TITLE: One Last Time AUTHOR: Brynna EMAIL ADDRESS: ingos_grrl@hotmail.com DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: anywhere you deem it worthy. If you’ve got a second, I wouldn’t mind a note tho; I like to visit my ‘kids.’ FEEDBACK: yes, for the love of . . . hmm, well, whatever it is you love. SPOILERS: Arcadia RATING: Lemme see, I don’t rate my work . . . but, there’s some sex in here. Mild, but it’s still sex. And you know what? Our good little agent Scully? She swears. A lot. CLASSIFICATION: MSR/A/? SUMMARY: What happened after Scully kicked Mulder out of the bedroom? Disclaimer: Yeah, right. For Eve - enjoy babe. Happy birthday. :- ) Author’s notes: okay, I’m leading w/the timeline that sets when the Pilot actually was set as being summer ’93, since we all know that if you follow logic, rather than time-stamping, that’s what it was. Hehe. And this was written for a friend, basically I said ‘what do you want?’ and she said ‘Scully POV, Arcadia, explain what the hell was going on, angst.’ So, here we go . . . shutting up now. ~~~~~ What the hell were we thinking? Posing as a married couple. Bad idea. I heard the warning bells, but Mulder, the ever-lovin’ fool that he is, thought this would be great - not only a change of pace, but fun to boot. I’d like to boot the fun right out of here. Rob and Laura Petrie? Rob and =Laura= =Petrie=? No no no nonononono. How did I get myself talked into this one, again? Oh, yeah, I remember. It was those damned puppy-dog eyes of his. He knows how to work those things. I don’t even know if he does it intentionally anymore, but whatever the case, he does it well. One look, one little ‘This is our chance to stop the car for a while Scully,’ and . . . here I am, in the ultimate in what should be heaven, feeling rather like I’ve got the devil for a neighbor. Or is that a roommate? What the fuck . . .? He’s humming. Mulder is downstairs, probably on the couch watching TV, and he’s humming. No tune, just the noise. And why is it penetrating the floor? Am I destined to be annoyed by Mulder in one way or another for the remainder of our time here, while we chase after . . . whatever he thinks we’re looking for? Oh shut up. I reach a hand back, and smack the back of my head lightly, at the little tiny voice who pipes up with a ‘but it’s Mulder, and you know you don’t mind it so much when it’s him.’ Yeah, right. I mind it more because it’s him. I never used to hear voices in my head, until I started working with him. He’s driven me over the edge, into insanity. But I’ve gone along for the ride, willingly, haven’t I? Sometimes even taken a turn at driving. God knows I couldn’t let him be alone in the depths of craziness to which he’s achieved. Someone’s got to make sure he doesn’t go any further. It just would be nice if he’d return the favor once in a while. My face itches. I reach a hand up and touch my cheek. Shit, I forgot about this damned mask. Too busy thinking about Mulder. Rob. Whoever the hell he is at the moment. As I go into the bathroom to wash the overly hard mask from my face, my eyes hit the toothpaste tube again. Then flick to the toilet seat. There is no way Mulder and I could ever actually live in the same house on a long-term, regular basis. We’d have to draw lines down the middle of rooms, just so that his mess wasn’t falling into my organization. My cheeks hurt. I can’t remember the last time I smiled this much. It’s not like my work exactly inspires it. But =Laura = seems to be a smiler. Finishing washing my face, I stare at my reflection in the mirror, and I barely recognize the woman staring back at me. I used to know myself well enough that even with a serious change to my appearance, the time I decided to try the punk thing, and dyed my hair jet black; or the period in college I was so depressed, and I gained all that weight . . . I never had trouble seeing myself, somewhere inside my eyes. But I don’t now. I don’t know who I am anymore. And that scares me. I’ve never been comfortable with not knowing myself. If I don’t know who I am, how can anyone else hope to know me? I suppose, in part, that’s why I’ve been pushing Mulder away. Mulder always knows me, what’s going on inside my head . . . and I don’t. I often find myself wondering how the hell he can know me so damned well, when I can’t figure out the simplest little things about myself. He’s Mulder, is always the reason I come back to. He just knows things. Not that that’s an acceptable reason, just that it’s a reason. One that’ll have to do, until a better one comes along. I go back into the bedroom, and sit in the very center of the mattress. Picking up a pillow, I wrap my arms around it. Fleetingly, I wish, not for the first time, that I had someone. Someone to just wrap his arms around me, and tell me everything will work out in the end. Someone who isn’t my partner. I know there’s no rule that says we can’t be together. Believe me, I’ve checked. But we’ve been playing house for . . . how long now? Less than two full days? And we’ve already proved we can’t make it work. ‘But you’re not Dana Scully and Fox Mulder, you’re Rob and Laura.’ The voice in my head speaks again. Damn it. And it’s right. But no, it’s not. ‘Sure I am. You’ve been together, in almost every single sense of the word, since that whole fiasco in the Arctic with the worms. There’s just that last, emotional step you haven’t taken.’ Okay, fine, so Mulder and I have been fucking each other for years. What’s your point? Oh great, now I’m arguing with a voice inside my own head. I really have lost it. Staring down at the bed for a moment, I shut my eyes, and slowly stand up. I move, almost methodically, stripping the top blanket from the bed, and wrap it around my shoulders, trudging from the room. Can’t very well let him get cold, can I? He’s curled up on the couch. His arms are wrapped around the pillow, his head resting on the arm of the sofa instead. Sighing, I walk toward him, and realize, as I move to spread the blanket over him, that he’s actually asleep. Damn. Stooping to pick up the remote, I flip off the TV. I guess the lack of noise, or of light, bothers him, because before I can make a quick escape, before he can know why I really came down here, I hear him whisper my name. “Scully?” Damn, damn, damn. “Go back to sleep Mulder.” “You okay Scully?” I hate that voice. That sleep-roughened, slightly hoarse voice of his. He gets it, no matter how much or little sleep he’s had. That voice is what coaxed me into bed with him the first time. The first time. A long time ago. We hadn’t even been partners for a full year, and we had been back in DC for maybe twelve hours. It was about two AM, he called, said he’d been asleep, had had a nightmare, and he knew it was an imposition, but could I please, please come over, he really needed to not be alone. And I was the only one he trusted enough to let in right then. So I went. Dutiful partner, caring friend, whatever. I went, and he had fallen back asleep by the time I arrived. He didn’t sleep much in the Arctic. Don’t blame him. He let me in, and I could read the stress all over his face. Looking back, I could have stopped all of this from happening, or at least, from starting then, if I had just done one thing differently. No, not if I hadn’t gone over there. If I hadn’t touched him. I laid a hand on his cheek. And he started to cry. Now Mulder crying is just about the most heartbreaking sight I’ve ever seen. So I pulled him into my arms, and held him. Mistake number two. He held me back, almost crushing me in his embrace, and cried into my shoulder. However, here comes the biggest mistake. I kissed his temple. Oops. Just turned my head, and kissed the side of his, softly. I felt his body tense, then relax a little, as he stared at me. And he whispered, in that damned voice, that he just needed me that night, so badly. And the rest, as they say . . . That’s all it’s ever been with us. One of us needs the other. I have an extremely bad day, or he has a bone-chilling nightmare. Or we get hit with a miserable case. And we end up with each other. I definitely know it’s not a sympathy fuck, on either of our parts, any time. More like a comfort fuck. We come together, we have sex, we feel better at the human contact, and we leave. I turn around, back toward the couch. He’s looking at me expectantly, and I realize I haven’t answered him. “I’m fine Mulder,” I lie quietly, half of me hoping he takes it at face value, the other half praying he pushes. Three guesses on which half he hears. “If you’re fine, why are you down here?” he asks, point-blanking me with the thoughts in my head, and with my intentions. I hate it when he does that. I nod toward the blanket, which covers the lower half of his body. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t get cold.” And he stares at me. For all of about four seconds. Then his eyes shut, and he reaches a hand up, for mine. Barely touching his skin, I lay my hand, palm against his, into his hand, and walk toward the couch. I drop to my knees next to the sofa, and lay a hand on his shoulder. Now one thing that I rarely acknowledge about Mulder is that he’s addictive. And I do mean him. His touch, his kiss, the way he makes lo . . . er, the way he fucks me, it’s addictive. And probably more dangerous than cocaine. “Mulder,” I whisper, shutting my own eyes and leaning forward slightly. I seek his mouth, crave his kiss. I have to go away from the bad stuff for a while. And I know that I can do that, with him, like this. His hand moves from mine, to the back of my head, and he pulls me closer. His fingers tangle in my hair, and he raises his head, lips finding mine in a hard, close to punishing kiss. As my fingers curl around his shoulder, he kisses me harder, pulling me that much closer. My hand sweeps down his side, wanting to get to his bare skin. As I start to tug on the hem of his shirt, he suddenly pulls back away from me; releasing my head, and letting me fall backwards, onto the floor. “This has to stop,” he mutters, almost under his breath, eyes still shut. What the hell? “What has to stop Mulder?” I question, thinking he means the sex, about to lay into him about how nice it is that he thinks of me as a personal fuck-toy that he can use when he wants, and put away for the rest of the time. But he doesn’t. “You. Your attitude. I’m sick of it Scully.” His eyes slowly open, and stare deeply into mine, as though he’s looking straight past the walls, the guard dog, and the Private Property, No Trespassing sign I have up, to protect myself from his doing just that. “You’ve been . . .” he stops, and I can see the internal struggle not to say what’s on his mind. He looses. “You’ve been a total bitch lately. And I am tired of it. I’m not your personal whipping boy Scully, and I don’t want to only get a decent attitude from you when you need to get laid.” Excuse me? Did I just hear him correctly? I couldn’t have, he couldn’t have just said that to me . . . Yes, he could have. And he did. And I deserved it. My hands drop to my lap, and curl around each other very demurely. Mostly, to keep from strangling him. Oh, all right, I’d never strangle Mulder. I might wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze a few times, but I’d never actually kill him. “I’m sorry,” I answer, not really knowing what else to say. What does he want to hear? That I hate myself, and that I’m so lost that I can barely think straight more than half the time? That I don’t even recognize me anymore, and that he’s the only steady, solid thing that I can find right now? And that that fact terrifies me beyond what believing in his damned little grey men ever could? As I stare up into his eyes I find the answer. Yes, he wants to know all of that. His lips curl into an ironic grimace. “Do you think that I want an empty apology from you? I want this to stop. Don’t apologize if you don’t mean it, and if you’re not going to do something about it.” His eyes soften slightly, and he smiles for real. “What’s going on Scully?” My head shakes, before I can even open my mouth. “A whole lot, and nothing I really want to discuss,” I hear myself telling him. That’s not what I wanted to say. No, I wanted to say ‘Nothing Mulder.’ What, I suddenly can’t lie to him anymore? I watch him shake his head, and sit up, patting the couch cushion next to him, much like he had the bed earlier. Only this time I actually move toward him, and sit, curling my legs up, wrapping my arms around my knees. I give him a questioning look, refusing to speak, not knowing what to say, and not wanting to find out what I might just blurt out to him anyway. He reaches a hand out, toward my face, where a lock of my hair has fallen from where I tucked it behind my ear, into my eyes. His fingers brush it back behind my ear, and linger for a brief moment, so brief that had I not had Mulder’s touch imprinted into my very being, I would have missed it. “I don’t know where we go from here Scully,” he tells me, rubbing his fingers together, watching the movement of his hands instead of me. “I don’t even know what’s wrong, so I can’t suggest a way to fix it.” The moonlight from outside catches the top of his hair, and I focus on that, just to have something to stare at. “And I don’t know what to tell you,” I mumble, clasping my hands together, and hooking them behind my neck. “I wish I could make sense out of this, in my head, so that it would make sense to you if you heard it.” Sighing, my eyes shut. “Look, this hasn’t been working for a really long time, and neither of us has wanted to admit it. Maybe you’ve been right all along, and we do need to step back.” Even I don’t believe that one. He remains silent for so long that I finally have to open my eyes, just to make sure he’s still there. He is, and he’s staring at me with the most pained expression. “Maybe you’re right,” he finally answers, blinking once, and schooling his features. “I was starting to think that I was wrong, that breaking up what we’ve got was a bad idea, but maybe it’s not.” He means it. I almost feel my heart breaking. “I don’t want to lose you, but perhaps we need to make a clean break, so neither of us gets more hurt.” Logical. Rational. Sensible. All those things that =I’m= supposed to be, not him. I have to tell him, I have to let him in, or I really am going to lose him. I can’t just have the only ounce of hope I have left; which comes from his presence in my life, taken away. “After everything that’s gone on recently,” I begin, slowly, my arms still tucked around my knees. “And even not so recently, I’m completely lost Mulder.” The admission hits me, hard. I lean my forehead down, on the tops of my knees, so he can’t see my face. “I don’t know myself anymore. I don’t trust myself. Not in a work-related capacity, for sure. But not in a personal one either. The Dana Scully who I have to wake up being every morning isn’t . . . I don’t trust her. I’m afraid of what she might do, because I have no handle on her what-so-ever, and so I can’t control her.” Tears sting my eyes, and I don’t have the strength to force them back. They fall, creating wet patches on my nightgown. “And I can’t even blame anyone, but myself,” I hear my voice continue, the sound watery. I know that he knows I’m crying, without even looking up. “That’s not to say I haven’t tried.” Believe me, I’ve tried. If I could pin this one on Diana Fowley, I would, in a heartbeat. But it just isn’t her fault. Probably the only thing that isn’t, but this one’s all mine. His hand reaches, and cups the back of my neck softly. I jump at the initial contact, but never once raise my head. I don’t want him to see me crying; I know what it does to him. Something along the lines of what his tears do to me. “Scully,” he whispers, his voice sounding helpless. “What can I do?” “Nothing.” I mean it. There is nothing that anyone can do. At least, I don’t think there is. His fingers move over my neck, and I finally have to reach up and remove his hand. I can’t let him touch me right now. Ironic, isn’t it, that I came down here so that he =would= touch me, and now I can’t take it? But what I was looking for doesn’t involve emotional attachments. It doesn’t involve talking. Or honesty. I finally look back up at him, having forced my tears to at the very least slow. And I realize that I can never have that again with him. We can never be silent sex partners again. This conversation has just crossed that line. I watch him; glance down at his hands, where his fingers curl around each other, the effort to remain in his personal space is obvious. His eyes, the way they move around my face, but never settle on it. Does he just not want to look at me anymore? Finally, I watch as he stands, slowly, the blanket clutched around his shoulders much like I had done on my way down here. He moves toward the window, and stares out, up at the moon. He’s silent for a long time. Then - “You know I love you, don’t you Scully?” The question causes an ache, deep in my chest, to intensify to a sharp pain. “Of course I do Mulder,” I answer automatically. I know he loves me, he considers me his best friend, and that takes love. “No you don’t.” I watch; he tugs the blanket closer to his shoulders. “If you knew, really knew, you wouldn’t have answered like that.” I blink. Huh? “How would I have answered?” I ask, staring at his back. The muscles in his shoulders tense, and shift under the material. “I don’t know,” he mumbles, his eyes fixed on the brightly glowing orb in the sky. “But not like that.” And I accept that rational, because it’s Mulder. I open my mouth to speak, but he turns, before I can say anything. “You would have said ‘I know Mulder,’ in that soft voice you use when you’re trying not to be overly emotional. You would have gotten up from your little ball on the couch, and come over here, and laid one of your hands on my back. You would have made me look at you, and you would have smiled one of those tiny, shy smiles that I’m the only one who ever gets to see. And you would have told me that it was okay, that I never had to say it out loud, because you know how hard those words are for me.” He stares at my face, into my eyes, until I finally have to look away. “You see Scully, I know you better than I know anyone. Better than I know myself. And the Scully that I know, that’s how she would have reacted, if she really knew.” I stare at the carpet, knowing that he’s right. The person that he knew, that =I= knew, that’s exactly what she would have done. Slowly, finding the movements almost painful, I do uncurl myself from the couch. And I do walk over to him. My arms wrap tightly around my middle, the gesture protective. I’m also trying to ward off an internal chill. Everything about me just feels off; wrong. . “That’s my point Mulder. That Scully went away, and I don’t know if she’s ever going to come back.” He moves toward me, closing the few feet of space I’d left between us slowly. His hand comes up, and touches my cheek; the blanket still firmly clutched in his other hand. Gently, he grasps my chin, and tilts my face up, to his. “She didn’t go away, I still see her,” he murmurs quietly. “I think she’s just a little lost. And I’m pretty sure that it’s not all your fault as to why she is.” His hand falls from my face, and his eyes shut. “In fact, I’m pretty damn sure that it’s a good fifty percent my fault. At least.” Big surprise. Mulder’s taking the blame away from me, because he can. I knew he would do this. This, my dear Mulder, is why I didn’t want to have this discussion. His eyes slowly open, and he sighs. “But this isn’t why you came down here, is it?” he asks, not expecting an answer. My head shakes anyway. “I’m sorry Scully,” he whispers, finally releasing his hold on the blanket. I watch it fall to the floor at his feet. “But I can’t take what our relationship has become. I know I started it, and I’ve had my share of coming to you in the middle of the night, and letting you soothe whatever pain away with your body . . . but it’s too much, I can’t do it anymore.” His hand drags over his face, his attempt to calm down failing. “I want more than that.” Even as I knew that, hearing it . . . it staggers me. I turn away from him, enough to take my turn at memorizing the craters in the moon. I have to be honest, for my sake, if not for his. “I know,” I whisper, when I can finally speak. I do too. I really do. “But I don’t know how to give it to you,” I tell him instead. At least I’m being honest with myself. I hear his footsteps walking slowly away from me. I don’t turn around; don’t want to see him leaving me. My forehead rests against the glass, and I stare into the yard for a moment, before shutting my eyes. I don’t hear him returning to my side, until his hand rests on my shoulder. “Just this last time,” I hear him whisper, directly into my ear. I turn my head toward his voice, and his kisses my mouth before I can speak. “We both need it, one last time,” he murmurs against my lips, turning me, and pulling me closer. I want to cry. I want to sob in his arms like a baby. But I don’t. I let him lead, and I follow willingly. One last time. He takes my hand, and leads me back to the couch. His fingers slowly, gently remove my nightgown, and he lays me back on the blanket, which he spread over the cushions. His shirt follows my gown to the floor. Then his boxers. There’s no preamble, no build-up, but there never has been with us. He doesn’t take his time to taste me, to learn the contours of my body with his mouth. He never has, and tonight I finally understand why. He couldn’t. It’s as simple as that, he couldn’t. He parts my thighs, settling between them, and returns his mouth to mine. That is the more intimate we’ve allowed ourselves. Kissing. Sex is, by definition, intimate, but kissing is more-so. At least to me. And I believe, because of the way he does it; the passion he holds behind it, it is to him. One hand drifts, moving slowly over my side, barely touching my skin. He reaches my hip, and moves inward, finding my moist curls, and pressing his fingers inside. It just takes one kiss from Mulder, and I’m wet. He kisses me harder, and continues to stroke me, slowly, then fast. He rapidly brings me to the peak of orgasm, then sends me over. As I arch, and move under him, my eyes open, to stare at his face. His are open as well, staring back at me. That’s when I realize exactly what’s going on. He’s saying goodbye. The scream that was rising in my throat dies; and turns to a single sob. His hand withdraws, and he thrusts inside. His mouth never leaves mine, never gives me a chance to protest, to tell him to stop, that if this is it, if it’s over, I don’t want it. Because I do want what he’s doing to me. I’m not saying that. I just don’t want goodbye. He moves, steady and hard, in and out, holding my hips against his. He finds my clit again with his fingers, and rubs, gently; knowing it will send me into another orgasm. It does, rapidly, and I clutch him to me, kissing him back, my eyes fighting to stay open, and locked on his. He joins me, moving in a more jerky pace, groaning loudly into my mouth. Then he slows. His hand falls away again. And he stops. He finally lifts his mouth from mine, and I can see the tears glistening in his eyes. They mirror my own. As he slowly pulls out of me, he turns, rolling both of us, allowing me the choice to stay with him or not. Resting my forehead against his, I swallow back any more tears. Not in front of him, not now. And I slip from his arms, from the couch. Because one last time is one too many.