From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: Tue, 19 Sep 2000 19:15:36 -0500 Subject: \"Bedroom Walls\" 1of1 (NC-17) by Marie Endres Source: direct Reply To: joemimi@prodigy.net "Bedroom Walls" by Marie Endres joemimi@prodigy.net Classification: MSR/Angst Rating: NC-17 Spoilers: Up to "Requiem" Summary: Sometimes a memory can be triggered by the strangest of things. Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully are not mine. They belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. "Bedroom Walls" Why is color so important to a woman? Some of my favorites have been violet, lavender, orchid, plum. This particular shade, however, tells both its color and its scent: lilac. Similar to many different shades, but exactly like none other. It is soft, subtle, yet unmistakable. It is a hundred springtimes, thirty six new beginnings. Pinks, whites and now gold rise before me as I light the wick of the lilac pillar candle before me. Like a wife bringing in the beginning of Shabbas, I practically bless the light that springs up. May this light fill a room of comfort for us. My "Amen" is interrupted by the turning of the door handle. My partner enters the room with a less than reverent, "Oh, shit," as he surveys the decor. Words such as "brothel," "over done" and "tacky" might come to mind. "Hello to you, too," I reply to his greeting. "C'mon, Scully. Grab your stuff. We're outta here." "Gee, why? I sort of like it here," I say with a smile. "Let's go. This isn't quite what their website promised," he says with disappointment. He reaches for my hand while saying, "I wanted this weekend to be special, you know that." And I do. Today, marks the sixth month in this the greatest of paradigm shifts from friends to lovers. We have had our ups and downs, our stops and starts, but we are still here. He tried to find a place that would cater to my most forbidden of tastes: a bed and breakfast out of a romance novel. Where we are actually standing, though, seems closer to one of his fantasies. Taking me in his arms, he speaks close to my ear, "I really tried to find a lacey Martha Stewart place. I guess they decided to go more with a Rod Stewart theme. I'm sorry." "Let's stay," I say with a surprising amount of certainty. "What?" he says, pulling back, away from me. "It would be a shame to drive all the way back home." Lifting my finger up to trace his bottom lip, I look him square in the eye and say slowly, "After all, we have everything we need: you, me-." I speak the last item on my list of necessities by glancing over at the platform bed with the red, satin sheets. Taking my idea under consideration for all of a moment, he concedes, "Ok, but that better not be a water bed. You know how I get on a rolling sea." Grinning at his joke, I pull myself up to give him a quick kiss. Against his lips I say, "Don't worry Mulder. Remember, I'm a sailor's daughter. I'll protect you." I turn away from him and walk across the gold, shag carpet to the bath. He does not follow, so I figure he will want to shower after me. I finish my ritual shedding of clothes and cares quickly, and wrap just a towel around me when I am done. The room is warm and I know it will soon grow warmer. He's sitting on the left side of the bed, dressed only in his bathrobe when I enter the room. Instead of meeting my gaze, he's just looking at the wall. To be exact, he's staring at the wallpaper. Now to be honest, the wallpaper is the one of the most "charming" features of the room. On a shiny. gold background, there are red flocking swirls and curves. It caused me to stop dead in my tracks when I first entered the room. I sense, however, that there's something more going on here for Mulder. I try to break the chill that has suddenly descended upon the room by saying lightly, "Getting decorating ideas, Mulder?" He doesn't say anything at first. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, his fingers lacing at the bridge of his nose. "My parents had wallpaper like this." I walk toward the bed and choose to sit behind rather than next to him. I instinctively know from years in a Catholic confessional box that sharing secrets is a lot easier when one doesn't have to look another in the eye. As the side of my thigh makes contact with his lower back, he begins: "It was the summer before Samantha was taken. My mother always loved the color peach. She liked the way she looked when she wore it. She even went through a phase of dyeing her hair red because she thought it became her. My father thought so, too. It was time to re-do their bedroom and my mom wanted a Victorian theme. She ordered the wallpaper with an emphasis on her favorite color. Since it was a special order, she knew she couldn't return it. It finally arrived and when they un-rolled it, my parents were horrified. It had bright, orange flocked designs on a gold lame' background. I can still see my mother's hand flying up to her mouth. For a moment, the tension of a wrong choice hung in the air. Then my father leaned in close to my mother and tried to keep his voice low so we wouldn't hear. Whatever he said, made her laugh and then we all were laughing, from relief, I guess. After we settled down, we all helped put up the brothel wallpaper. My bedroom was right next to my parents' room. To be honest, I used to hear and listen to them make love sometimes. I know, I was strange, even then. It used to give me an odd sort of security. I knew it made them happy and if they were happy, then the whole family was happy. The night after the wallpaper went up was one for the record books." Here, he begins to chuckle softly. I know, though, that things did not stay this way. There would soon be no happy, loving couple or contented, young boy. "After Samantha was taken, I tried to keep some sense of normalcy. I tried to do the same things in the same way to insure that something would stay the same. I ate crunchy peanut butter sandwiches everyday for a month. Yet despite my creative efforts, everything changed. I really don't recall hearing my parents too often afterward. I remember one dreary afternoon, I walked into their bedroom and took a good look at the wallpaper. I had never really noticed its intricate patterns before but I swear, that day, I could see hideous, grotesque faces in the swirls. It was as if even the walls had eyes that mocked our once secure family." I reach out to him, to encircle him with my arms. As my hands connect around the front of him, I rise up on my knees to whisper in his ear, "It's OK. Why don't you take a shower?" He pauses. "No, no, not now." He turns swiftly in my arms and facing me says, "No, right now, I just want you, Scully." He lowers his head near me, his forehead brushing my cheek. His lips first touch my chin, not even really kissing. Softly, he swipes his lower lip against mine, just grazing the tender flesh there. Over and over his lips move with mine, until his kiss grows harder. Before I can take a breath, he has pulled me tightly to him and has taken me down, under him, as he lays down on the bed. His once slow, languid kisses have been replaced by a devouring, working of his mouth against mine. I am confused by the sudden change. His hands have moved up to my hair, tangling in it, pulling my head up closer to him. He is hungrier than I ever known him to be. He is. . . desperate. His hands drop just long enough to rip away the towel that has been shielding the rest of my body from his onslaught of need. I am naked before him. Pausing just a moment, he lifts his lips away from me and opens his eyes. I see my own confusion mirrored back. Yet, he cannot stop. His mouth finds my neck next. There, he sucks, nibbles and trails frantic kisses down to my shoulder. I long to slow him. I try to give back a kiss, a delicate whisper near his ear. I can't reach him and his hands are on my shoulders virtually holding me down. I would entertain some panicked thoughts if it weren't Mulder. And then I get it. It's precisely because we are whom we are to each other. We can be tender. We can be raw. We can take. Selfishly. We can give. Selflessly. So I do. I give of myself, my body as he roughly enters me. He needs to reclaim a part of who he was that was lost so long ago. Somehow, he can find that in me. I may not be able to give him a life from my body, but I can let him again hold onto a physical joy that a young boy once heard through thin bedroom walls. He is so close now. I silently beg him to let go, to let it happen. He pounds into me relentlessly and then he finds release. He cries out and the sound fills the once quiet room around us. His forehead drops to my shoulder and it is then that I feel his tears against my skin. "I'm sorry, " he chokes out. My hands stroke his back and find their way to his hair. "Shh, shh," I soothe as one would a child. He withdraws from me, but does not leave my body. "I'm sorry about that, Scully. I want to make it better for you," he whispers as his mouth once again moves down my body. Lower and lower he moves. His lips caress the tenderest of skin below my navel. As his cheek brushes against the wiry curls that crown the mons, he raises his eyes to meet mine. I am gifted with a tender smile as he once again lowers his head, intent on his goal. His lips, tongue and fingers circle and tease, pressure and soothe. Moments flutter by as he again and again brings me close and then retreats. I feel my climax so near. My hands seek his shoulders, and as I press myself once more to his sweet mouth, I am there. It is the one place where there is only one being- us. As my breathing slows and he gathers me in his arms, I feel the most content of smiles spread across my face. "Are we alright, Scully?" he asks. "Oh, we are more than alright," I reply. "How exactly do you do that so well?" I wonder aloud, referring to his skills that go beyond hulling sunflower seeds. "I just think 'Roadmap of Alabama.' You know, all those winding, twisty roads," he deadpans. My shoulders shake with a quiet laugh in response to his explanation. It's good to hear his sense of humor returning. It means he is here, present, now. "So, is it safe to assume that my 158 game winning streak is still intact?" he says leeringly. "Tell me you keep track," I say with a hint of wariness in my voice. "Sometimes an obsessive memory can be a good thing, " he offers. "Yes, yes it can," I agree. "I hope you'll allow me to use the rest of the weekend to make up for this place, for everything, for before," his voice lowers in shame. "Mulder, it is alright. I understand." And I do. I always will. END Feedback: Tell me about your wallpaper!joemimi@prodigy.net Thank You's as always to the dear and creative Georgia. If you're wondering about the lilac pillar candle, the brothel-like wallpaper, the crunchy peanut butter, a roadmap of Alabama, and the phrase "158 Game winning streak" take it up with her- she provided the elements for this improv fic. Also to The XScenes group- your kindness and comfort knows no bounds! You rock!