TITLE: Vapour Trail

AUTHOR: Khyber (yes, THAT Khyber.)

E-MAIL: khyber@citizensofgravity.com

DISTRIBUTION: Ephemeral, Gossamer, please ask for anywhere else.

RATING: PG-13 for implied sex

CATEGORIES: SR

KEYWORDS: Mulder / Scully romance. 

SPOILERS:  Oh, come on. All of late S7, especially "Je Souhaite."

SUMMARY: Post-ep for "Je Souhaite." Scully's not making this too 

easy.

Disclaimer: Nope, nobody making any money. 

Author's Notes: More angsty fun if you think of this as Friday, and

"Requiem" as Monday. Also, I was thinking of calling this "Gong

Endir" in an attempt to win something for "Most Cryptic Songfic

Ever."

* * *

"So, was that a wish, Mulder?"

"Well, I was gonna go for invisibility, but I've heard that isn't

as cool as you'd think."

I rolled up on one elbow and probably gave him the eyebrow. If he

was going to wish something involving me, he'd probably wish my

ovaries back, or something equally noble.

"No, seriously, that was apparently my native charm and the

undeniable romantic appeal of Caddyshack."

"I was trying to think of a way to get out of watching the last

half of Caddyshack. Maybe it was my wish."

"Works every time."

He likes the way it's going this time. Except for three nights ago

in Missouri, it's been all me, me slipping into the bedroom, me

casually sliding my starlet-gown off in one smooth move (I was

proud of that one), me rolling across the couch to straddle him and

growling to turn the damn movie off. He likes being absolved of the

guilt, if there is any. Mulder's seductions, except for the

baseball incident, are inevitably dark, scenery-mangling affairs

with loaded phrases and impossible promises. I may have to give him

the credit on this one, though, for a moment immediately before

that awful Kenny Loggins song started when he glanced down at my

lips, my neck, in a way that hinted of possession. 

"Are you going to tell me what that last wish was?"

 

Mulder laughed. He was laying on his back, I on my side, sheet

tucked and tugged to flatter me a little.

"Are you suspiscious?"

"Well, it's a very practical concern. I mean, trouble, often fatal

trouble, seems to follow wherever her carpet lands."

"That won't be a problem anymore."

"You released her, didn't you."

I touched him, carefully, running my fingertip over his bare

shoulder. I rarely start the touching; that's almost always his

job. But I was having trouble keeping everything in line, fresh

from an orgasm that felt like it gently removed my skeleton and

left it laying beside the bed. My hand continues on his chest, and

one of my feet slides over his calf.

"Yeah, I did."

"I though you might."

"Why?"

"Because while you're probably not the first person who's thought

of it, you're the first who would actually do it."

"Was that a very, very backhanded compliment?"

"No. It's a real compliment. It sounds funny in this day and age,

Mulder, but you're an honourable man. An occasionally foolish and

frustrating one, but an honourable one."

On that note, I rolled on my back, drawing myself up on my elbows

and beginning to look around for my clothes. Mulder's hand ran down

my bicep. I tensed it like a teenage boy. 

"Are you going?"  he asked.

"I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing."

"Well, don't go yet."

"I don't know, Mulder..."

I should have been able to do better than that. I didn't want to

leave, but there was something old and chilly pushing me between my

shoulder blades, pushing me up and out of his bed. 

"Scully, it's one in the morning. It's Friday anyway. Are you going

to make me get sentimental here?"

"This should be good," I said. Temporarily reprieved from carrying

out my sacred and lonely duty, I lay down beside him and we reverse

our previous positions, Mulder up on one elbow. I know he's hoping

that I'll have a stray hair that needs taking care of, but he had

to continue without props.

"I know that we are not supposed to speak of these things. But, I

mean, in seven years we... this has happened before, and I think,

you know, we usually managed to pick the very wrong times to do the

right thing."

"You're saying this is the right thing to do?" It came out right,

for once, not questioning, actually asking.

"Well, we're ending up here a lot lately, and I don't sense an aura

of impending crisis."

"The time before last was totally a crisis. You'd nearly been

killed by mutant tobacco beetles. And two years ago we were pretty

out of control for a couple of months, so it's not completely

without precedent."

"Scully, it feels different, and you know it."

"You're right, Mulder, but it's complicated. I mean, we work

together, and after everything that's happened..."

"Aw, Scully... how can you say that with a straight face? This

isn't like we're waking up after a Christmas party gone wrong and

going 'oh, shit, what's your name again?'"

He's right. That was embarrassingly weak, like a parody of

something I would have said years ago.

"I'm not sure I mean that, Mulder. I think it's just some sort of

conditioned response. I have to say it."

"I'm not sure what I mean either. But I don't want to forget this,

Scully, I don't want to pretend it's not there."

"So, what...? The same, with admittedly extraordinary sex on a

slightly more regular basis?"

What I meant to say was that he was a crazy and beautiful man, and

that we should immediately move to Fiji and become scuba

instructors. However, I wasn't entirely sure he wouldn't have just

agreed with me.

"Verging on paranormal." He chuckles. "I don't know, Scully. I told

Skinner a few years ago that my future plans were in the X-files

somewhere."

"If you tell me that your future plans are me, I am so not going to

believe you."

"That's not exactly where I'm going," he begins. The way he

hesitates lets me know that it's a false etreat. "... but what if

you were right that morning before I went off chasing crop circles

in England? What if all that's in the X-files is more X-files?"

"Am I really hearing this, Mulder?" I tried to make it sound like

I'm calling bullshit, but he moves close to me and I'm betrayed,

suddenly conscious of the warm rush of contentment. The nearness of

his body reminds me of being held, touched, penetrated, adored. The

urge to purr and snuggle and do other terrible things is almost

overwhelming. I smile at him. "Keep talking, this is going to be

pure gold for future arguments."

"I can't do this anymore, Scully. This bullshit, this now-and-again

pretending thing. I've told you all the serious stuff before. You

are my touchstone, my one in five billion. You believed me. But I

want to be able to just tangle my fingers in your hair..." He does,

running a hand back from my temple and just over my ear. It's slow,

it feels like a full-body massage, and I catch myself wanting to

mewl. "I want to put my mouth right here," he whispers, pressing

his face into my neck, "and lay still, and breathe you in. I want

that to be all right."

* * *

That was the point, ladies and gentlemen, when Dr. Scully decided

that it was, in fact, time to go. I can't say why in any

straightforward fashion. But it was just getting good... oh it was,

it was getting so very good. What woman doesn't want to hear those

things? I certainly do. 

In the interest of full disclosure, let me make it clear that I for

one will be immensely surprised if I wake up five years, or one

year, or ever for that matter, with anyone besides Mulder, and I

don't want it any other way. Not to mention that even thinking

about Mulder with anyone else starts a black fire in my barren womb

that makes me simultaneously want to curl into a ball and cry, and

reach for my gun and pre-emptively hunt the bitch down. 

So what brings Dr. Scully, Sister Spooky, to her neatly made lonely

bed at two o'clock on a Saturday morning? Mulder believes

everything he says, but he'll say it to get what he wants. There is

always that slight twinge, that Mulder says these things because he

wants something, and even if it's something that wants him back, I

just can't let him get away with it. A couple of years ago, a

little before Antarctica, he decided he wanted me. At the time, I

took the sex--wrenching, biting, fearful doses of it-- because that

was all I could handle, and when he refused to let me pick and

choose my entanglements I backed away again.

I needed to do this tonight, exercise those muscles one last time,

let my old heat shield burn a bright trail as I enter a new

atmosphere. I know he's down there, waiting for me.

* * *

finis

Better? Worse? Back into the permafrost with the other woolly

mammoths? khyber@citizensofgravity.com