From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: Sat, 11 Jul 2009 23:37:17 -0500 (CDT) Subject: Restless in the Rain by Brae Meyers Source: direct Reply To: bralynne@yahoo.com FROM: bralynne@yahoo.com Date: July 11, 2009 Subject: Restless in the Rain Title: Restless in the Rain Author: Brae Meyers Rating: PG-13 Category: MSR Archive: Anywhere as long as you let me know and proper credit is given. I think I want the credit. Maybe. Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine. Chris Carter created them, but Gillian Anderson and David Duchovny gave them life. Without their great characters, I would be bored trying to figure out how to write such great people. Spoilers: Never Again, Detour, Memento Mori, Redux I and Redux II, Anasazi Summary: After battling cancer, Scully's feeling restless and defiant while awaiting a brewing storm in the southern heat of Georgia. Acknowledgement: Well, my first thanks will have to be to the lovely Florida weather that's been plaguing the state. It's ironic its called the Sunshine State. This whole idea was inspired one night as I sat on my back porch awaiting hurricane-like storms. Thanks to my husband for listening to the story over Skype while he is in Iraq. He is a captive audience. Thanks to Brinn for understanding why I have to ignore him to write sometimes. Thanks to my SIL for testing all my stories, even if she doesn't know a thing about the show. She's moral support, and a great editor! Feedback: My most prized possession. bralynne@yahoo.com "The Georgia rain On the Jasper County clay Couldn't wash away What I felt for you that day" ~ Trisha Yearwood Restless in the Rain __________________________ It is very cliche to fall in love with your partner. The whole off limits thing always makes him or her seem so much more desirable. Perhaps then, I am the Queen of Cliche. After all, I seem to follow every code written as if one break in the book would throw the whole world off kilter. Or, you end up with permanent ink on the small of your back. I sigh aloud. "Something wrong Scully?" Mulder is messing with the radio stations and is too busy searching for Elvis to actually look interested in whether or not there is something bothering me. At least he pretends to try on occasion. Is something wrong? I muse. That's a good question. Is loving the very man I want to kill 95% of the time wrong? I slowly toss this question around in my head as Mulder elects a station playing Three Dog Night. I roll my eyes at him. Of all the random songs that could be on the radio, I get stuck listening to "Jeremiah was a Bullfrog" in the rental car without air-conditioning. It's almost as humid in here as it was in that Florida forest. I glance at the object of my musing and note the goofy grin he is now wearing while weaving us through the back roads of Georgia. I honestly didn't know dirt roads still existed. We haven't been able to locate the site of the most recent exsanguinations, much to Mulder's dismay. We've spent three hours in a Georgia summer without air, and now it looks like it is going to rain. Again. When I was told my cancer was in remission, I don't think I understood that it meant more endless hours in cars trekking across the country. For some reason, I thought it would be different when I returned. I chance a peek at my partner as I contemplate the direction of my life. Mulder has rolled his sleeves up and his tie is somewhere in the back seat where he flipped it after declaring that Georgia is hotter than Satan's Sauna. According to him, that phrase will catch on. Far be it from Mulder to use the more mundane cliche when describing the pressing swelter of the heat encompassing this state. "Mulder. Do you think I'm predictable?" His panic face appears instantly. He thinks it's a trick question. I don't know, maybe it is. "Mulder?" He's ignored my question for too long. "I'm just trying to figure out how to answer you in a way that doesn't result in a second bullet scar to the shoulder." "Mulder, if I were going to shoot you because of some stupid answer you gave me, you would have been dead five years ago." "Was that supposed to be reassuring?" Fine. If he doesn't want to talk, we won't. I lean forward to turn up the song and then distract myself watching lighting out my window. So predictable that he thought I would shoot him in the shoulder again. Right now I think I may aim a bit lower. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ When we return to the motel hours later, we've both shed too much clothing to call ourselves FBI. We checked in yesterday and he deftly maneuvers the car through the parking lot to our rooms. As soon as the car is in its space, I make a quick exit. As I go to tug open the door to my room, a glancing touch bumps my shoulder blade. "Yes and no." He picks up the conversation that ended two hours before we stopped for dinner. I raise my eyebrow. I know he knows this means I desire further elaboration. "Yes, Scully. When it comes to lights in the sky, you are predictable." His hand slides along the length of my arm. "But you are far from predictable. Sometimes you confound me to the point I can't see straight." His fingers tangle with mine, and I debate whether or not to squeeze back. "I like it." He turns toward his room. My grip tightens briefly, and then he has disappeared into his littered room covered with sunflower seeds and pictures of dead cows. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It's going to rain. Again. The sky lights up continuously as if it's a portrait studio. The thunder is muffled. It wants to break free, but is stifled by the thick air of warmth permeating the dark night. When I step outside, it feels like I'm drowning. There is not a star in sight as I make my way toward the motel pool. I love storms, and this one is going to be refreshing. I know eventually the sky will weep, but right now it is content on providing a show. Mulder thinks I'm predictable about lights in the sky, but really, as I sit on the patio adjacent to the moldy smelling pool, I am in awe. As the flashes of light dance above me, I sigh restlessly. Suddenly, a memory. Melissa and I declaring that we were going to sit outside through the approaching storm defying Ahab's direct orders. The feel of the rain soaking through my sweat shirt as I caught a glimpse of Melissa through a haze. Both of us amused by our antics. We had stayed stationary on the wooden swing out back for the first twenty minutes of the pelting assault, but eventually we were bored and wander back inside much to Mom's dismay as our drenched garments dampened her tiled kitchen floor. The air tonight feels strikingly similar to that night, and I feel defiant along with it. I can tell this storm is approaching rapidly as the lone decorative tree sways ominously beside me. It's bent at such an angle its branches almost touch the ground. I should go back to my room. Go get a good night's sleep like the proper little FBI agent I am, but I am restless. The one thing Dana Scully does not do well is restless. I know this, just as I know he is still awake pacing his room obsessing over lights in the sky. While he's thinking about them, I'm actually watching a magnificent show waltz around me. I feel a single drop of rain hit my toe. There is a ripple of concentric circles appearing randomly in the green pool water. The flares of white explode haphazardly above me and the smell of rain assaults my nostrils. I close my eyes briefly, and there is a print of camera flash behind my lids. In the distance, I see a perfect thread of lighting strike the horizon. The burst of it catches on the abandoned glass sitting on the table beside me and there is a sudden point of sparkle, a diamond dot that blinds me for a second. Though I know it is only a reflection, I am surprised for a moment that the glass did not shatter. I find myself wandering toward his door. I hestitate as a sear of white and a crash of thunder captures my attention. Finally, I knock. When he opens the door, I remember why I'm so restless. He is shirtless, his glasses hanging loosely off his nose. He took off his belt, and his pants are hanging too low to be modest. My eyes follow the trail of dark hair sneaking beneath the waistline of his Armani trousers. He is curious. "Scully?" "Hey. Did I wake you?" We both know I didn't. "What's up?" "Mulder, have you ever braved a storm just for the hell of it?" My voice is lower than normal. I can tell he is surprised at my uncharacteristic inquiry by the grin that splits across his features. He leans against the door jamb and invades my personal space. I shiver in spite of the heat. "Can't say I have Agent Scully." I grab his hand and try to pull him out of the room. He disengages from me long enough to find a shirt and his key card. As his door snicks shut, he gets the shirt over his head, and his hand finds mine instantly. I drag him with me to the motel's secret oasis. We each find a seat beside each other on unsteady plastic sun chairs and tilt our heads toward the rumbling chaos that is about to declare its independence from the clouds enslaving it. The fluorescent lights around us start to shake and flicker violently. This is going to be one storm to remember. "Mulder." I have to holler above heaven's rumblings to be heard. He acknowledges me with a tilt of his head in my direction. "I think we're about to get wet." I'm smiling in spite of the madness descending upon us. As the final word falls from my lips, a surge of thunder cracks the sky open and we are sitting in a solid sheet of water. I laugh and press my face toward the sky as fat drops of rain kiss my tongue. I drink them in. I remember another time Mulder and I were in the rain. But this time there is no cemetery, no smoldering motel, and, miraculously, no more nose bleeds. Suddenly, I feel something much warmer than the rain on my neck. A moan escapes my parted lips as he plants another opened mouthed kiss to the underside of my jaw. I tilt my chin and his lips are on mine. His tongue is as assaulting as the rain and my mouth opens beneath his onslaught. His lips are both soothing and bruising. An electric spark flitters in my pulse, and I whimper as his tongue tangles with mine. The sky is broken and so are the walls encasing me heart. He greedily sucks the drops of rain from my tongue, and I cry out with pleasure. This is why I drug him out here tonight, even if I didn't realize it at the time. My white blouse is plastered to my skin and when he runs his hand underneath it and up the column of my back, I shiver. He gently tugs on my hips until I am straddling him. I am in his lap, and I marvel at the fact our lips never parted during the transition. My hands find his hair. The wet strands of silk slip through my fingers. His palms press down on my hip bones and my center makes contact with his growing erection. It's clear that my shirt isn't the only thing that will be drenched tonight. "Scully..." he gasps and pulls back. It is hard to see in the deluge of liquid pounding around us, but through the shimmer of wetness, his eyes engulf me. This is a reaffirmation of life, the power of nature, the thrill of defiance. This rain is redemption, and I am free. A few months ago, I would have died in a cold hospital room. The cancer coursing through my veins would have stamped out this moment we are now sharing. This storm tonight cleanses me. My chest is no longer constricted by the tight sense of doom that had recently taken residence within. I can breath freely for the first time in a long time. The rain heals and his kisses absolve me. I laugh again when I realize this is the first time I've ever been kissed in the rain. And it is him. He swallows my throaty amusement and pulls my mouth closer with a tug of my chin. This storm between us has been building for years. It has permeated every aspect of who we are and what our partnership has become. This communion in the rain a product of restlessness and fate. As the wetness washes over our bodies bathing our souls, for one moment, we control own our destiny. I know tomorrow I will go back to being the diligent FBI agent I am. I will promptly recite the bureau regulation that makes it against protocol to sleep with one's partner. I will assiduously ignore how the wind and the rain have momentarily stunned my logic and robbed me of my principled existence. But as the thunder crashes above us and the wind changes course so that the rain is slanted and stinging my cheek, I realize the restlessness is dissipating. I know there is no where else I would rather be. I want to be defying this storm. I need to. The lightening is threatening above us, his eyes captivating below me, and I will not back down from either.