Red Valerian 9: Saturday Morning, Two Breakfasts
FANDOM: X-Files
SUMMARY: When three lives intersect, a triangle is formed.
RATING: NC-17
PAIRINGS: Scully/Skinner, Mulder/Scully
DISCLAIMER: Not mine.
DATE POSTED: October 1998
WORD COUNT: 2,272 for this part
She's always hated mornings, always faced waking up with the dread of a prisoner awaiting his date with the electric chair. As a child she loved getting up to see the presents under the tree on Christmas morning. Easter, with the basket full of brightly colored eggs and chocolate bunnies, wasn't bad either. Those were just about the only two mornings she could handle.
Now as an adult, she slams the alarm off and slowly sits up, squinting into her dark bedroom. She always thinks, another day, another dead body. It isn't until midway through her second cup of coffee that she begins to feel anything near human again. They know her by name at the Daily Grind just down the street; know she takes the extra large cup of Italian Roast, with just a little room for cream at the top.
This, however, is the good kind of morning, she thinks, as her eyes open. Sun is pouring through the blinds and glows golden on the freshly painted cream walls. It's a rare Saturday that she doesn't have to work. They just returned from a case in Tallahassee, Florida on Thursday evening and all that is left to do is the paperwork.
God, Saturdays are great. The last free Saturday they had, she and Mulder spent the day painting his bedroom, trying to make it a habitable space once again. The air still faintly smells of the paint, a strangely comforting smell to her as she rolls unto her stomach. Forty-eight hours of freedom, she gleefully thinks. Sweet, sweet freedom.
The best part, yes, the best part of waking up on a work free Saturday morning is waking to his mouth planting a trail of wet kisses down her bare back.
Mmm-hmm, it's going to be a good day today. She wants to turn around to kiss Mulder, but decides to prolong the agony, to simply let the heat slowly build by grinding her buttocks into him, to feel his toothpaste-fresh breath drift across her face.
Toothpaste fresh? Damn him, he cheated and brushed his teeth!
Scully gives into temptation and rolls over, pokes him in his considerable nose. "You brushed your teeth," she
grumbles.
A chuckle emanates from deep in his chest. "The Thai curry," he says.
She pulls away from his octopus arms and stumbles to the bathroom, unwilling to kiss her man with a mouth that tastes of a night of Bangkok debauchery. Crest is a beautiful invention, she thinks, furiously scrubbing her teeth while sitting on the toilet at the same time. She's a master at timesaving morning techniques.
Back in the bedroom she pauses to take in the sight before her. Mulder, in his bed, beneath the comforter she got him for his birthday, in his bare-assed glory. It's better than presents and chocolate bunnies combined.
Sliding back under the warm covers, she tousles his dark hair. He has fallen asleep again, but he'll wake up. Oh yes, he'll wake up.
They are still a new enough couple that sometimes she awakens in surprise to see him lying next to her. She
thinks, what the hell are you doing in my bed, Mulder?
A few times, in the very beginning, she thought she was waking up with Skinner, and the brush of Mulder's hair against her back shocked her into realization. I'm with Mulder now, she had to think. It always filled her with
surprising joy.
Joy. It is a new emotion to behold, and she's learning to appreciate its red, orange and yellow colors.
She crouches over his still form and applies a gentle kiss to each silken eyelid, watching them flutter awake from her touch. His lips twist into a grin. "Teeth all clean and sparkly now?"
Baring her teeth, she growls.
Her hand crawls up his thigh. "I love Saturday mornings," she says in his ear.
"Not half so much as I do." His large hand grasps her at the back of the neck and pulls her mouth to his. The first kiss of the day is the nicest, she thinks, as his tongue plunges into her mouth and finds her own. She still remembers their first, surprising kiss in her doorway, his lips wet from the rain, his mouth tasting of the dark flavors of coffee and chocolate. She had thought at the time that his mouth probably tasted that wonderful from something he had eaten. Now she knows his mouth naturally tastes that way. Delicious and sweet.
She could spend hours like this. They did, just a few weeks ago while out on a case in Iowa. It was a crisp autumn evening outside of Davenport and she parked the car off a rural road, surrounded only by the dark shapes of tress and the tapestry of a starry sky overhead. She unbuckled her seatbelt and reached for him and they spent a few hours just kissing and touching in the moonlight, while the car radio sang the latest bouncy pop hits. Feeling sixteen again, she imagined racing home in time for her curfew, lest she face her strict father's wrath.
With each kiss becoming deeper and hungrier, she feels her own arousal rising like a fever in the middle of the night. She's utterly perplexed to explain what Mulder does to her. She's known pleasure so extreme she thought she might go into cardiac arrest right then and there, she's had lovers skilled at eliciting shattering screams from her, but never this bone-deep pleasure. Never this thorough satisfaction.
It must be because they love each other, she muses as she nips at his sleep-salty neck. Never having been in love before him, she didn't know the difference.
Did Skinner feel this way when they were in bed together? She knows he loved her.
No, it's not the time to think about him. Guilt has no business being in this bedroom right now.
Her mouth travels a lazy journey down his long torso, stopping off for brief visits at her favorite areas: the small spheres of his hard nipples, the ridges of his ribs, the darkened trail of hair that runs from his belly button to his pubic hair. "The Treasure Trail," Melissa told her it was called when she was fourteen or fifteen. She remembers her outraged giggles at hearing the term.
And of course, she reaches the best spot, her favorite new stomping grounds, Mulder's blood-stiffened penis. Funny how she worked so closely with him for so many years and never stopped to consider that he had one of those hiding underneath his suits. Sure, she had actually seen it a time or two, but it was under rather harrowing conditions and she herself had been in her full-blown mode of doctor's detachment.
The first time she became aware of the reality of Mulder's cock, not as a hazy part of a late-night fantasy, but as the flesh belonging to the man himself, was that rainy night in July when he came to her.
For a long time they sat on her couch, finishing a bottle of Shiraz left over from the night before, attempting to untangle the delicate threads of their relationship. Finally, she threw up her hands. "Mulder," she said, her feet tapping on the rug with anxiety. "Enough talk."
With that, he pulled her onto his lap and once again their mouths merged into a long, sliding kiss, redolent of chocolate and Australian wine. Suddenly she felt it, pressing stiffly against her right buttock. My God, she thought as her mouth pressed harder into his, Mulder has a penis. Mulder has a penis and I made him hard.
She couldn't help but throw her head back in a laugh of wonder and triumph.
Fun is what has been lacking in her life for too many years. Despite her ambition and drive in college, she knew when to amputate her nose from the end of a book and have a good time. Dana and a pack of her girlfriends would make their hair big with gobs of styling mousse and head for Saturday night parties at someone's crappy little apartment. They'd drink some beer, dance to New Order and Depeche Mode, engage in a little flirting with skinny boys dressed in black. Laughter. She remembers the laughter the most, barricading herself in the bathroom with Sheila and Kate, howling at what a fool Sheila was making over herself for some dorky guy. Laughing so hard the blue mascara ran down her face and her sides ached.
After college she laughed less with each passing year. For many years she has no memory of laughing at all.
With Mulder now her lover, it's a different story. Their lives are still a desperate quest for the truth, but when they are alone together they can shed their layers of gravity and relax into more carefree versions of themselves. He teases her and she actually smiles, rather than giving him the evil eye. She tickles him, just to see his face contort into laughter. Some nights they camp out in bed with take-out and simply tell each other stories. Scully has even learned not to bitch about crumbs in the
bed.
This is a new lesson she's learned, that love is not always a deadly serious game. Love can be reading the comics aloud, or burning the toast, or singing off-key with the theme to Cheers.
If her relationship with Mulder were to end today, she'd still be eternally grateful for that lesson.
Her hand grasps Mulder at the root and she squeezes, hearing nonsense syllables beginning to come from the head of the bed. She loves to reduce her brilliant partner to a gibbering idiot with just a touch and the flick of her tongue. Opening her mouth, she takes his cock in as far as if will go as he continues to writhe and moan. What a kick it is to make him feel so good, to hold the power to please him. Lazily, as if working on a particularly tasty cherry Popsicle, she licks and sucks at him, feeling the blood gathering between her thighs, her own arousal painfully mounting with each motion.
Mulder's hands, which have been buried in her hair, pull her head up, so that he slips out of her mouth. "What are you-" she tries to ask.
His eyes are still clenched shut. "Turn around, Scully."
She knows what he wants to do and her heart skitters at the thought. She shifts around so that she is lying on her side, her head level with his crotch. A gasp slips from her mouth as his rough hand parts her thighs and she feels his warm breath blowing on her curls. Then, oh yes, the wetness of his tongue finds her clitoris and her back stiffens as if jolted by electricity. Oh yes, he knows just what she likes, light teasing circles, not too hard, not too soft, simply the perfect rhythm. "Mulder," is all that can come out of her mouth as her brain is occupied with the task of processing the pleasure invading the lower half of her body.
Somehow she is able to remember to bend her head to him and again take his cock into her mouth. With a slide of her tongue along the tip, he increases the pressure of his tongue on her clit and she, too, sucks harder, trying her best to keep up as her body is slowly being driven insane by his tongue and fingers. Mulder is twitching his hips now, a sure sign he's close to coming, shoving himself so hard into her mouth she has to grasp his buttocks to control him. She, too, is dangerously close, precariously teetering on the edge. Suddenly she feels his balls contract and with a muffled moan he comes, emptying himself into her mouth.
With a swiftness that is impressive for a man who has just had an orgasm, he flips her onto her back, pulls her knees up and bends his face to her. Her head hanging half off the bed, she throws her hands over her eyes to block out the sunshine, block out everything but the sensation of his tongue lapping at her, his fingers sliding in and out, block out everything that isn't pleasure.
And then she screams.
No, it isn't quite a scream, it's a sound that lies somewhere in the nebulous area between a scream and a growl, the definite cry of an animal escaping her lungs. Whatever it is, she's feeling wonderful.
There's nothing to hide from Mulder. Dignity doesn't even come into play with him. After all, he's seen her at her lowest, lying in a hospital bed with her eyes taped, and later in another bed, hollowed out by the cancer. He's watched her aim her weapon at him and fire. He's even seen her cry.
She can be anything, it just doesn't matter. He's going to love her all the same.
Unconditional.
Now she understands the meaning of the word.
With heavy limbs she crawls to the head of the bed and settles herself in the crook of his arm. Her hand reaches out to stroke his chest, covered with a light sheen of sweat. "Morning," she sighs.
He kisses the top of her head. "And a fine morning it is, room service and all."
"This is nice," she mumbles into his shoulder, sleep threatening to overtake her.
"Scully?" The sound of his voice makes her open her eyes once again.
"Yes?"
His hand brushes her cheek. "I just want you to know that I'm happy."
She smiles, understanding the impact of his words. Happiness has been an elusive emotion for Mulder. She's actually surprised he can recognize what it is. Briefly moving her lips against his, she whispers, "I'm glad. I am, too."
His stomach chooses to speak for him at that moment, a reverberating grumble. She pokes him at the source of the sound. "You hungry?"
Mulder laughs. "I don't know why, I already had my breakfast."
"Why don't we go to the kitchen and try to devise some breakfast?"
"Um, Scully," he sheepishly grins, "unless you want tuna or beer for breakfast, my pantry is kind of bare right now."
Typical. Mulder doesn't know how to treat himself well. She wrinkles her nose at the thought of a tuna sandwich. "We'd better go to Michael's, then."
He yawns. "Ugh, that requires too much effort."
Her own stomach begins to growl and rumble at the thought of French toast and a big cup of Sumatran. She tugs at his hand. "Come on, time to hit the showers, Mulder."
With a hearty groan he sits up and stretches. "A shower for two?"
She stands up and tugs him off the bed. "Conservation of water is an important part of saving the environment," she deadpans.
Her own bathroom may have more fancy-smelling soaps and shampoos, instead of the bottle of Prell and the bar of Coast she must contend with here, but showering is much more pleasant when Mulder is there to scrub her back. He makes happy sounds as she massages the green shampoo into his scalp and she snorts with laughter when he gets some of the bubbles into his mouth and starts furiously spitting out the soap.
Fun, she thinks. I could get used to this.
Out of the shower she filches Mulder's blue oxford shirt from the night before, giving it a surreptitious sniff. It smells just like him, a little of his sweat, a hint of aftershave and her own perfume.
He turns from his own dressing and smiles to see her in his ridiculously large shirt. "That's awfully sexy on you," he says.
"I feel like I'm wearing my boyfriend's letter jacket."
"Ah, the young Dana Scully, sitting in the stands at the football game. I'll bet you were cute."
She rolls her eyes. "I had a mouthful of braces."
"So did I. We would have been a cute couple."
Impatiently, she puts her hands on her hips. "Are we going to go eat or what?"
Side by side they walk the four short blocks to Michael's Cafe. Holding hands in public would be tempting fate more than they already are, but it doesn't really matter to her. She couldn't feel any closer to him than right now, even if their hands were tightly gripped together. She's wearing his shirt, smelling like his soap, her body is still humming from his touch. It's enough.
It's one of those magical Indian summer days when a sweater isn't even needed and the light seems a deeper gold than usual. People are out on the sidewalks in droves, trying to enjoy the last gasp of fine weather. Couples push babies in strollers, joggers rush by, and dogs obediently trot alongside their masters. A beautiful day and she and Mulder are a part of it.
Scully lifts her face to the warmth of the sun and grins. She now knows to appreciate these brief flashes of
contentment.
At Michael's they get a table on the sidewalk outside and peruse the many options of the menu. Eating breakfast here is like making love with Mulder- which pleasure to choose when they are all equally enticing?
The waiter ambles by and they order. Blueberry-banana pancakes for Mulder and Scully goes with her original choice of French toast. At this restaurant they soak stale baguette pieces overnight in a mixture of milk, eggs and Grand Marnier, turning it into something closer to a bread pudding that regular French toast. Bacon for the both of them, and of course large, steaming mugs of strong coffee.
The food arrives in record time and Mulder jokes that perhaps the staff has a food replicator in back like on Star Trek. She laughs so hard she nearly chokes on her mouthful of food. This sends Mulder into his own gales of laughter and near choking.
"Hey," he says, putting his fork down, face suddenly gone serious. "I love you, Scully." Gently, he pushes a lock
of hair out of her eyes.
It isn't often that they say those words to one another. To do so would soften the impact.
She feels surprisingly shy, casting her eyes downward towards her plate. "I love you, too."
At that moment a chill runs through her body, to her very bones. Her mother would say a ghost was walking over her grave. Reflexively, she turns her head and across the street she spots a man jogging down the street. A tall, muscular, bald man.
Skinner.
No, it can't be. That would mean that he most likely saw her here with Mulder.
He sees them nearly every day, but in a work setting. She knows how the sight of her having breakfast with Mulder would hurt Skinner. That's the last thing she wants to do.
No, it wasn't him, she tells herself. Her mind is playing tricks, unwilling to accept being happy.
Mulder looks alarmed at the expression on her face. "What is it?" he asks.
She turns to her lover and smiles. "Nothing," she says. "It was nothing at all."
After breakfast they stroll back down the street, full, happy and caffeinated. Mulder touches her shoulder. "What do you want to do today?"
She smiles and shrugs. "I'm not used to free time. Maybe see a movie?"
A mischievous expression moves across his face. "Could you go for a little nap right now?"
He has a one-track mind. Then again, so does she.
"I'll race you to your building," she says.
And they're off.
END
SUMMARY: When three lives intersect, a triangle is formed.
RATING: NC-17
PAIRINGS: Scully/Skinner, Mulder/Scully
DISCLAIMER: Not mine.
DATE POSTED: October 1998
WORD COUNT: 2,272 for this part
She's always hated mornings, always faced waking up with the dread of a prisoner awaiting his date with the electric chair. As a child she loved getting up to see the presents under the tree on Christmas morning. Easter, with the basket full of brightly colored eggs and chocolate bunnies, wasn't bad either. Those were just about the only two mornings she could handle.
Now as an adult, she slams the alarm off and slowly sits up, squinting into her dark bedroom. She always thinks, another day, another dead body. It isn't until midway through her second cup of coffee that she begins to feel anything near human again. They know her by name at the Daily Grind just down the street; know she takes the extra large cup of Italian Roast, with just a little room for cream at the top.
This, however, is the good kind of morning, she thinks, as her eyes open. Sun is pouring through the blinds and glows golden on the freshly painted cream walls. It's a rare Saturday that she doesn't have to work. They just returned from a case in Tallahassee, Florida on Thursday evening and all that is left to do is the paperwork.
God, Saturdays are great. The last free Saturday they had, she and Mulder spent the day painting his bedroom, trying to make it a habitable space once again. The air still faintly smells of the paint, a strangely comforting smell to her as she rolls unto her stomach. Forty-eight hours of freedom, she gleefully thinks. Sweet, sweet freedom.
The best part, yes, the best part of waking up on a work free Saturday morning is waking to his mouth planting a trail of wet kisses down her bare back.
Mmm-hmm, it's going to be a good day today. She wants to turn around to kiss Mulder, but decides to prolong the agony, to simply let the heat slowly build by grinding her buttocks into him, to feel his toothpaste-fresh breath drift across her face.
Toothpaste fresh? Damn him, he cheated and brushed his teeth!
Scully gives into temptation and rolls over, pokes him in his considerable nose. "You brushed your teeth," she
grumbles.
A chuckle emanates from deep in his chest. "The Thai curry," he says.
She pulls away from his octopus arms and stumbles to the bathroom, unwilling to kiss her man with a mouth that tastes of a night of Bangkok debauchery. Crest is a beautiful invention, she thinks, furiously scrubbing her teeth while sitting on the toilet at the same time. She's a master at timesaving morning techniques.
Back in the bedroom she pauses to take in the sight before her. Mulder, in his bed, beneath the comforter she got him for his birthday, in his bare-assed glory. It's better than presents and chocolate bunnies combined.
Sliding back under the warm covers, she tousles his dark hair. He has fallen asleep again, but he'll wake up. Oh yes, he'll wake up.
They are still a new enough couple that sometimes she awakens in surprise to see him lying next to her. She
thinks, what the hell are you doing in my bed, Mulder?
A few times, in the very beginning, she thought she was waking up with Skinner, and the brush of Mulder's hair against her back shocked her into realization. I'm with Mulder now, she had to think. It always filled her with
surprising joy.
Joy. It is a new emotion to behold, and she's learning to appreciate its red, orange and yellow colors.
She crouches over his still form and applies a gentle kiss to each silken eyelid, watching them flutter awake from her touch. His lips twist into a grin. "Teeth all clean and sparkly now?"
Baring her teeth, she growls.
Her hand crawls up his thigh. "I love Saturday mornings," she says in his ear.
"Not half so much as I do." His large hand grasps her at the back of the neck and pulls her mouth to his. The first kiss of the day is the nicest, she thinks, as his tongue plunges into her mouth and finds her own. She still remembers their first, surprising kiss in her doorway, his lips wet from the rain, his mouth tasting of the dark flavors of coffee and chocolate. She had thought at the time that his mouth probably tasted that wonderful from something he had eaten. Now she knows his mouth naturally tastes that way. Delicious and sweet.
She could spend hours like this. They did, just a few weeks ago while out on a case in Iowa. It was a crisp autumn evening outside of Davenport and she parked the car off a rural road, surrounded only by the dark shapes of tress and the tapestry of a starry sky overhead. She unbuckled her seatbelt and reached for him and they spent a few hours just kissing and touching in the moonlight, while the car radio sang the latest bouncy pop hits. Feeling sixteen again, she imagined racing home in time for her curfew, lest she face her strict father's wrath.
With each kiss becoming deeper and hungrier, she feels her own arousal rising like a fever in the middle of the night. She's utterly perplexed to explain what Mulder does to her. She's known pleasure so extreme she thought she might go into cardiac arrest right then and there, she's had lovers skilled at eliciting shattering screams from her, but never this bone-deep pleasure. Never this thorough satisfaction.
It must be because they love each other, she muses as she nips at his sleep-salty neck. Never having been in love before him, she didn't know the difference.
Did Skinner feel this way when they were in bed together? She knows he loved her.
No, it's not the time to think about him. Guilt has no business being in this bedroom right now.
Her mouth travels a lazy journey down his long torso, stopping off for brief visits at her favorite areas: the small spheres of his hard nipples, the ridges of his ribs, the darkened trail of hair that runs from his belly button to his pubic hair. "The Treasure Trail," Melissa told her it was called when she was fourteen or fifteen. She remembers her outraged giggles at hearing the term.
And of course, she reaches the best spot, her favorite new stomping grounds, Mulder's blood-stiffened penis. Funny how she worked so closely with him for so many years and never stopped to consider that he had one of those hiding underneath his suits. Sure, she had actually seen it a time or two, but it was under rather harrowing conditions and she herself had been in her full-blown mode of doctor's detachment.
The first time she became aware of the reality of Mulder's cock, not as a hazy part of a late-night fantasy, but as the flesh belonging to the man himself, was that rainy night in July when he came to her.
For a long time they sat on her couch, finishing a bottle of Shiraz left over from the night before, attempting to untangle the delicate threads of their relationship. Finally, she threw up her hands. "Mulder," she said, her feet tapping on the rug with anxiety. "Enough talk."
With that, he pulled her onto his lap and once again their mouths merged into a long, sliding kiss, redolent of chocolate and Australian wine. Suddenly she felt it, pressing stiffly against her right buttock. My God, she thought as her mouth pressed harder into his, Mulder has a penis. Mulder has a penis and I made him hard.
She couldn't help but throw her head back in a laugh of wonder and triumph.
Fun is what has been lacking in her life for too many years. Despite her ambition and drive in college, she knew when to amputate her nose from the end of a book and have a good time. Dana and a pack of her girlfriends would make their hair big with gobs of styling mousse and head for Saturday night parties at someone's crappy little apartment. They'd drink some beer, dance to New Order and Depeche Mode, engage in a little flirting with skinny boys dressed in black. Laughter. She remembers the laughter the most, barricading herself in the bathroom with Sheila and Kate, howling at what a fool Sheila was making over herself for some dorky guy. Laughing so hard the blue mascara ran down her face and her sides ached.
After college she laughed less with each passing year. For many years she has no memory of laughing at all.
With Mulder now her lover, it's a different story. Their lives are still a desperate quest for the truth, but when they are alone together they can shed their layers of gravity and relax into more carefree versions of themselves. He teases her and she actually smiles, rather than giving him the evil eye. She tickles him, just to see his face contort into laughter. Some nights they camp out in bed with take-out and simply tell each other stories. Scully has even learned not to bitch about crumbs in the
bed.
This is a new lesson she's learned, that love is not always a deadly serious game. Love can be reading the comics aloud, or burning the toast, or singing off-key with the theme to Cheers.
If her relationship with Mulder were to end today, she'd still be eternally grateful for that lesson.
Her hand grasps Mulder at the root and she squeezes, hearing nonsense syllables beginning to come from the head of the bed. She loves to reduce her brilliant partner to a gibbering idiot with just a touch and the flick of her tongue. Opening her mouth, she takes his cock in as far as if will go as he continues to writhe and moan. What a kick it is to make him feel so good, to hold the power to please him. Lazily, as if working on a particularly tasty cherry Popsicle, she licks and sucks at him, feeling the blood gathering between her thighs, her own arousal painfully mounting with each motion.
Mulder's hands, which have been buried in her hair, pull her head up, so that he slips out of her mouth. "What are you-" she tries to ask.
His eyes are still clenched shut. "Turn around, Scully."
She knows what he wants to do and her heart skitters at the thought. She shifts around so that she is lying on her side, her head level with his crotch. A gasp slips from her mouth as his rough hand parts her thighs and she feels his warm breath blowing on her curls. Then, oh yes, the wetness of his tongue finds her clitoris and her back stiffens as if jolted by electricity. Oh yes, he knows just what she likes, light teasing circles, not too hard, not too soft, simply the perfect rhythm. "Mulder," is all that can come out of her mouth as her brain is occupied with the task of processing the pleasure invading the lower half of her body.
Somehow she is able to remember to bend her head to him and again take his cock into her mouth. With a slide of her tongue along the tip, he increases the pressure of his tongue on her clit and she, too, sucks harder, trying her best to keep up as her body is slowly being driven insane by his tongue and fingers. Mulder is twitching his hips now, a sure sign he's close to coming, shoving himself so hard into her mouth she has to grasp his buttocks to control him. She, too, is dangerously close, precariously teetering on the edge. Suddenly she feels his balls contract and with a muffled moan he comes, emptying himself into her mouth.
With a swiftness that is impressive for a man who has just had an orgasm, he flips her onto her back, pulls her knees up and bends his face to her. Her head hanging half off the bed, she throws her hands over her eyes to block out the sunshine, block out everything but the sensation of his tongue lapping at her, his fingers sliding in and out, block out everything that isn't pleasure.
And then she screams.
No, it isn't quite a scream, it's a sound that lies somewhere in the nebulous area between a scream and a growl, the definite cry of an animal escaping her lungs. Whatever it is, she's feeling wonderful.
There's nothing to hide from Mulder. Dignity doesn't even come into play with him. After all, he's seen her at her lowest, lying in a hospital bed with her eyes taped, and later in another bed, hollowed out by the cancer. He's watched her aim her weapon at him and fire. He's even seen her cry.
She can be anything, it just doesn't matter. He's going to love her all the same.
Unconditional.
Now she understands the meaning of the word.
With heavy limbs she crawls to the head of the bed and settles herself in the crook of his arm. Her hand reaches out to stroke his chest, covered with a light sheen of sweat. "Morning," she sighs.
He kisses the top of her head. "And a fine morning it is, room service and all."
"This is nice," she mumbles into his shoulder, sleep threatening to overtake her.
"Scully?" The sound of his voice makes her open her eyes once again.
"Yes?"
His hand brushes her cheek. "I just want you to know that I'm happy."
She smiles, understanding the impact of his words. Happiness has been an elusive emotion for Mulder. She's actually surprised he can recognize what it is. Briefly moving her lips against his, she whispers, "I'm glad. I am, too."
His stomach chooses to speak for him at that moment, a reverberating grumble. She pokes him at the source of the sound. "You hungry?"
Mulder laughs. "I don't know why, I already had my breakfast."
"Why don't we go to the kitchen and try to devise some breakfast?"
"Um, Scully," he sheepishly grins, "unless you want tuna or beer for breakfast, my pantry is kind of bare right now."
Typical. Mulder doesn't know how to treat himself well. She wrinkles her nose at the thought of a tuna sandwich. "We'd better go to Michael's, then."
He yawns. "Ugh, that requires too much effort."
Her own stomach begins to growl and rumble at the thought of French toast and a big cup of Sumatran. She tugs at his hand. "Come on, time to hit the showers, Mulder."
With a hearty groan he sits up and stretches. "A shower for two?"
She stands up and tugs him off the bed. "Conservation of water is an important part of saving the environment," she deadpans.
Her own bathroom may have more fancy-smelling soaps and shampoos, instead of the bottle of Prell and the bar of Coast she must contend with here, but showering is much more pleasant when Mulder is there to scrub her back. He makes happy sounds as she massages the green shampoo into his scalp and she snorts with laughter when he gets some of the bubbles into his mouth and starts furiously spitting out the soap.
Fun, she thinks. I could get used to this.
Out of the shower she filches Mulder's blue oxford shirt from the night before, giving it a surreptitious sniff. It smells just like him, a little of his sweat, a hint of aftershave and her own perfume.
He turns from his own dressing and smiles to see her in his ridiculously large shirt. "That's awfully sexy on you," he says.
"I feel like I'm wearing my boyfriend's letter jacket."
"Ah, the young Dana Scully, sitting in the stands at the football game. I'll bet you were cute."
She rolls her eyes. "I had a mouthful of braces."
"So did I. We would have been a cute couple."
Impatiently, she puts her hands on her hips. "Are we going to go eat or what?"
Side by side they walk the four short blocks to Michael's Cafe. Holding hands in public would be tempting fate more than they already are, but it doesn't really matter to her. She couldn't feel any closer to him than right now, even if their hands were tightly gripped together. She's wearing his shirt, smelling like his soap, her body is still humming from his touch. It's enough.
It's one of those magical Indian summer days when a sweater isn't even needed and the light seems a deeper gold than usual. People are out on the sidewalks in droves, trying to enjoy the last gasp of fine weather. Couples push babies in strollers, joggers rush by, and dogs obediently trot alongside their masters. A beautiful day and she and Mulder are a part of it.
Scully lifts her face to the warmth of the sun and grins. She now knows to appreciate these brief flashes of
contentment.
At Michael's they get a table on the sidewalk outside and peruse the many options of the menu. Eating breakfast here is like making love with Mulder- which pleasure to choose when they are all equally enticing?
The waiter ambles by and they order. Blueberry-banana pancakes for Mulder and Scully goes with her original choice of French toast. At this restaurant they soak stale baguette pieces overnight in a mixture of milk, eggs and Grand Marnier, turning it into something closer to a bread pudding that regular French toast. Bacon for the both of them, and of course large, steaming mugs of strong coffee.
The food arrives in record time and Mulder jokes that perhaps the staff has a food replicator in back like on Star Trek. She laughs so hard she nearly chokes on her mouthful of food. This sends Mulder into his own gales of laughter and near choking.
"Hey," he says, putting his fork down, face suddenly gone serious. "I love you, Scully." Gently, he pushes a lock
of hair out of her eyes.
It isn't often that they say those words to one another. To do so would soften the impact.
She feels surprisingly shy, casting her eyes downward towards her plate. "I love you, too."
At that moment a chill runs through her body, to her very bones. Her mother would say a ghost was walking over her grave. Reflexively, she turns her head and across the street she spots a man jogging down the street. A tall, muscular, bald man.
Skinner.
No, it can't be. That would mean that he most likely saw her here with Mulder.
He sees them nearly every day, but in a work setting. She knows how the sight of her having breakfast with Mulder would hurt Skinner. That's the last thing she wants to do.
No, it wasn't him, she tells herself. Her mind is playing tricks, unwilling to accept being happy.
Mulder looks alarmed at the expression on her face. "What is it?" he asks.
She turns to her lover and smiles. "Nothing," she says. "It was nothing at all."
After breakfast they stroll back down the street, full, happy and caffeinated. Mulder touches her shoulder. "What do you want to do today?"
She smiles and shrugs. "I'm not used to free time. Maybe see a movie?"
A mischievous expression moves across his face. "Could you go for a little nap right now?"
He has a one-track mind. Then again, so does she.
"I'll race you to your building," she says.
And they're off.
END