sex he's ever had, but it's a long consuming process, not one they can engage in every night. Still, he's grateful that his body seems to fascinate her as much as hers does him, though on an aesthetic level he's no longer the world's greatest specimen. Mulder's gone soft in the last couple of years, fighting the beginnings of a paunch, skin pasty and muscles out of tone. Scully is in much better shape than he is; though she too is rounder than she was, he prefers her like this. The year she was sick, she'd looked small enough to fit in his pocket, frail enough to fly away on a breeze. He could never have made love to her then; he'd have been terrified she'd break beneath him. She's more solid now, and sometimes he forgets how fragile she really is, sometimes he loves her so much he leaves fingermarks on the back of her arms. He plumps the pillow behind his head so he can see her, curled up with her head on his belly, gently playing with his unresponsive penis. It's not the right time of the night for him, but it's been weeks since they've been together and he's happy just to have her here and close. He lets his fingers wander in her hair, drifting half-asleep in the peace of her touch. It takes him a while to realise his skin is growing damp. "Are you ever going to forgive me?" she says softly, as if she's talking to his penis, asking why it won't get hard. He reaches down, catches her under the arm and coaxes her back up to the pillows. Yes, she's crying in her quiet way, just a tear or two wetting the tired skin beneath her eyes. "Forgive you for what?" he asks. He honestly doesn't know. She looks at him and he waits for her to answer, but she doesn't. Instead she turns over, presenting him with her back. For most women this would mean leave me alone, but Scully isn't most women. It took him a while to understand what that signal meant, but he knows it now. She wants him to hold her. Thank God, he thinks, scooting a little closer and putting a hand on her hip. The hand moves of its own accord, not that he needs to stop it. He's allowed to touch her now. He's always loved a woman's back, but Scully's is art, a collage of each time she was nearly taken from him. Here the tiny scars at the base of her neck, there, pain and confusion tattooed permanently into her flesh. There the pink, nerveless mark of the gunshot that finally shoved them forward, onto this path. He moves his thumb over the ridged tissue, much as she'd moved her thumb over his rigid penis that months-ago morning, cradling him in her palm as he lay sleeping on her couch. She shivers and he moves his hand back to her hip. Of all the beautiful parts of Scully, and there are many, this to him is the most erotic. These lush curves, this sensuous path from waist to hip to thigh. His hand continues, fingers spread wide, up and down until he sees some of the tension going out of her, sees her spine begin to soften. He slides up close then, matching his body to hers. This is the one way they fit like a puzzle, perfect, without effort. She leans back, moving against him. It's a definite invitation, though not the way she usually likes to make love. He caresses her front now, slow and smooth, up the arc of her belly to her breasts, back down to play in the tangle of hair above her still-closed legs. He tugs gently and she rolls forward, balancing herself on one drawn-up knee. Once more, she's surprising him. Before, when they only ever touched with hands or mouth, she might have let him take her from behind, but then they would not have been naked in his bed. He'd have had her half-clothed on the couch or against the wall and it would have been his crisis, because that's how it went - I hurt, please let me touch. He's not even sure that she's having a crisis, despite the wild story she just told. Does she think he is? Since they first made love she's made it clear that she prefers to see his face. Why then is she suddenly offering herself for whatever he might want? He slips his free hand between her legs, pressing his palm against her warmth. She's dry and tense and he's just too damn tired. Nothing terribly exciting is going to happen here tonight. He mumbles an apology, but when he tries to move his hand she covers it with her own and presses his fingers against her, much harder than he would ever dare to touch her himself. She's pressing him into her and rocking on his hand and this is completely wrong, this is the kind of sex they had when they first started, when it was all about need and never about love. "Stop," he whispers, kissing the side of her face. "Please, Scully, stop." He pulls his hand out from under hers and wraps his arm around her waist, holding her tight against him. The first real sob shakes her shoulders and he doesn't have the slightest idea what to do except hold on and pray she doesn't start to fight him. He'll have to let her go if she does and he has the distinct sense that letting go of her right now would be a terrible thing to do. "Touch me. Please," she begs him, laying her hand over his again. He's gone from surprised now to astounded. Scully is hints and clues or taking what she wants. Never once has she outright asked him for anything. He lets her guide his hand back between her legs. He makes little shushing noises, dropping tiny kisses on her freckled shoulders, along the side of her neck, calming her. Stroking her long and slow until her hips begin to move with him, until she moans softly and opens to his fingers, pressing her face into the pillows. Her orgasm, when it comes, is so quiet he might have missed it were it not for her legs closing on his hand, trapping him, making him stop. She moves flat onto her stomach, taking him with her so that half his weight is resting over her body. Her ear is still near his mouth, but her heels are hard against his shins and it reminds him once again that she is smaller and more fragile than either one of them likes to acknowledge. He rubs the back of her neck with his nose, kisses her scar, and suddenly he thinks he understands. "Forgive you for what?" he asks. "For going off with the smoking man?" She nods. "Oh, Scully." He nuzzles his face into her tousled, clean-smelling hair. "I was never really angry. Just scared. Just so god damn scared." "Then why?" "Why what?" "Why haven't you touched me since then?" He stops moving. "What?" "Even tonight," she says mournfully. "You left me to sleep on the couch." "But, Scully ... you haven't wanted to be touched." She pulls abruptly out from under him, and he rolls onto his back, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. Oh god, she's going to pick an argument, and he won't respond because he won't know how, and the lack of response will be taken as response, and any way he looks at it, he's fucked. He's too far gone to let go of her now, too proud to hold on if he isn't what she wants. What is this with them that every step closer has to be renounced? He's been waiting for this since the night they became lovers over a plastic ring and a spaghetti dinner, waiting for her to bolt back to the safety of her high moral ground. He makes himself listen and she's saying, "What on earth made you think I didn't want to be touched?" She's pissed off, but she's also genuinely curious, and he begins to wonder if they are actually taking a step forward after all. "You ... " He stops, realising he has no answer. She wasn't giving off the right signals? What signals is she supposed to give off? Can't he touch her simply because he wants to, give her the chance to respond or not? Why are they still so afraid of each other? Maybe Scully isn't the only fragile one. "I don't know," he finally admits. "It seemed like you wanted to be left alone." "I was only waiting for you to tell me you weren't angry any more." "Why didn't you just ask me if I was?" "Because ... because we don't do that." She stops and blinks. She too must be hearing how ridiculous that sounds. True, but ridiculous. "Dana Scully doesn't have visions in Buddhist temples, either," he answers, deeply relieved when a small smile tugs at her mouth. "Maybe it's time we started to talk." She hugs her knees to her chest, eyes wide and dark, unaware of the way she's exposing herself, red and swollen where he's just been touching her. He's never seen her more vulnerable, yet she seems the size of the world, as strong as bone. Scully can be broken, but she will eventually heal, and she's awfully hard to crush. "I loved Daniel," she says softly, "but when we made love, I knew we were hurting someone and it made me feel like a whore. When Jack and I made love I felt ... bored. I enjoyed his company, but there was no passion between us. I don't think either of us wanted passion. Maybe I was trying to recreate Daniel in a relationship I could control. Whatever it was, it didn't last very long." She stops, but he knows she's not finished. He lays down on his side, resting his head on his folded arm. To his surprise, she lays down as well, her posture mirroring his own. She closes her eyes, but he knows she's only thinking, trying to put something difficult into words. He has nowhere to focus except her face or her naked body, so he closes his eyes as well. "But you, Mulder," she says, and he keeps his eyes closed, in case that's what she needs to continue. "The first time I took you inside me, it was as if the entire universe had stopped to take notice." She touches his face and he opens his eyes, remembering that night, how she'd tightened her arms and legs in a vise grip around him, forcing him to remain still inside her for the longest time. He'd nearly cried thinking he was too heavy, too clumsy, that he was hurting her. "I should have told you that then," she admits, stroking his stubbled chin. "But I was afraid, Mulder. I was so afraid of what that meant." "And now?" "I'm trying to be more open. To everything." He smiles. "You really do keep me guessing, Scully." "So we're okay?" she asks, in a soft voice filled with wonder. "We're okay." He holds his arms out to her, and she comes to lie within them, gracing him with the sweetest of kisses, a kiss that gives new meaning to the word tender. A kiss that seems to go on and on, long after their lips have parted. She lays her head in the hollow of his shoulder, lightly trailing one finger around his left nipple. Oh, great. *Now* his penis is starting to wake up. "Mulder?" "Mmm?" "I know I've never told you, but you do know, don't you?" He strokes the length of her back, slowly with both hands wide, the way she likes it best. "I know." He's almost asleep again when he feels her disengage, begin to slip out of bed. He reaches out, so quickly afraid, and catches her hand. "I just need some time before work." She kisses his fingers one by one, then places his hand back on his chest. "And you need some sleep. I've got big plans for tonight--" She leans over and runs her tongue lightly over the edge of his ear, whispering one last word. "--lover." Mulder is still smiling as he falls asleep. When he wakes, first thing, he's going to move those mugs to a lower shelf. --------- --------- Feed Fi?