X-files Fic: "Eyes Demanded Light" (Mulder/Scully) NC-17
Title: Eyes Demanded Light
Author: Truemyth
Pairing / Character: Mulder/Scully
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,919
Summary: A concerned Mulder visits Scully in her apartment after Gerald Schnauz’s attack.
Spoilers / Warnings: Episode 4x04, Unruhe. Also, smut.
Author’s Note: Thanks to memories_child for a blazing-hot beta. Thanks also to Inside the X for transcript help. Title is from the Don Marquis poem Unrest, which explores the brighter sides of such states. Used for prompt #77 “Upset” at 100_situations. Written for xf_is_love. Of course, Mulder, Scully, and the X-files aren’t mine.
A fierce unrest seethes at the core
Of all existing things:
It was the eager wish to soar
That gave the gods their wings.
~Don Marquis ~
“Addendum to case report. After his death, a diary was found among Gerald Schnauz's belongings, written in the second person and apparently intended as an open letter to his father. It includes the names of his victims, the women he desired to save. My name is contained in the last entry. I have no further explanation for the existence of the photographs, nor am I confident one is forthcoming. My captivity forced me to understand and even empathize with Gerry Schnauz. My survival depended on it. I see now the value of such insight. For truly to pursue monsters, we must understand them. We must venture into their minds. Only in doing so, do we risk letting them venture into ours?”
Scully blinked once at the screen before firing off a ‘Ctrl-S’ and gently shutting the monitor. Her head rolled to the side and her gaze came to rest on the wooden slats of her window blinds. She knew what she’d see, but she pushed open one slat anyway, the lazy scissoring of her fingers revealing her partner, out on the lonely, rain-slicked road. She caught him as he tossed a second constellation of seed shells onto the shining pavement. His eyes flickered towards her window then his head disappeared inside the cab of the Taurus.
She had to put an end to this before the new busy-body in 3A reported him for loitering. Two key strokes of her cell had his voice in her ear.
“Did you know the rainfall average is only 3.4 inches in October?”
“Mulder, go home.”
“It’s okay. I’m good here.”
“Go home or you’ll have to explain yourself to the local cops.”
“Don’t worry; I hid the binoculars.”
She was reasonably sure he could hear the rush of air that was half exasperation, half surprised amusement.
“You finished your report.”
It was not a question, but she answered anyway, answered the invitation between his clipped syllables. “Yes, just now… Would you like to read it?”
“I’ll be right up.” He didn’t say goodbye; they never did.
Scully re-opened the laptop then made her way to the kitchen, flipping on lights as she passed. It wasn’t so odd, really; they’d proofed each other’s reports in the past. Often, these days, it was as if she were writing the first draft to him instead of A.D. Skinner. Even when he didn’t read the words, she could hear his comments as her edits removed the more self-indulgent passages and left pristine facts. Quibbles about commas aside, he was an excellent sounding-board, and Scully could feel her pulse quickening in a way that had nothing to do with the tea bags she put in the two matching mugs as she warmed to the prospect of debate.
She left the kettle heating on the stove and, as she heard his step in the hall, set light to the single candle in the living room. This was the home of a professional, serene and calm. No unrest.
She stumbled on her way to the door and blamed it on fatigue.
They danced at his entry: Mulder moving towards her, she to one side, leaving a smile behind, final twirl to answer the call of the well-timed kettle, screaming from the kitchen, and he moved with assurance to her computer. They’d become so comfortable with non-verbal communication that things like touch and eye-contact weren’t even needed. Like a well choreographed team, he took his place at the work station, and she passed out warm beverages and took up position in a living room chair.
She knew when he had reached her analysis of the ‘thoughtographs’ by the up-turn of his lips even half a room away, knew her addendum wasn’t far behind and focused on her half-empty cup.
“Gerry.”
Her head came up, meeting his eyes over the candle’s flame as she quirked a brow. Mulder had twisted awkwardly in her small chair, one arm, forearm bared, dangling from its fragile back, his near knee angled towards her. His clothes were as creased as the corner of his eyes while he focused on her. She could see the concern and compassion he was trying so hard to mask in the professionalism he knew she craved, the tension leading to a restless, slow grasping motion of his far hand.
“You shift from ‘Gerald’ to ‘Gerry’ here.” His gazed dropped at the tightening of her lips, and he softened his statement with a question, “It kept him talking? Helped you connect?”
“No.” She stood, approached, and watched his neck strain back to maintain eye contact. “That’s when he realized he didn’t have much time. That’s when he reached for the awl. Let me warm your tea.”
She was reaching for the mug when he stood and reached for her. A brush on the cheek, a squeeze of the shoulder, a touch of the arm: there was no way of knowing his intent when she reacted with sudden and instinctual drive that confused even her, flinching from him, stumbling two steps back and colliding with an table at the end of her couch.
“Scully.”
Her name was as broken as she felt, falling through the air between them. She couldn’t go to his arms, though he’d have welcomed her. If he tried to touch her again, she suspected she’d scream. She felt like a nameless worry writhed within her immovable, impenetrable flesh, never staying in one place long enough to be settled, stroked, sorted. Her eyes remained bone dry while her very skeleton shook with tears. Her mouth fell open, but her leaden tongue refused to tell him these things, refused even a dampening flick of her lips.
He held her eyes and moved with the speed of glazier along granite mountains, centimeters telling seeming minutes as he fell slowly to his knees before her. His palms rose towards the ceiling, towards her face like flowers to the rising sun, but he did not touch her, nor did he speak. Her hands were shaken leaves drifting down to meet his. She gasped when the tips of their fingers touched. A spark of light kindled somewhere to the left of her sternum, and she let her fingers slide further into him, leading with her pinkies along the solid warmth of his skin, coming to rest in the center of his palm, allowing herself to breathe again, the first air not scented faintly by adhesive tape.
His thumbs traced circles across the back of her hands as she explored the soft skin of his inner wrist. His pulse was wild, but it was a good turbulence, full of life and flattering so that she felt a genuine smile lifting one side of her lips, and this time her tongue did glide out to dampen her bottom lip.
She began to move backwards, once more at home in her home, moving by memory past the table and the lip of a throw rug. Mulder stayed low, followed the touch of her finger tips with a look that had forgotten concern, was losing professionalism, was transmuting compassion into something else. Scully sat on the sofa and turned the puff of air exhaled into a short laugh. This was ridiculous. Her hands fell from his.
“This isn’t right,” she told the dark corner over his shoulder.
“No.”
The single syllable sent her heart racing, blood rushing, filling her ears, drowning out the sound of his shirt fabric as he lifted his arm, reached out, brought two fingers to the middle of her brow. The fingers kissed where Schnauz’s had prodded, flowed in a line across her brow with admiration. His thumb dabbed adoration on her lower lip before the back of his fingers stroked down her jaw, along her collarbone. His hand descended the golden chain and finally came to rest atop her cross, the warm of his hovering palm calling to the earlier spark beneath her left breast. The flesh grew heated, and it wasn’t until he flexed the fingers of his other hand that she realized it rested on her upper thigh.
With a nod of her head she agreed, and felt the world explode into color as she buried her face in the crook of his neck. Eyes closed, she tasted the salt of his skin, swirled her tongue in a sweet indentation, and chased after his Adam’s apple with her teeth. Her fingers were clever at his buttons, deft flicks baring more skin for tasting as she raced with her pulse to a place she couldn’t name, chasing the unrest from her body by devouring his. Each inch she uncovered was alive with flexing muscle and sinew as Mulder wasted no time dealing with her clothes. She snarled across his back at the momentary loss of skin when he whipped off her shirt, returned the favor with his undershirt and then moaned deeply when his hot mouth found her nipple. Scully would have moved further, was following his belt to its buckle when he pushed her back across the couch. His fingers mimic her rib cage, thumbs pointing down in the path his mouth would take. Her jeans, already undone, revealed simple white cotton that might as well have been black satin or invisible for the look they inspired.
Lips following hands, Mulder stripped her of the last of her armor. He sucked softly at her right hipbone before meeting her gaze over her trembling chest. His hands settled on her inner thighs, and he raised an eyebrow. Her knees fall wide open, shaking at the promise in his eyes, her abdominals seizing slightly as he wet the bottom of those pouty lips.
Now she names the unrest that plagues.
She’s so wet; his fingers are damp before they clear her curls. She feels this, but smiles anyway when he inspects his fingers in faint wonder before returning to the cause. Her smile fades as he parts her lower lips, as her body reacts to the difference in size, shape, warmth, so dissimilar to her own fingers in the same place. His fingers are magic, slipping between, finding her center, joined with a thumb, and then a tongue.
She watches as his naked shoulders bend over her, hold her thighs wide for a deeper sweep of his tongue. It dips within her before returning to her clit, and she can’t watch any more… tears form at the corner of her eyes as she squeezes them shut, thrust her hips into his face. One hand holds her steady as a finger circles, once, twice, enters - shallow at first - then deeper, deeper. He has such long, lovely fingers, beautiful hands. She can see them in her mind’s eye, as they were moments ago, gold on her white skin. Her hands clutch at pillows, chenille throws and she begins to whimper, rocking her hips with the pace of his finger. He sucks at her clit, uses the syncopation of her motion to slide a second finger in with the first, stretching her, filling her. Her heart still pounds, but the motion is gaining on her, the rise and fall of her hips, the flick of his sweetly sarcastic tongue will soon out-strip her fragile heart. She begins to cry his name because she can, because he’s here this time. She feels his lips smile against her and she screams louder, arching her back away from the soft pillows, pushing herself closer to him. The peak is in sight, her body races past her mind, into the light and she’s flying with his name on her lips.
Scully returns to the pressure of his teeth on her inner thigh, forgiven for the kiss that follows. He wraps her in the soft chenille throw, quiets the hands that fly to his waist, lets her feel her weariness with a soft touch of fingers at the likely shadows under her eyes. Mulder moves with her to the bedroom, pulls back the sheets, helps her tuck in her feet. He climbs on the other side, pulls her back to his chest, whispers words she can’t later remember across the back of her neck.
By the morning, he was gone and so was the unease.
He didn’t say goodbye; they never did.
Thanks for reading.
Opening transcript from Inside the X.
X-posted here to xfilesfanfic.
X-posted here to xf_is_love.
My other fiction is found here.
Author: Truemyth
Pairing / Character: Mulder/Scully
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,919
Summary: A concerned Mulder visits Scully in her apartment after Gerald Schnauz’s attack.
Spoilers / Warnings: Episode 4x04, Unruhe. Also, smut.
Author’s Note: Thanks to memories_child for a blazing-hot beta. Thanks also to Inside the X for transcript help. Title is from the Don Marquis poem Unrest, which explores the brighter sides of such states. Used for prompt #77 “Upset” at 100_situations. Written for xf_is_love. Of course, Mulder, Scully, and the X-files aren’t mine.
A fierce unrest seethes at the core
Of all existing things:
It was the eager wish to soar
That gave the gods their wings.
~Don Marquis ~
“Addendum to case report. After his death, a diary was found among Gerald Schnauz's belongings, written in the second person and apparently intended as an open letter to his father. It includes the names of his victims, the women he desired to save. My name is contained in the last entry. I have no further explanation for the existence of the photographs, nor am I confident one is forthcoming. My captivity forced me to understand and even empathize with Gerry Schnauz. My survival depended on it. I see now the value of such insight. For truly to pursue monsters, we must understand them. We must venture into their minds. Only in doing so, do we risk letting them venture into ours?”
Scully blinked once at the screen before firing off a ‘Ctrl-S’ and gently shutting the monitor. Her head rolled to the side and her gaze came to rest on the wooden slats of her window blinds. She knew what she’d see, but she pushed open one slat anyway, the lazy scissoring of her fingers revealing her partner, out on the lonely, rain-slicked road. She caught him as he tossed a second constellation of seed shells onto the shining pavement. His eyes flickered towards her window then his head disappeared inside the cab of the Taurus.
She had to put an end to this before the new busy-body in 3A reported him for loitering. Two key strokes of her cell had his voice in her ear.
“Did you know the rainfall average is only 3.4 inches in October?”
“Mulder, go home.”
“It’s okay. I’m good here.”
“Go home or you’ll have to explain yourself to the local cops.”
“Don’t worry; I hid the binoculars.”
She was reasonably sure he could hear the rush of air that was half exasperation, half surprised amusement.
“You finished your report.”
It was not a question, but she answered anyway, answered the invitation between his clipped syllables. “Yes, just now… Would you like to read it?”
“I’ll be right up.” He didn’t say goodbye; they never did.
Scully re-opened the laptop then made her way to the kitchen, flipping on lights as she passed. It wasn’t so odd, really; they’d proofed each other’s reports in the past. Often, these days, it was as if she were writing the first draft to him instead of A.D. Skinner. Even when he didn’t read the words, she could hear his comments as her edits removed the more self-indulgent passages and left pristine facts. Quibbles about commas aside, he was an excellent sounding-board, and Scully could feel her pulse quickening in a way that had nothing to do with the tea bags she put in the two matching mugs as she warmed to the prospect of debate.
She left the kettle heating on the stove and, as she heard his step in the hall, set light to the single candle in the living room. This was the home of a professional, serene and calm. No unrest.
She stumbled on her way to the door and blamed it on fatigue.
They danced at his entry: Mulder moving towards her, she to one side, leaving a smile behind, final twirl to answer the call of the well-timed kettle, screaming from the kitchen, and he moved with assurance to her computer. They’d become so comfortable with non-verbal communication that things like touch and eye-contact weren’t even needed. Like a well choreographed team, he took his place at the work station, and she passed out warm beverages and took up position in a living room chair.
She knew when he had reached her analysis of the ‘thoughtographs’ by the up-turn of his lips even half a room away, knew her addendum wasn’t far behind and focused on her half-empty cup.
“Gerry.”
Her head came up, meeting his eyes over the candle’s flame as she quirked a brow. Mulder had twisted awkwardly in her small chair, one arm, forearm bared, dangling from its fragile back, his near knee angled towards her. His clothes were as creased as the corner of his eyes while he focused on her. She could see the concern and compassion he was trying so hard to mask in the professionalism he knew she craved, the tension leading to a restless, slow grasping motion of his far hand.
“You shift from ‘Gerald’ to ‘Gerry’ here.” His gazed dropped at the tightening of her lips, and he softened his statement with a question, “It kept him talking? Helped you connect?”
“No.” She stood, approached, and watched his neck strain back to maintain eye contact. “That’s when he realized he didn’t have much time. That’s when he reached for the awl. Let me warm your tea.”
She was reaching for the mug when he stood and reached for her. A brush on the cheek, a squeeze of the shoulder, a touch of the arm: there was no way of knowing his intent when she reacted with sudden and instinctual drive that confused even her, flinching from him, stumbling two steps back and colliding with an table at the end of her couch.
“Scully.”
Her name was as broken as she felt, falling through the air between them. She couldn’t go to his arms, though he’d have welcomed her. If he tried to touch her again, she suspected she’d scream. She felt like a nameless worry writhed within her immovable, impenetrable flesh, never staying in one place long enough to be settled, stroked, sorted. Her eyes remained bone dry while her very skeleton shook with tears. Her mouth fell open, but her leaden tongue refused to tell him these things, refused even a dampening flick of her lips.
He held her eyes and moved with the speed of glazier along granite mountains, centimeters telling seeming minutes as he fell slowly to his knees before her. His palms rose towards the ceiling, towards her face like flowers to the rising sun, but he did not touch her, nor did he speak. Her hands were shaken leaves drifting down to meet his. She gasped when the tips of their fingers touched. A spark of light kindled somewhere to the left of her sternum, and she let her fingers slide further into him, leading with her pinkies along the solid warmth of his skin, coming to rest in the center of his palm, allowing herself to breathe again, the first air not scented faintly by adhesive tape.
His thumbs traced circles across the back of her hands as she explored the soft skin of his inner wrist. His pulse was wild, but it was a good turbulence, full of life and flattering so that she felt a genuine smile lifting one side of her lips, and this time her tongue did glide out to dampen her bottom lip.
She began to move backwards, once more at home in her home, moving by memory past the table and the lip of a throw rug. Mulder stayed low, followed the touch of her finger tips with a look that had forgotten concern, was losing professionalism, was transmuting compassion into something else. Scully sat on the sofa and turned the puff of air exhaled into a short laugh. This was ridiculous. Her hands fell from his.
“This isn’t right,” she told the dark corner over his shoulder.
“No.”
The single syllable sent her heart racing, blood rushing, filling her ears, drowning out the sound of his shirt fabric as he lifted his arm, reached out, brought two fingers to the middle of her brow. The fingers kissed where Schnauz’s had prodded, flowed in a line across her brow with admiration. His thumb dabbed adoration on her lower lip before the back of his fingers stroked down her jaw, along her collarbone. His hand descended the golden chain and finally came to rest atop her cross, the warm of his hovering palm calling to the earlier spark beneath her left breast. The flesh grew heated, and it wasn’t until he flexed the fingers of his other hand that she realized it rested on her upper thigh.
With a nod of her head she agreed, and felt the world explode into color as she buried her face in the crook of his neck. Eyes closed, she tasted the salt of his skin, swirled her tongue in a sweet indentation, and chased after his Adam’s apple with her teeth. Her fingers were clever at his buttons, deft flicks baring more skin for tasting as she raced with her pulse to a place she couldn’t name, chasing the unrest from her body by devouring his. Each inch she uncovered was alive with flexing muscle and sinew as Mulder wasted no time dealing with her clothes. She snarled across his back at the momentary loss of skin when he whipped off her shirt, returned the favor with his undershirt and then moaned deeply when his hot mouth found her nipple. Scully would have moved further, was following his belt to its buckle when he pushed her back across the couch. His fingers mimic her rib cage, thumbs pointing down in the path his mouth would take. Her jeans, already undone, revealed simple white cotton that might as well have been black satin or invisible for the look they inspired.
Lips following hands, Mulder stripped her of the last of her armor. He sucked softly at her right hipbone before meeting her gaze over her trembling chest. His hands settled on her inner thighs, and he raised an eyebrow. Her knees fall wide open, shaking at the promise in his eyes, her abdominals seizing slightly as he wet the bottom of those pouty lips.
Now she names the unrest that plagues.
She’s so wet; his fingers are damp before they clear her curls. She feels this, but smiles anyway when he inspects his fingers in faint wonder before returning to the cause. Her smile fades as he parts her lower lips, as her body reacts to the difference in size, shape, warmth, so dissimilar to her own fingers in the same place. His fingers are magic, slipping between, finding her center, joined with a thumb, and then a tongue.
She watches as his naked shoulders bend over her, hold her thighs wide for a deeper sweep of his tongue. It dips within her before returning to her clit, and she can’t watch any more… tears form at the corner of her eyes as she squeezes them shut, thrust her hips into his face. One hand holds her steady as a finger circles, once, twice, enters - shallow at first - then deeper, deeper. He has such long, lovely fingers, beautiful hands. She can see them in her mind’s eye, as they were moments ago, gold on her white skin. Her hands clutch at pillows, chenille throws and she begins to whimper, rocking her hips with the pace of his finger. He sucks at her clit, uses the syncopation of her motion to slide a second finger in with the first, stretching her, filling her. Her heart still pounds, but the motion is gaining on her, the rise and fall of her hips, the flick of his sweetly sarcastic tongue will soon out-strip her fragile heart. She begins to cry his name because she can, because he’s here this time. She feels his lips smile against her and she screams louder, arching her back away from the soft pillows, pushing herself closer to him. The peak is in sight, her body races past her mind, into the light and she’s flying with his name on her lips.
Scully returns to the pressure of his teeth on her inner thigh, forgiven for the kiss that follows. He wraps her in the soft chenille throw, quiets the hands that fly to his waist, lets her feel her weariness with a soft touch of fingers at the likely shadows under her eyes. Mulder moves with her to the bedroom, pulls back the sheets, helps her tuck in her feet. He climbs on the other side, pulls her back to his chest, whispers words she can’t later remember across the back of her neck.
By the morning, he was gone and so was the unease.
He didn’t say goodbye; they never did.
Thanks for reading.
Opening transcript from Inside the X.
X-posted here to xfilesfanfic.
X-posted here to xf_is_love.
My other fiction is found here.