TITLE: Adjustment

AUTHOR: JLB (amory20@aol.com)

CLASSIFICATION: MSR

RATING: PG-13 (some implied sex, nothing too graphic)

SPOILERS: i'd say up through US S6 but nothing too specific

ARCHIVE: sure, go ahead, but if it's the first time, please
drop me a line.

FEEDBACK: i love feedback almost as much as ben and jerry's
coconut cream pie but feedback has fewer calories so
please... help keep me thin. :) amory20@aol.com <mailto:amory20@aol.com>

SUMMARY: mulder and scully need some time...

DISCLAIMER:  okay, i don't own scully, i don't own mulder
(jeeze life just ain't fair), i don't even own skinner.
i've got nothing.  CC and 1013 have got it all.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: okay i fully admit this is fluff, but i've
been working on a longer, angsty story for a while now and i
needed a break.  this is nowhere near as angst ridden as my
usual stuff because i wanted to write a semi-happy mulder
and scully.  this is the result... it was written fairly
quickly so i'm a bit insecure.  let me know what you
think... does this seem like mulder and scully?  did i let
them be happy enough?  will DD ever let his hair grow out?
i'd like to hear it all. :)  please enjoy!

Adjustment, by JLB (amory20@aol.com)
 

His alarm clock buzzes at nine o'clock exactly, and we both
attempt to smack the thing into submission.  Mulder wins --
he's quicker than I am.

One of the many strange things I've learned in the past week
is that we seem to leave sleep in unison, our eyes
fluttering open at what feels like the exact same moment.
It's the sunlight no doubt, pouring in through the blinds
and disturbing both of us but for one breathless moment, I
believe it's something instinctual, natural and innate,
waking in the same manner that we do everything else.
Together.

Now, in this new phase, we are at our most natural in early
morning.  There is no hesitancy in our sleepy, fluttery
caresses, our soft husky "good mornings" -- I've even called
him "sweetie" once or twice without a second thought.  It's
all easy and simple.  Right because we don't bother to
analyze it too much, worry about what the other is thinking.

Several minutes later though, when full alertness sets in,
we become two entirely different people -- suddenly every
word, thought, action has to be carefully considered, its
meaning weighed for all possible implications .  We are
horribly, painfully self-conscious, schooling our responses
to each other, sometimes afraid of reacting too much,
sometimes afraid of reacting too little.

He gets out of bed first -- he has always been an early
riser, and it seems that he only stays in bed as long as he
does now in deference to me, so I can enjoy his solid,
sleep-warm body next to mine for as long as possible -- and
silently searches for his boxers on the floor beside the
bed.  It takes him a minute to find them, buried somewhere
amidst the scattering of clothing -- my black silk blouse,
his blue dress shirt, navy pants, my skirt and stockings,
his tie.  I sit up in bed, scanning the floor myself to aid
in the search. Again he's too quick for me, and I watch as
he bends to pick them up.  I have to consciously force the
sigh back into my throat.  I don't want to let him know how
much he affects me.  I don't want to be too obvious, too
desperate. Too much anything for him.

I watch in a dizzying haze as he stretches his arms above
his head, bite my lip as the muscles in his back contract,
cringe when I hear several soft pops.  He shakes them off,
turning to me with a cautious, barely there smile.

"Are you up for breakfast?" he asks, reaching a hand up to
massage his neck. I should offer to do that for him.  A
lover can do that, would do that.  I don't move though,
silently watching his hand flex against his neck.

We've spent four nights together, are beginning our fourth
morning together and we still don't know what to say to one
another, what is safe, what is expected.  Today is our first
weekend morning together, which is making us both more
unsure.  There's no case to hide behind, no work to provide
structure, a routine to our activities.  Neither of us has
to rush off to our respective apartments for a shower and a
change of clothes.  We're free to do as we please, to take
our time.

"Yeah, breakfast sounds good," I say finally, imagining
something decadent -- pancakes with fresh berries and
whipped cream, French toast with cinnamon and fresh maple
syrup.  Just being with Mulder like this, in his bed,  my
skin still warm, still burning from the feel of his body
moving against mine, feels extremely decadent, and it seems
like everything else should celebrate that feeling.

He nods his head, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth,
and slowly walks to the door.  "I probably only have coffee.
 I doubt there's anything else in the fridge but I'll
check," he says thoughtfully, his back to me as he leaves
the room.

I sit up against the headboard, looking down at my lap,
studying the pattern of his sheets, and smiling to myself at
how thoughtlessly adorable he can be. When I lift my head,
he's watching me from the doorway.  He's returned, catching
me and my unmistakable smile.  The smile he gives me in
return makes me want to pull him back into bed and forget
all about coffee and pancakes.

"I was thinking..." he says, bracing his arms on either side
of the door frame. His boxers slide a little lower on his
hips, and I study his stomach, navel for a brief moment.
"We could go out ... get bagels or something."

I nod, pushing the hair back from my face.  It's hard to
think of a verbal response to that.  I'd either sound too
indifferent and hurt his feelings, or come off too
enthusiastic and scare him.  It's a delicate balance, and I
have to be careful with my reactions.

"I can still go check the kitchen if you want."  He's
grinning, wide and childlike, as if the sight of me tangled
in his sheets, my hair wild, cheeks flushed is like
Christmas morning.

"No, bagels sound good.  Really good," I tell him, smoothing
my hair down in the back.  I'm suddenly aware of my
appearance, wondering if my mascara was smudged last night,
if my lipstick is smeared all over my cheeks.

"None of that low fat cream cheese crap," he declares
emphatically, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"No," I agree. "I feel like being bad this morning."  I tilt
my head and smile shyly.  I consider batting my eyelashes a
bit, but decide that would be too much.

He smirks, and his eyes darken slightly.  "Ohhh... then
maybe we should just stay here," he leers, his eyes falling
to the bed, to my chest where the sheets are beginning to
come loose.

And then suddenly, he seems alarmed, as if he's said too
much, as if he's afraid he's offended me.  We both freeze,
our eyes locked, and I feel my heart lurch in my chest.

"I'm going to go make some coffee," he says quietly, turning
to leave again. He lowers his head, ending our eye contact,
and practically bolts from the room.

"Mulder?" I call out to him.  "Is it okay if I take a
shower?"  It seems silly to ask but I don't want to make any
assumptions.  I don't want to overstep my bounds.

His head peeks in from the hallway.  "Sure.  Maybe you can
give me your scientific opinion about that stuff growing on
the tile." He smiles effortlessly, and disappears again.

I want to freeze this moment, the perfect easiness of it,
the naturalness, and bottle it for later, for those moments
when neither one of us knows what to say, when we're both
terrified of doing the wrong thing.  It's moments like this
that give me hope, faith.  We can do this.  It's not
difficult to believe that we could make this work.
 

A couple of hours later, on our way back from breakfast,
Mulder stops to tie his shoe in front of his building.  It's
a little after eleven now, and the street is beginning to
get crowded.  I watch a little boy try to walk a huge golden
retriever only to be dragged down the street, a blur of arms
and legs. An elderly couple strolls by, hand in hand,
leaning against one another for support.

Mulder and I have kept our distance.  Out in the daylight,
we seem to revert to our old relationship -- comfortable,
old friends who are always careful to keep their emotions in
check.  When we left his building earlier, I felt my hand
brush Mulder's and for a moment, I contemplated taking his
hand and walking down the street with him like any other
couple who had woken up in bed together and were on their
way to breakfast.  But then we looked at one another, both
of our faces colored with fear, and I pulled away.

Conversation over breakfast was easy, comfortable, but
politely distant.  It was like any other meal we've ever
shared.  We discussed our last case, a series of
disappearances in Maine that Mulder wants to take a look
into, the upcoming World Series.  We smiled and laughed but
all the while, I could feel the tension, the uncertainty and
confusion.

In dozens of restaurants across the country, in various
motel rooms, conference rooms, cars, we learned about each
other, became more to one another than we could have ever
anticpated but in a small coffee shop two block from
Mulder's apartment, we sat across the table from one another
and wondered who we were looking at now.  A partner, a
friend, a lover... The lines are blurring, and neither one
of us knows how to react.

"Earth to Scully," Mulder says, laughing, as he waves a hand
in front of my face.  My eyes are still fixed on the old
couple slowly making their way down the street, open and
affectionate.  I smile self consciously, and lower my head.

"Sorry.  I was just..."

I stop to look at him.  He's watching me, amused, his eyes
soft and bright. While I had to put on my wrinkled skirt
from yesterday and a faded T-shirt of Mulder's that had
shrunk in the dryer, affecting a rumpled, mismatched look,
Mulder was somehow able to pull himself together in less
than fifteen minutes, and now he looks all crisp and
beautiful in his comfortable sweater and jeans.

For the first time, I watched him get dressed this morning,
and was surprised to discover how strangely erotic that act
could be.  Watching his muscles stretch and pull as he
covered his soft, golden skin, his slender fingers buttoning
the fly of his jeans, tying his shoes ... I was almost
breathless when he finished.

"So, Scully..." he says, placing his hand on the small of my
back to usher me through the door.  "What do you want to do
now?"  He smiles suggestively, but I know he's just teasing.

"I don't know," I tell him as he checks his mailbox.  "What
do you want to do?"

"I asked you first, Scully."  He smirks, and pokes my side
gently.

I don't know if he expects me to entertain him, if wants me
to go home, if wants me to stay around so we can make love.
I don't know what I want either.

"What would you be doing if I wasn't here?" I ask finally,
stepping inside the elevator beside him.  "I don't want to
upset your normal routine."

He looks at me, puzzled for a second but then his expression
grows more thoughtful as if he's trying to be as honest as
possible.

"I don't know ... if we didn't have a case?"  He runs a hand
through his hair, slides it down his face to his chin.

I nod, watching him shift almost uncomfortably as I stare at
him, waiting for a response.

"Well, I'd probably be on the couch, channel surfing.  Maybe
watching a movie."  He smiles at me, and I raise an eyebrow
in response.  "Then I'd call you and bug you as long as
you'd let me.  You wanna go home so I can call you?" he
teases as I exit the elevator in front of him.

"Why don't you just bug me in person?"

"Yeah, that sounds like more fun.  It's more satisfying to
actually see your reaction," he says in a deep, low voice.

He stops in front of his door, pushing me back against it
gently, and places a soft kiss on my forehead.  He pulls
back, his thumbs stroking my cheeks, and sighs quietly.

"This is nice, Scully.  Whatever we're doing.  Or not
doing."

I nod, feeling my eyes suddenly tear, willing myself to get
control.  Mulder leans his forehead against mine before he
pulls away, and unlocks the door.
 

Sometime later, a college football game plays silently on
the television set. Mulder and I sit side by side, close but
barely touching, our shoulders just brushing one another.
My feet are curled up underneath me, and Mulder has his legs
propped up on the coffee table.  We've haven't spoken for a
while, settling into silence because words are too hard to
find.  We can only discuss work for so long, make small talk
for so long.

But despite the fact that I have no idea what to say, I'm
desperately trying to break the silence, ease the tension
that has slowly set in.

"Mulder?" I ask quietly, sliding slightly closer to him, my
side pressing against his.

He lifts his head from the back of the sofa, and looks at
me.  His eyes are half closed, sleepy and heavy.

"Yeah?"  He seems almost afraid -- edgy,cornered.

"Did you ever return Skinner's call yesterday?  He sounded
really--"

"Pissed?" He smirks, and stretches his arm out across the
back of sofa.  His fingers play with the shoulder of my
T-shirt.  "Don't worry I called him back.  Straightened
everything out."

"Okay, just checking."  I look down at my lap, trying to
smooth the wrinkles out of my skirt.

"Are you bored, Scully?"  When I look up, I meet his sad
hazel eyes, his intense pout.  He looks like a little boy,
and I'm tempted to pull him to my breast or put him down for
a nap.

"Well, to be honest, watching college football was not high
on my weekend to do list."  I smile, and reach my hand out
for his hair, stroking his scalp softly.

"What did make the Scully list?" he asks playfully, leaning
back into my touch like a cat.

"Oh, something like this," I whisper, sliding even closer to
him.  "Just relaxing.  Taking it easy."

I hear him sigh, such a soft, thrilling sound, and I push
myself down onto his lap.

"Easy?" he rasps, reaching for my hips.  "That sounds good."

We laugh together, and our laughter echoes off the walls of
his silent apartment, a deep, humming noise.

"Hey, Scully.  I know what I want to do."  He nuzzles my
neck, licking my throat, then reaches his hands underneath
my shirt, the T-shirt that once was his.  I doubt he's
getting it back after this.

"What's that, Mulder?" I manage to get out before his hands
find my breasts.

He pulls back and looks at me intensely for a moment.  I
feel his eyes trail down my face, see the amazement in his
eyes, and I fight to stay still.  I've seen him look at me
this way before, felt his eyes on my skin like a physical
sensation but it's never been this open before.  In the
past, he'd attempt to hide such unpartnerly gazes, impulses.
 Now he's able to look at me unguarded, and I realize what
an amazing thing that is.

"We've never made love in the middle afternoon before," he
whispers hoarsely, leaning in to place his lips right beside
my ear.  "We've never taken a nap together."

I gasp, quietly, but in the silence of his living room, even
that tiny sound reverberates.  I'm embarrassed, flushing
hotly in Mulder's arms.  Then I see his face, the
unmistakable hunger, need in his eyes, in the way he licks
his lips, and I forget everything.

"Let's go to the bedroom," I say, trying to stand up only to
find myself too entangled in Mulder's arms to get up.  He
lifts me with him -- I'm amazed at the strength of this man
sometimes -- and starts for the bedroom.

"You know, Scully..." he says, slightly out of breath.
"Maybe we need to find a hobby, something we can do
together, bond over.  Get to know each other better."  He
smiles as he readjusts my weight in his arms.

"That's a possibility, I suppose."  I lean in to steal a
kiss, sucking on his lower lip until he sighs.

"No, you're right," he asserts.  "Between hunting aliens and
the mind-blowing sex, I don't see how we'll have the time
for model air planes or golf.  Guess we'll just have to make
do."  He drops me to the bed, smiling at me mischievously as
he crawls up my body.

"I think we can only get better at this," I tell him
seriously, reaching for the hem of his sweater.

"Duh, Scully... I told you that first time was a fluke.
I've got tons of stamina. You just have to let me prove
myself," he jokes before pulling off my shirt.

"You know what I mean, Mulder."

He pulls back, pushing himself on his arms so we are face to
face.  He brushes the hair back from my forehead, and traces
a line down my face, across my nose, chin.  When he slides
his fingers across my lips, I kiss his skin, ease my tongue
over the smooth surface of his fingernails.

"I know, Scully," Mulder whispers, closing his eyes.  He
takes a deep breath before he looks at me again.  "This
feels so right to me.  And if I'm at all nervous or
apprehensive, it's because I don't want to screw this up.  I
don't want hurt you."

"Me too," I whisper, pulling his body against mine again.

"We can do this, Scully.  I mean, if I could teach you how
to hit a baseball, then this is cake.  Piece of cake."  He
smiles, a smile that has always made me want to kiss him,
and slowly begins grinding himself against me.

And we move together, so easily, naturally, that I feel all
the tension, anxiety easing out of me, out of the room.
Mulder is above me, inside me, and it feels so right, so
good that I have no doubts, no questions.

I come before him -- it's remarkable but I always seem to
finish before him -- and I feel so light, weightless.  Easy.
 Natural.

And when Mulder groans, almost hisses, long and low in my
ear, coming so hard inside me that I tremble, I know that we
are forging a new path for ourselves, adding a new component
to our relationship.  Slowly but surely, so that one
morning, we'll wake up and conversation will be effortless,
our touches will be thoughtless, and Mulder will know I want
pancakes with fresh berries.  And he'll remember the whipped
cream too.

We roll onto our sides, wrapped around each other tightly,
out of breath and sweaty.  Mulder pulls the sheets over us
and tucks them around me, making sure I stay warm.

"Well, we can check that off my to do list," he says,
smiling against my forehead.  "Should we go for number two
and take a nap?"  I hear him yawn then, his breath ruffling
my hair.

"Yeah.  I'm feeling sleepy."

"Okay then.  We nap."  He rolls me onto my back, then slides
down my body until his head rests against my breasts.  He
doesn't hesitate, doesn't worry that I might object.  He
simply makes himself comfortable, and sighs happily as he
does so.

I try to suppress the laugh I feel rising but I can't help
it.  He lifts his head, and looks at me, his bright eyes
full of questions.

"Your hair tickled a little," I explain, smiling a little
shyly.

He nods.  "Do you mind?  Want me to move?" His lower lip
juts out a little further than usual but he doesn't fully
pout.

"No," I reassure him hurriedly.  We're getting there now,
approaching some new level, and I don't want him doubting
himself.  "I like this."

His head is back at my breasts in seconds, and this time, he
purposely rubs his hair against my chest to tickle me.  When
he achieves his desired affect -- a very breathy, airy
giggle escaping my mouth -- he settles down again.

He drifts off quickly, and I can feel his heart beating
against my body, feel his chest rise and fall evenly with
each breath.  He murmurs my name in his sleep, releasing it
as a sigh.

I can easily spend the rest of the afternoon napping with
him, dreaming with his head pressed to my chest.  Some
things don't require a second thought.

the end.

feedback of any kind is warmly welcomed at amory20@aol.com