From: kate rickman Date: Sat, 12 Aug 2000 20:31:53 -0400 Subject: Love for all Seasons 10 Source: direct TITLE: Love for All Seasons 10: One Wednesday in February AUTHOR: Kate Rickman E-MAIL: kate.rickman@mindspring.com DISTRIBUTION: anywhere, sure, thanks.... CLASSIFICATION: MSR RATING: R SPOILERS: Sein und Zeit, Closure, slight for Duane Barry DISCLAIMER: Just the wall, not the bricks. SUMMARY: On a Wednesday in February, Mulder and Scully don't make it to work on time. AUTHOR'S NOTES: Another installment in my no-longer-such-an- alternate universe where Mulder and Scully enjoy a normal romantic relationship. If CC continues in his current direction (oh please, please, please), I'm going to be out of business real soon (say hallelujah). SPECIAL NOTE: For the sake of argument, let's say that Scully has a highly efficient heating system in her apartment. ;-) Other installments in this series and my other fiction can be accessed at http://kate.rickman.home.mindspring.com/ Once again, thank you for reading! *** Scully's Apartment Wednesday February 23, 2000 6:23 AM "Mulder!" I burrow my face in her neck, looking for the sweet spot, my Heaven Spot I call it, that lies somewhere just south of her ear and only a little west of the delicate hollow where sweet dew collects when we make love. "Wait!" She presses her tender backside against the inflamed flesh of my groin, pushing me away, egging me on. I grin at the pun, laughing as I see the spatula wobble in the air, one egg after the other falling back into the frying pan. I burrow deeper and nip the tender skin beneath her chin, rubbing myself into her soft embrace. I shiver with wanting her. "Mulder!" Plop. The last egg flops bottom up into the pan, a yellow slick spreading from the broken disk. The spatula clatters onto the stovetop, bounces on the counter, and skids across the tiled floor. Thunk. It finally comes to stop against a baseboard and the room fills with the sound of my breath and Scully's instead. I find her breasts with my hands and coddle them gently, rubbing the nipples with my thumbs. "Ahhhh," her protests turn to small sounds of pleasure, a catch of her breath, a sinuous wiggle against my heat, coaxing me. She swats at the burner control, finally flipping it to the off position after several attempts, then she slips in my arms and turns the full heat of her eyes into my heart. "Ahhh," it's my turn as I let the her passion boil my blood. Her small hands slide around my back, slipping low, gripping my ass and pulling me tight against her. Then her lips are on mine, teasing, slick, probing, and I'm suddenly breathless, reaching for her. Then - oh my God - with a little hop she wraps her legs around my waist, pressing her moist heat against me, pressing my start button, pressing my ballistic into space button, and I'm lost, lost, lost, turning, spinning across the kitchen - in the distance a chair hits the floor with a dull whack - until my thighs hit the table and we fall forward. I prop myself above her, gulping air, blood thundering in my head. She reaches up to me, shifts slightly, then I find myself sinking, thrusting, yearning to surround myself completely with her. She parries each of my thrusts with one of her own, wrapping her legs around my waist, pulling me into the bottomless love of her eyes. More, more, more. I need more of her. More. I need to lose myself in her. More. I'm barely conscious of the table hopping across the floor beneath us until it jerks to a halt against the far wall. More. The pressure in my chest and my pelvis swells and explodes, shattering what's left of my consciousness. I spasm wildly into Scully, calling her name ScullyScullyScully as she cries my name and spasms around me. She is pliable, like rubber, when I scoop her into my arms. We breathe into each other's mouth, our hearts hammering against each other's chest, slowing together as we hold each other. Scully rubs my back, slides one arm around my shoulders. When she nestles her face against my neck, I burrow my nose into her hair. Our world is her heartbeat and mine, her breathing with mine, for several long minutes. Then, with a sigh, Scully peers over my shoulder, eyeing the mess on the stove. "That's what you get for frying eggs, naked," I rub the sigh out of her back. "You know, those were the last eggs." My stomach rumbles audibly. "Well, what about cereal, then?" "No milk." Dry granola. Ugh. "French Toast?" She shakes her head slowly. "No bread." Shit. A smile creeps across my face as I think of dining on Scully. Blood pounds steadily below my waist. Yup. I'm up for it. I smirk this time. "No way, Mulder," she interprets the play of expressions on my face. "I'm hungry. I want food...breakfast. Then we've got to go to work." Work. With a sigh, I let Scully slide down my legs until she stands on the floor. I hold her loosely around the shoulders while she wiggles her legs straight again. "Shower first." Shower. Now that has possibilities. I pad behind her to the bathroom and paw my way through clouds of steam to join her in the stall. Slick, hot, honeysuckle-scented, steamy, her hands and my hands, sliding, water splattering, laughing, lips and tongues, tight hard deep, stars, stars and more stars. We stumble, weak-kneed, from the shower. I fold Scully into a plush bath sheet, rubbing her dry from head to toe. "You know," she mumbles into the terrycloth, "there's a good reason why we usually sleep at our own apartments during the week...oh." I finish with a florish and turn the towel on myself as Scully pulls on a sweatshirt and jeans. I find my own clothes and follow her through the room, dressing on the way. With no meetings scheduled this morning, we negotiate quickly, opting for the much-needed groceries and a second attempt at a leisurely meal instead of coffee and muffins-on-the-run. The produce department is refreshingly empty at 8 AM as we weave between apples, bananas, salad things, strawberries. "Strawberries?" then her eyes widen at the price. I reach around her and snag two pints for the cart. Early hothouse berries but worth every penny. She loves them. "Thank you," she shakes her head at my extravagance. "No, thank YOU." It's her turn to pay. She laughs and pushes me into the dairy section. Eggs, plenty of those little yogurts she loves - yeech, I shudder at the thought - and butter, cheese, milk. Then, in the mirror of the refrigerator I see Scully and I, reflected on the background of normal life. Wet hair slicked dark on her head, University of Maryland sweat shirt - the one I bought her to replace the shirt Duane Barry ruined - jeans, tennies, Scully studies the prices carefully through the glass. Next to her, a tall lanky guy, spiky hair in need of a good combing, dark turtleneck, jeans, boots. Me. Behind us appears a sleepy hausfrau, hair trapped beneath a flowered scarf. With a murmured 'excuse me' she reaches through for a pint of cream then pushes on, not finding anything unusual about Scully and me. We're two normal people out for an early morning shop. Two normal people with normal lives and normal wants and needs and expectations. Can we be? I mull that question, trailing behind Scully through the baked goods. We have a cart filled with groceries - milk, meat, eggs, fruit, vegetables - enough food for us to hibernate in Scully's apartment for days. The empty part of me that needed focus, that required the passion of a quest to fill it, resides in Scully now. That scares me as much as it would scare her, if she knew. So I've started seeing a shrink again, really desperate this time to get my head on straight, to center myself once and for all, to order my priorities...for her. I need to accept the resolution of Samantha's fate, my mother's death, even the lingering pain of my father's deceit. I need to let it all go, and learn to be strong, whole, and not blow this wonderful new thing that's grown between us. I need it too much. I smirk at myself. So I'm not there yet. I transfer my death grip from the shopping cart to the loaf of bread and bag of muffins Scully gives me, transferring them to the basket before following her to the check out line. While the disinterested clerk drags our choices across the sensor and Scully piles them into bags, I run out to bring the car around. A few minutes later, we're back at her place, filling the cupboards with our purchases. With Scully preoccupied in the refrigerator, I fumble in my pocket and in a small bag pushed to one side of the groceries. "What's that?" "Nothing," I turn my back to her. Ouch. A red pearl swells on my finger tip. "Nothing my foot," she tugs at my arm and I resist the gentle pull easily. There. A perfect bow. I give it a shake. Good. Scully's curious hands pluck at my sleeve as I turn to her. "Happy Birthday, Scully," with a flourish I present the red rose I bought from the street vendor when she thought I only went for the car. One perfect rose, tied with a white bow on its stalk; a white bow with a sparkling ring in its heart, gold and purple glinting in the light. Without a word, Scully pulls at the bow and the ring drops into her hand. She stares at it. "Amethyst. Your birthstone." I roll my eyes, thankful she can't see my face. Of course she knows her birthstone. "It's not...it doesn't mean anything more than you want it to mean. I mean...it's a birthday present." Oh please, Scully, stop me before I babble myself to death. She tenses slightly, rolls the golden circle between her fingers. Each of the three amethysts, graded in size from left to right, circled by tiny diamonds, sparkles as she twists it from side to side. "What do you want it to mean?" Softly. Eternity. Everything. The endless circle of my love for her. "It's a promise" I say finally. She nods, understanding. When we work through this mess we call our lives, when the time and the place is right for us to move forward again...it's a promise. I take the ring from her hand and hold it like the fairy godmother's glass slipper, letting her choose which finger it fits. Without hesitation, she raises her left hand, offers the third finger. I slide the ring home. "Perfect," Scully observes, turning her hand. Fragments of light splatter onto the counter, a bag of carrots, a bottle of juice. I can't believe that I gave her the ring in the kitchen, amidst the debris of our shopping. She follows my eyes, catches my expression. She caresses my cheek with her left hand, her thumb strokes my lips. "Mulder, it's perfect," the warmth of her mouth follows the touch of her hand. I lose myself in her. Perfect. *** END (1/1) -- kate.rickman@mindspring.com ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ http://kate.rickman.home.mindspring.com