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In the middle of their first lovemaking, he realized that all of the others had meant nothing.
They paled in comparison to Scully, all those sleek, long-legged brunettes. They paled in comparison to the simple joy of touching Scully, of being allowed to touch her. He knew the actions from past experience, but this was something he had never felt before. There was depth here, truth here. Truth far beyond a simple enjoyment of one's sexual partner.
He had embarked on this voyage of discovery with a sense of nervous anticipation, his senses excited almost beyond belief. Heads inclined toward each other, mouths parted in preparation for a kiss -- she was so near, it would happen any minute now -- he had paused just before touching his lips to hers for the first time. For a tenth of a second, breathing less than a centimeter away from her, he had savored the promise of realization.
The revelations had always been present, of course, buried potential he had never quite managed to uncover. The rewards had waited for him all this time, hidden in the commonalities of their everyday interactions -- his hand at the small of her back, those certain dangerous moments when their eyes would meet and glance away, how he would shorten his long-legged stride to match hers, how she would tilt her face up when he leaned in to speak.
No, the others had meant nothing, compared to her. He knew that now, immersed in the living, breathing event.
So this was what it was like, then, to love a woman's body. To run his hand along the curve of her breast, palming the erect nipple; to slide the tips of his fingers on the taut slope of her belly. The scent of her pores surrounded him, her arms around his head. He breathed her neck and tasted the tang of perspiration as he kissed his way down her torso.
Close, sensations of Scully surrounding him, she was so close. He had never quite imagined this, the little details that made it so shocking and real. It would have been too much, too overwhelming, to loosen his control and actually wonder about the sensations he secretly longed to know. He would never let himself think of such things. Not how her warm skin might quiver and pebble at his fingertips, not how the residue of her perfume might still linger in the air that touched her. And now, engulfed in the intimate reality, he realized he had been right to restrain himself. It was overwhelming, it was too much for him. And all he wanted was more.
His tongue on her belly made goosebumps break out across the smooth expanse, tiny interruptions in the perfection of her skin. He nuzzled the bullet scar in her abdomen, trying to absorb the hurt she had suffered there.
Her hands massaged his shoulders and he slid lower, pressing a kiss to the curls covering the junction of her legs. Tasted the inside of her thigh and the crease where it became her hip.
"Hello," he whispered to her clit, peeking out at him from the slick folds. Maybe he had never allowed himself the luxury of imagination, but he could not deny that he had wanted her for years. A long, long time. His hands spread her wide and he touched his mouth to her.
She cried out. A moan, multi-syllabic but unintelligible.
Imagine, after six years together, he'd taken away her power of speech.
Then she sighed as his lips seared the juncture of her legs, a whisper counterpoint to the rustle of sheets, of skin on skin.
Lips to Scully, open and part, the moist heat of him escaping the cage of his mouth to reach her. He stayed there for a moment, reveling at the giddy sensations that tingled up and down his spine, at the strain of his erection. Though his mind might have trouble believing this was happening, his body did not. He listened with an inner ear, letting it tell him what to
do.
So simple, so easy, to touch his tongue to her, just the next natural step from a kiss. A new taste to memorize now, something to pull up when one day he might be called upon to review the triumphs of his life. His mouth teased her clit and she sighed again, pleasure filling his ears. He wondered what had taken him so long to do this.
Six years. Six years and only now was it finally their time.
When he flicked his tongue at her, listening to her writhe on the sheets and cry out, he knew he was witness to one of the wonders of the world -- Dana Scully aroused because of him, aroused and letting him see it. He remembered many things, listening to the catch of her breath. The first time she had arched her eyebrow in the dim basement office, how it had grated on his nerves initially the way she would look at him, dissecting his theories before they were even halfway out of his mouth.
He gazed up at her now, saw that she was watching him with desire and wonder. Her face was flushed, her breathing unsteady. He moved back up her body to join his mouth to hers, reveling in the still-new feeling of it. The smooth slide of tongues, her lips full and suckling on his bottom one.
If I'd only known...
Oh, if he had only known, he wouldn't have wasted so much time....
Back down now, kissing the sweet softness of her breast. He realized that her bare skin smelled different here, different from her hair and perfume, the cosmetics she used on her face.
Still she watched him, eyes wide and serious.
He remembered her eyes in San Diego when he had revealed the truth of her ova, how they had pushed him away when Emily lay dying. He remembered her eyes over her blood-speckled handkerchief during the cancer time, daring him to say anything. Times when they had implored him to, and foolishly, he had refused to answer her. Scully's hands gripped his upper arms now as he clutched her hips, and he remembered her doing the same in the charred blackness of their basement office. She had pressed herself against him to offer empathy, comfort. But he had been miles away.
Yet somehow it was easy now, to rest his ear against her heart, to reverse that dark painful night and give to her what she had given then. Listening to the beat of life in her body, this woman, this Scully. He had never before heard this kind of sound from her.
The mistakes they had made between them were legion. But through it all they had still arrived here together. He wanted to tell her, Don't worry, don't worry, I will be so much better after this --
"Oh, Scully," he breathed, feeling her hands stroke him.
They had distanced themselves because not to do so was to lose objectivity, the discipline that was necessary for them to work in close quarters. Love was not a thing he pushed away or denied. It was something he hid, like wrapping an explosive material in softness.
But as much time as he spent with all of his careful repression, she -- simply by being Scully -- unwrapped him as easily as if he were a present, just for her.
He tongued her nipple, loving her hands running up and down his abdomen, loving how they dipped lower and lower, finally meeting the head of his penis and enveloping him in a warm grip. The sensations shot through his spine and spiraled up his abdomen, a rush of arousal so deep and fiery he had to gasp at its power.
He loved it, loved her hands touching him. The thought that he could finally acknowledge this, to accept his love of their physical closeness, made him speak aloud, raising his head to look at her.
"I love this, Scully," he murmured, and then it was natural, of course, to say the next thing. "I love you." He watched her face, watched her register his emotion and give it back to him.
"I love you," she whispered, and her grip on him tightened and slid upwards. "Mulder."
Oh, he loved her saying those words, his name as she stroked him urgently. His teeth gritted as the edge came into view, and he pushed her hands away, gentle. He wanted her to say it again, so that he could memorize the sounds. Time enough for that later, though....
"Mulder?" Her voice was almost a plea, almost a whimper.
"Yes?" he marveled at the hoarseness of his own voice.
"Are you ready?"
God, if she only knew how long he'd been waiting to answer that question. Her hands stroked him again, guiding him. Well, perhaps she did know. His own hands spread her legs in preparation.
Sliding, oh sliding into her, pushing that aching part of himself into her hot, wet depths, hissing out breath with the pleasure. She moved her hips as he entered, bringing him in deeply.
"Scuh..." he couldn't finish her name. He looked down at her, saw her eyes brimming through the blur of his own sudden tears, oh she was crying, just like him, and oh this, oh this act was the most he would ever be inside of her --
"God," she breathed, as he began to move.
She raised her legs and wrapped them around his waist, and his next thrusts went even deeper as she lifted her hips to meet him. Here, encased between her strong thighs, moving in a mutual rhythm -- was there something else he could ask for beyond this? Was there anything better, more right? More good than sharing this raw and throat-clenching intimacy, giving her pleasure even as she gave it to him?
They kept time together, communicating through the touch of
hands and lips.
When she came he raised his hand to wipe his eyes, so that he could see her face, to commit her features to memory. She was smiling, beautiful lips open to breathe his name, cheeks streaked with tears. And as she contracted and tremored around him, he thought, This is real. This is Scully.
At that, the last bit of his control disintegrated. He felt the tight rush of heat leave him in an agony of pleasure, and he cried out from his heart deep and bright and bursting inside of him.
He smiled back at her, pressed a kiss into her hair. He could not speak through the lump in his throat. But listening to her soft murmurings was enough. Enough that she was here, that he had made her happy.
And later, lying in the dark with their hands entwined, he felt something settle within him, a calm, a sort of peace outside the exhilaration of finally reaching this new level. Scully's breathing was slower now. He could tell she was drifting off to sleep. Occasionally she would twitch, a movement so tiny he could only feel it because she was pressed so sweetly and fully against him. Six years together. He had seen her sleeping so many times before that he hadn't realized there was something new to discover here.
Oh, but of course there is, he realized suddenly. How could he have thought different?
So many things left to learn between them. Things like the rhythm of her breathing just before dawn, the first kiss in the morning. What shade of blue her eyes would be after they made love in the sunlight.
He pressed his lips to her forehead, soft shh as she shifted and murmured. Something new, something different everyday, and they had the rest of their lives. He could hardly wait to get started.