From: "Liz Owens" Date: Friday, May 19, 2000 1:57 AM Subject: REP: Lovesick (1/1) by Liz Owens NC-17 TITLE: Lovesick AUTHOR: Liz Owens E-MAIL ADDRESS: cantwaltz@aol.com FEEDBACK: Proudly hung on the refrigerator DISTRIBUTION: Gossamer and the usual atxc haunts. Anywhere else, just let me know where it's going and leave my name and such attached. SPOILER WARNING: US Season 7 thru "all things" RATING: NC-17 CLASSIFICATION: V KEYWORDS: MSR DISCLAIMER: No, Mulder and Scully aren't mine--they belong to CC, the fine folks at Fox, and 1013 Productions. "Never for money, always for love...." But I'd never turn down a standing invitation to Chez Scully. SUMMARY: The evening after the night before. AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is a font fic, inspired by the font Lovesick AOE. This font is by Astigmatic One Eye Foundry and is available at http://www.astigmatic.com. You can visit my other stories at http://members.aol.com/cantwaltz. Lovesick "Well, love is insanity. The ancient Greeks knew that. It is the taking over of a rational and lucid mind by delusion and self-destruction. You lose yourself, you have no power over yourself, you can't even think straight." - Marilyn French Tap. Tap. Tap. Dana Scully opened heavy eyelids and blinked slowly. The pillow under her head was soft and so was the light in the room. It could have been daybreak or twilight, and she wasn't sure which. Her eyes drifted closed once more, but the insistent beat that had first awakened her wouldn't let her rest. She tugged on the blanket covering her, thought for a moment about pulling it over her head to block the sound, then forced her eyes to open. Other sounds intruded. A snippet of conversation. A car horn. Tires on the pavement. Evening it was, not dawn, she thought. She should get up, then, even though she was warm and sleepy, so relaxed she almost floated over the soft cushions of the sofa. Sofa. Her eyes snapped open in a rush, her mind going from molasses thick to razor sharp in a heartbeat. She reached out a hand and smoothed it over the back of the sofa, her fingers finding rough cloth instead of cool leather. She was home. Pushing aside a disappointment she didn't care to examine, she sat up slowly. She glanced quickly at her watch and saw that it was past seven. She'd been asleep barely an hour, but her body felt heavy and sluggish. She had meant just to close her eyes for a minute, to try to soothe their tired burn. Shaking off the lethargy, she folded the afghan and draped it over the back of the sofa, shivering slightly. The weather had turned cold and wet, despite the fact that the cherry blossoms were blooming and the trees were garbing themselves in bright new leaves. She crossed to the half-open window and started to close it when the swinging pull of the cord on her blinds caught her attention. It rapped rhythmically against the window frame, swaying in the cool breeze. She watched it for a minute, noticing that her heart thumped in the same slow cadence as this tapping that had awakened her. Then she reached for the top of the sash and began to lower it, stopping when her nose caught the sharp tang of wood smoke. Someone in her building had built a fire to take the edge off the chill in the air. It was a good idea, she mused, sliding the window closed and automatically flipping the lock. It was the sort of evening that made her long for a plush shawl around her shoulders, a hot bowl of soup, and fragrant, steaming tea. Ah, yes. Tea. She padded into the kitchen, her hose-clad feet sliding a little on the smooth floor. She filled the kettle and set it on the stove to heat while she measured tea leaves into a ceramic pot. Methodically, she went about the business of making dinner, her slim hips swaying to the soft rhythm of a tune that she eventually realized was emanating from her own throat. She laughed softly at her own folly, but she continued humming quietly as she chopped and stirred, sipped and tasted. While the food simmered, she changed into a sweater and slacks, enjoying the brush of the thick knit fabric over her cool skin. She built a fire in the fireplace, finding a simple pleasure in the thunk of logs against each other and the crackle of paper as it ignited thin sticks of tinder. Something, she thought idly as she ate, was different. Each mouthful of food was delicious. The tea was perfectly steeped. The room was just warm enough, the fire dancing merrily on the hearth. It was the same home she had carefully built around herself for almost ten years. But...not. Even as she cast her eyes about the room, trying to decide what had changed, the answer came to her. Unwittingly, she placed a hand over her heart. The change, she thought, was in her. She put two fingers against the pulse point in her neck and closed her eyes, concentrating on the steady beat beneath her fingertips. One. Two. Three. Four. It was strong. Whole. Healthy. For perhaps the first time in a decade. She listened to her breathing and quietly did a systems check. Muscles--relaxed. Mind--open. Spirit--soaring. And her heart-- It no longer beat black in her chest. The thing about pain and sickness, she thought as she carried her plate to the sink and rinsed it, is that sometimes you don't realize how bad you felt until it was all behind you. And now she felt-- She dropped silverware with a clatter at the knock on the door. Sliding wet palms down the sides of her slacks, she stepped to the door and peeped through the Judas hole. Almost immediately she dropped her head and hid a smile. Mulder was outside the door, grinning like Eddie Van Blundht. She undid the locks and swung the door open. Before she could speak, he was inside the apartment. "Scully, did you know that the Georgetown library has an extensive repository of government documents?" he asked, dropping two paper bags on her dining table and shrugging out of his leather jacket. "No. No, I didn't," she replied, closing and automatically securing the door. "Is that where you ran off to this afternoon?" "Yeah. I got a tip from a guy I know in Baltimore, and I wanted to check it out in a non-government setting." He indicated his simple outfit of jeans, t-shirt, and boots. "Think I could pass for a grad student?" She raised an eyebrow. "More like a professor, Mulder," she said, taking his rain-specked leather jacket and draping it over the back of a chair. At his look, she said, "Well, maybe a post-doc," which seemed to please him well enough. "I'm sorry I didn't ask you to go with me, but I thought you looked tired." He searched her face. "You look better now." "I took a nap," she admitted, tucking her hands in her pockets. "So, Mulder, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" He looked at her like she had lost her mind. "I was at Georgetown," he repeated patiently. "And since I was in the neighborhood, I thought I would stop by. *And* since you got lunch the other day, I thought that *maybe* you would like some dinner on me...sort of to make up for it." He sniffed the air, caught the still rich scent of cooking. "But you've already eaten, haven't you?" "I just finished," she said. "But go ahead and eat, Mulder. It's going on nine--you must be starving." He ripped open the bags, looking like he was trying not to drool. "Yeah, I'm a little hungry," he said, unwrapping a sandwich and taking a huge bite before he sat down. Automatically, she put ice in a tall glass, splashed water over the cubes, and set it down in front of him. "Thanks," he said, then drank greedily, emptying the glass almost immediately. She took it from him and refilled it, then sat next to him, sipping what was left of her lukewarm tea. "So, did your tip pan out?" she asked, watching him wolf down the sandwich. "Maybe," he mumbled around a mouthful of roast beef. "I need to do a little more research before I can decide." He looked at her with guileless eyes. "You know, if I'm going to be doing some work at the library, I might impose upon you for some information about Georgetown. You know, places to eat, hang out." "Hang out?" she asked. "Mulder, you've never 'hung out' in your life." Unabashed, he said, "Maybe I'm hoping for a standing reservation at the ever-popular Chez Scully." She smiled, her heart beating just a little harder for a minute. "Well, the menu is limited here, but the company is always interesting." He finished his sandwich and dusted his hands on a paper napkin. Then he looked in the other bag and pulled out a salad. "I don't suppose you want this?" he asked. When she shook her head, he dived in with relish. While he crunched on the crisp leaves, she busied herself with finishing the dishes and putting away the leftovers. When the last cup was in the drainer, she turned and found him watching her. "What?" she asked self-consciously, tucking her hair behind one ear. "Nothing. It's just...something is different about you today." She raised an eyebrow, suppressed both a comment and a blush and settled for a shrug as she sat down again. "Well, a lot has happened over the past few days. I don't think I'm the same person I was...not exactly." She looked at him more closely and said, "You know, Mulder, you might look in the mirror yourself." "Why--do I have spinach in my teeth?" She smiled. "No. You look--I don't know, younger. More relaxed." He took a last bite of salad and pushed away the foam plate. "That's funny, because I don't feel relaxed. Or, not exactly *relaxed*--more like at ease." "Ah." She regarded the swirled pattern in the bottom of her teacup and wondered fancifully what message it carried. "Maybe that's it. I'm feeling at ease myself." Mulder stood up and cleared the remains of his meal from the table. When he turned around, his eyes were full of questions, and she was afraid that she didn't have the answers. Before he could speak, she said softly, "Can I interest you in a fireside table in the Chez Scully lounge?" He flashed her a quick smile. "Absolutely. You know, any other restaurant is going to be a major disappointment after this one." Crossing to the fireplace, he added wood to the fire and poked at the logs carefully to get the fresh wood to catch. She watched him for a minute, enjoying the play of muscles under his navy t-shirt. She reached a hand toward him before she could stop herself, then made herself walk into the kitchen and ready another pot of tea, buying herself a few short moments of composure. When she returned to the living room--carrying two steaming mugs-- Mulder had made himself at home, his boot-clad feet propped up on the coffee table, eyes closed. The clink of the porcelain against the table as she put down the cups made him open one sleepy eye. "Shoes, Mulder," she said shortly. He grimaced, but obligingly unlaced his boots and put his now stocking- clad feet back on the table. "Better?" he asked, grinning. She hid a smile. "Better," she agreed, sinking down beside him. "So, Scully, any more great sweeping changes in your life since this afternoon?" he asked, his eyes drifting closed once again. When she didn't answer immediately, he turned his head to look at her. "What?" She struggled with the words, with the unfamiliarity of admitting her own feelings. "Have you ever noticed that, if you have a headache and you stub your toe, that the pain in your foot distracts you from the pain in your head?" "I suppose so." "And then if you cut your finger, you forget about your toe." "Sure." She sipped from her cup even though the liquid was really still too hot to drink. "And after a while, it's just one pain distracting you from another, hurt upon hurt, until you have forgotten what the initial injury was, and the only state you know is one of constant aching." His eyes were open now, staring vacantly at the fire. "Yes," was all he said, the single word thick with emotion. His hand twined with hers, her fingers stretched wide to accommodate his larger hand. "And then, one day, something happens. The pain is gone. And you realize how wonderful it feels not to trade one ache for another, but to free yourself from it altogether." He squeezed her hand, turned his head on the cushion to look at her. "So, Scully, if I asked you how you feel today, what would you say?" She squeezed back. "I would say that I feel good, Mulder. I feel...well." Afterward, she thought she should have expected the kiss, but the tenderness of it was a complete surprise. He sucked gently at her lower lip, coaxing her mouth open. His tongue tangled with hers, the kiss sweet and lazy. When he pulled back, she felt as though some vital connection had been broken. "I'm glad," he murmured, tucking her hair gently behind one ear. "And you know something, Scully?" Words wouldn't form on her tongue. "Hmm?" "I think I feel well, too." Placing one hand over his heart, she leaned closer. "They say you have everything if you have your health," she said, then pressed her mouth to his. His hands slid up her ribcage, settled under her breasts. She arched her back, shivered as his long fingers cupped her, his thumbs brushing her nipples. Suddenly the fire was too warm, her sweater stifling. As if he knew the moment she was about to burst into flame, he tugged her sweater over her head and tossed it aside. He trailed one finger down the valley between her breasts. "So soft," he murmured, fumbling with the front catch of her bra. She watched him patiently, finding his ineptitude strangely touching. When the fastener finally released, a ghost of a grin flashed across his face. "Like riding a bike," he said, peeling off the bit of satin and lace. Then he looked down at what he had exposed, his expression unreadable. She thought she heard him say "beautiful" before he dipped his head and took one nipple in his mouth, his mouth turning from one breast to the other, suckling and nibbling, making sure each breast received an equal laving from his tongue. She felt heat growing between her thighs, each tug and caress producing a shock that ran from breast to womb and back. Suddenly eager, she pulled his t-shirt from his jeans and helped him shrug out of it. A flick of her nails across one of his flat male nipples later, she was jerked to her feet and toward the bedroom. "Not on the couch," he said roughly, pulling her along. "We can't forget the fire," she said breathlessly, suppressing the urge to laugh out loud with the sheer joy of the moment. "One fire at a time," he said, stopping at the foot of her bed. He pulled her close, his breathing a harsh and shallow rhythm. She lost herself in the sound, putting her ear against his chest, loving the combination of the rasp of his breath and the quick, solid beat of his heart. Whatever lingering shyness she had fell away, and she reached for the buttons of his fly. She struggled a bit with the first, but after that, the others gave way with a series of pops. Even as she slid a hand into his open fly, caressing his straining erection, he was grappling with the zipper on her slacks. One last tug and the material parted, slithering down her legs to pool at her ankles. Her panties followed. His jeans took a bit more work, but in a minute he was stepping out of both denim and boxers. "You know, Scully, I don't know the last time we stayed at a hotel with turn-down service," he said, glancing at the perfectly-made bed. "But we could really use that service right now." "Well, if you take the right side and I take the left," she said, falling into his playful mood, "we can meet somewhere in the middle." "Deal," he agreed. They each folded back the bedclothes on their own side of the bed. Then Scully knelt on the bed, holding out a hand to him. He knelt in front of her, close enough that his thick penis brushed her belly. "How's this?" he asked, his arms coming around her, hands caressing her spine down to the small of her back. She brushed a kiss over the hollow in his throat. "It'll do," she murmured. And they tumbled together onto the cool sheets. Worshipped. Yes, that was the word, she thought dimly, as his mouth eased up her thighs, his tongue finally parting the curls between her legs. He suckled at the bud there, his tongue doing some kind of magic dance on her clitoris. When he slipped a long finger inside her, her hips arched, the orgasm surprising her. A long, low moan escaped her throat, a sound more animal than human. Before she could get her breath back, Mulder had kissed his way up her body. She felt his penis probing her, and her legs fell open even wider. Suddenly, his hands cupped her face, holding her head still. Their eyes locked as he pushed into her, thick and hot and hard. She felt another orgasm building as he thrust into her, deep and long thrusts, varying rhythm and tempo just enough to keep her off-balance, always wanting a little more. "Tease," she whispered hoarsely, then nipped at his shoulder. It was enough to snap his control. He pumped into her, fast and hard, fingers stroking and fondling until she flew apart, shocked by the intensity of her climax. Only then did he let himself come, thrusting deep and holding there with a thick moan as he spilled into her, then collapsed into her arms, shuddering and damp with sweat. The next thing she knew, she was alone and cold--the covers seemed to have disappeared along with Mulder. She turned toward the clock radio, which displayed a bright 1:37. Swinging her feet out of bed, she found her robe and quickly pulled the thick terry around her goose-pimpled flesh. Padding into the living room, she found Mulder crouched in front of the fireplace, poking carefully at the ashes. "Just making sure it was out," he said quietly, replacing the poker and standing up. He looked wonderful in the dim light, half-buttoned jeans riding low on his hips, his hair boyishly tousled. Scully nodded, then held out a hand. "Come back to bed, Mulder." He took her hand, squeezed. "That's an invitation you don't have to repeat," he said, following her obediently. They quickly shook out the covers, shucked their clothes once more, and crawled quickly under the warmth of the comforter. Mulder lay on his back and pulled her body against his so that her back was to him and he could encircle her with his arms. "Mulder?" she mumbled sleepily, placing her hands over his. "What?" "If I'd understood that love should make you better than you were before...not worse...I would have tried it again a long time ago." He kissed the top of her head. "I've spent seven years telling you to open up your mind. Maybe next time you won't be so skeptical." She smiled. "Don't bet on it, Mulder. Don't bet on it."