Date sent: Wed, 6 Aug 1997 17:38:23 -0700 (PDT) From: suenandrew@berlen.bdsnet.com (Andrew & Sue Kennedy) Date forwarded: Mon, 11 Aug 1997 00:20:05 -0500 (EST) Nobody Else But You by Sue Flaxman suenandrew@berlen.bdsnet.com Rating: NC-17 for graphic sexual situations Classification: Mulder/Scully Romance (look out below!) Spoilers: Small Potatoes The characters in this story belong to Chris Carter, Fox Network and Ten-Thirteen Productions. No copyright infringement is intended. Use and distribution of this story is for entertainment purposes only. I love writing about these characters and how it might happen. I know I've said that before, but I can't help repeating myself. Also, I just love writing about them in bed together. Have fun, y'all, and drop me a line! Synopsis: After the incarceration of Eddie Van Blundht, Mulder and Scully look at each other in a whole new light. Nobody Else But You "O you singer solitary, singing by yourself, projecting me, O solitary me listening, never more shall I cease perpetuating you, Never more shall I escape, never more the reverberations, Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me, Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what there in the night By the sea under the yellow and sagging moon, The messenger there arous'd, the fire, the sweet hell within, The unknown want, the destiny of me." --Walt Whitman I. Scully Sunday night, 2:40 a.m. I blew my breath out in a loud puff, pummeled the pillow and pulled the covers over my head. I was positive I wasn't going to get any sleep tonight. Peeking out from under the blankets, I looked at the clock and groaned. Damn! Maybe a glass of wine would help. Wine! That was what had gotten me in this predicament in the first place. A bottle of wine shared with a wolf in sheep's clothing. Or rather, a creepy shape-shifting janitor disguised as my partner. The thoughts that were making my usually orderly brain spin, that were turning me upside-down and keeping me from sleep, were so confusing they made almost no sense. I thought it was Mulder! My brain kept screaming at me that I should have known, I should have. Had I been feeling particularly vulnerable or lonely that night? No, my work had been keeping me busy, keeping my mind occupied, completely focused. And then the wine, the storytelling, the laughter. I had been millimeters away from kissing him. And then what? Would I have let him make love to me? This man I thought was my partner, my friend, my...lover? But it hadn't *been* Mulder! That thought troubled me more than any other. He hadn't even really acted like Mulder. But I thought--and felt--when I had leaned forward to meet his kiss--dammit! I punched the pillow again. The question remained unanswered. How much further would it have gone? And what did this mean about my feelings for the *real* Mulder? I pictured him, lean and strong, always beside me, placing his hand on my back in that protective gesture he had. Yes, I decided. I would kiss him...and more. I remembered the way my body had felt that night on the couch; the heavy, tingling feeling of pure desire. Oh yes, I decided, I do desire this man. I smiled to myself in the darkness of the bedroom. He was weird, but I still wanted him. I stretched under the covers, feeling the tingling come over my body again, the heaviness in my breasts and between my legs. Unable to stop myself, I cupped my breasts in my palms and brushed their tips with my thumbs, thinking of Mulder. Oh, god, I wanted him... II. Mulder Sunday night 2:40 a.m. She was gonna kiss him. Hell, she was gonna kiss *me*! I walked in and there they were--her and, well, *me*. It was too weird. I flicked the remote control, looking for something, anything, that would take my mind off Scully. She was probably sleeping the sleep of the innocent and here I was, playing the expected role of tormented soul. It didn't have to be this way. I guess I could always tell her how I feel. I sort of had the feeling that would be something akin to disaster. I could imagine her fixing those glorious, flower-blue eyes on me, cool through the lenses of her glasses. She would quirk an eyebrow at me, as though I were an interesting specimen under a microscope and say something like "Really?" I guess I've never been really big on self-esteem. Scully said I'm not a loser. But it was the real loser who was cuddled up to her on the sofa the other night. Did she really want to be with *me*? Where would that kiss have taken them? Where would a kiss take *us*? Had it only been the wine, the release of tension after the closure of a big case? I wrapped my arms around a sofa pillow, settled on a Channel Nine late-night horror movie and continued to think about Scully despite the distraction. That perfect, perfectly scented sheaf of auburn hair. How many times had I stood by her side and longed to touch that hair--to see if it was as silky as it looked. How many times had I caught its fragrance, elusive and enticing? How many times had I longed to kiss the creamy skin of her throat, to unbutton her prim blouse and bury my face between her breasts? How many times had I fantasized about undressing her; feeling her undress me, touching her skin, stroking her most private places and finally burying myself in her until we both reached the heights of pleasure? I groaned. Why was I tormenting myself? On the TV, Godzilla was trashing Tokyo. I held the pillow tighter. This is stupid, I told myself, tossing the pillow on the floor and rolling over onto my back. This was way too much like junior high, except darker, more passionate. I thought about how I felt when I saw her almost kissing Van Blundht. Jealous. White-hot jealous. Like I wanted to kill the son of a bitch for going near--my woman? It should have been me. Me, sitting on the couch, drinking wine, listening to her stories. But it was the not-me, and she was--love. That was what I was feeling, what made my chest ache, my throat tight, made quick tears spring to my eyes. Through the pain of the realization I wondered...if it really had been me, would she have kissed me? Would she have wanted me to caress her, touch her, make love to her? Oh, god, I ached at the thought of making love to her. Another fantasy flooded my mind. I saw myself pulling her into my arms, kissing her gently and then with more passion, feeling her soft lips under mine. In my mind, in my fantasy, I touched the soft curve of her breast, heard her murmur my name as her nipple rose under the soft brush of my thumb. I felt her body arch against mine and knew she wanted me as I ached for her, knew her passion and feeling equaled mine. But that, I figured, was only a fantasy. I was playing a cruel game with myself, here in the lonely space inside my own head. Watch it, Spooky, I told myself harshly, no matter what happened with Van Blundht, it was all just a fantasy. Scully, Scully...I repeated it like a mantra until I finally fell into a thin, troubled sleep. FBI Headquarters The Following Friday 6:55 p.m. Mulder was sitting behind his desk when Scully came in, her arms loaded down with files. He came quickly out from behind the desk and took them from her, making room on the desktop for them. "Well," she said, sighing and sitting down in "her" chair, "That's done. I've reviewed autopsy reports going back five years and come up with these--" she indicated the files, "That match in one way or another to your ghoul-killer." "I never called him a ghoul-killer," Mulder said, finding himself lost in Scully's direct gaze. It had been hard not to do this in the past week. "I just said it might be an X-File." "Well, some of the cases match better than others, I have to warn you. And they're all over the country." She threw up her hands. "Your call about consulting Skinner." He couldn't keep his mind on what she was saying. He just kept looking at her eyes, her hair, the soft radiance of her cheeks. Damn! No wonder he had spent the past week avoiding her, staying buried in paperwork. This was ridiculous. He paced around the tiny office, one hand planted on his hip, the other raking his hair, trying to look like he was giving her statements considerable thought, but all his ridiculously unprofessional mind could think of was tasting her lips, touching her body. "I'll write a report for Skinner," he said. "For Monday. See what he says then. At least it will keep me off the streets this weekend." He tried a smile. She yawned. "Great," she said, stretching like a cat. He blouse stretched tight over her breasts. Mulder looked, and was ashamed for looking, for thinking. "I'm beat, and I'm going home. If you get that report done, e-mail it to me in case you think we might have to meet with Skinner on Monday. "Sure," he said, as casually as he could manage. "Big plans this weekend?" "Sleep, sleep, and sleep, in that order," she said, and smiled wryly. "Then dinner and a movie with Mom on Sunday." "Tell her I said hi." "Will do. You working late?" He gestured toward the pile of folders. "Looks that way," he said, all the while thinking Scully, Scully, don't leave me alone again. Don't go. But she was getting to her feet. "See you on Monday," she called on her way out. Mulder's office suddenly felt like the loneliest place on earth. Scully's apartment 11:59 p.m. Scully was watching Waiting to Exhale and eating Chinese food. When she had finally made it home through the traffic of a Washington DC Friday night, she had immediately stripped off her work clothes. She treated herself to a long soak in a scented bath, and put on Chinese silk pajamas in a teal color. Over them she put a heavy maroon dressing gown that had once belonged to her father, and slid her feet into sheepskin slippers. She ordered out for Chinese and put Pretty Woman in the VCR. Over sesame chicken, she watched Richard Gere fall in love with Julia Roberts. Funny, but in that movie, he sort of reminded her of Mulder, only without the wisecracks. She smiled at the absurd image of Mulder giving anyone free rein with his credit cards, and then wondered if he was still at the office. There, she thought, or at home watching movies. Like her. She thought about her sleepless night of the week before, and the ones that had followed it. Ever since then, even when she was working, she hadn't been able to get him out of her mind. She kept thinking about his hands; how they would feel on her body, his soft sensual mouth, how it would feel on her neck, her breasts... Ever since she realized she desired him, Wanted him. Needed him. But what was it, she wondered? Was it just pure physical desire or was it more? If her heart was involved, there was trouble. Physical desire could be repressed, shoved into the back corner of her mind and a door shut on it. At least she thought so. But the other--she refused to consider it--refused until the final scene of the movie when Richard Gere climbed the fire escape carrying the bouquet of flowers and took Julia Roberts into his arms. She sniffled and reached for a tissue. Happily-ever-after-the-end. Could there be a happily ever after for her? With Mulder? Don't be an ass, she told herself. It was Van Blundth who wanted you, not Mulder. Her partner had different quarry in life than her. She tossed Pretty Woman aside and put on Waiting to Exhale, a movie in which at least some of the men were jerks. Much better. This tear-jerker stuff was absurd. And there she sat, eating the last of the Chinese food, until the knock sounded on the door. Weird. It was exactly two weeks since Van Blundht had come knocking on her door. She rose from the couch and looked through the peephole. Oh god. Mulder. She felt her breath catch in her throat. He wasn't wearing the silly grin Van Blundht had been sporting. He was looking around, sort of nervously. She opened the door. "Hi," he said. "I didn't wake you, did I?" In one hand he had a sheaf of papers and in the other--dear god in heaven--a bottle of wine. "Why are you doing this to me. Mulder?" she asked, her voice coming out exasperated. "I brought the first draft of the report," he said, holding out the papers. He was still dressed in his suit--he must have come straight from the office. "And I brought this," he said, meeting her eyes. His gaze was direct, but she saw a hint of--terror--behind the panic. It seemed to her that he was barely holding himself together. She took the wine from him. This was too weird. What was he trying to do? Seduce her? Her heart gave a little flutter at the thought. "Come in, I guess," she said, and led him into the living room. "Shall I open this?" "Guess so," he shrugged out of his jacket. "That's why I brought it." "Okay. Have a seat." He took the same seat as Van Blundht had done two weeks previously. Did he think she wouldn't notice? He was definitely up to something. She brought the wine and the glasses, just as she had done previously. Maybe there should be three glasses, she thought. The shadow of Van Blundht lay in the room like a presence all its own. Was Mulder testing her? She'd bet that was it. Setting the same scene to see what she would do? But she had let him in. Was she testing herself? He was watching the movie curiously as she sat down. She set the bottle and the glasses down and reached for the remote control. "Girl movie, huh?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow. He looked cute when he did that, she thought. "Guilty as charged," she replied, flicking it off. Jay Leno appeared on the screen and she turned the volume down but left it on. "What are you doing here, Mulder?" she asked, getting right to the point of the question that was plaguing her. "I wanted you to know it was me," he said softly, meeting her gaze with a direct one of his own. She looked deep into his hazel eyes and what she saw there frightened her and comforted her at the same time. This was Mulder, *her* Mulder, not some impostor. She had no reason to fear him and every reason to desire him. Impulsively, she put her hand on his arm. "I knew it was you," she said. She could feel her heart beating in her throat. He didn't move except for the flicker of his eyes as he looked down at her hand. His skin was warm under her palm and she rubbed her thumb back and forth. Suddenly, he moved forward and they were in one another's arms, holding each other like sailors lost and drowning. Scully could feel the beat of his heart, rapid and strong, and she stroked his hair. She thought that nothing in her life had prepared her for this, this feeling of rightness, of being exactly where she ought to be. He raised his head. "Scully," he said. "Are you sure?" A surge of warmth and tenderness flowed over her, that he would ask. Her reply was plain as she leaned down and kissed him. His mouth was soft, welcoming, and he held her tightly as they kissed like lovers long separated. There was quicksilver lightning in that first kiss they shared, and Scully felt it all the way down to her toes. Desire flooded her as she opened her mouth to receive his tongue. He released her to reach up and plunge his hands into her hair, breaking the kiss and moving his mouth to her jaw, her neck, kissing and gently biting. He buried his face, too, in her hair, and groaned deep in his throat. Scully threw her head back at the sensations his mouth was causing. "Touch me, Mulder," she whispered. "Oh, please touch me." He pushed her back on the sofa and leaned on top of her, kneeling between her legs. For a few moments he just looked down at her, outlined in the flickering light from the TV, and then he reached down and gently touched her face with the tip of his finger. He traced the line of her cheek, her jaw, her neck. She closed her eyes for a moment, then realized she wanted to look at him. His expression was so solemn, and she realized he was taking this all very seriously. "I love you," he said. "I think I have for a long time but I didn't really realize it until--" "Until Van Blundht," she finished for him. "Yeah. Until Van Blundht. Did you really think it was me?" "I think I wanted it to be you...wanted it so badly...that I was willing to believe anything." She felt her eyes fill with tears. "It's me now. Is that good enough?" "More than good enough," she said, smiling a little. "Now come here." He stretched out on top of her, and she thought that she had never felt anything so wonderful in her life. His body against hers, the evidence of his arousal pressing hard against her thigh. Their lips met again, this time with more intensity, more passion. He rolled off her slightly and untied the belt of the dressing gown. Reaching inside, he undid the buttons of her pajamas, exposing her breasts. He lowered his mouth to them, and she arched to meet him, feeling darts of sensation course through her. She reached up and started to unbutton his shirt. He sat up and pulled it off, exposing his body to her. She slid her arms out of dressing gown and pajamas, and now they were naked to the waist, against each other, their mouths seeking each other. He felt so good, so good, she thought exultantly. Suddenly he stood and lifted her in his arms, carrying her toward the bedroom. He lay her down on the bed and undressed, sliding out of his trousers and briefs. He lay down beside her, his erection hot and heavy against her thigh. She reached down to touch him and he moaned, reaching for her. He put his face to her breasts and licked and sucked while she caressed his cock with her hand. Then he traced his tongue down between her breasts, to her belly. When his tongue touched her very center she cried out and fisted her hands in his hair. She writhed on the bed as she took her pleasure, knowing he wanted to give it to her, knowing he wanted to please her. But it wasn't enough. She wanted him on her, in her, filling her. She dug her fingers into his shoulders until he looked up. "Now," she said. "Please, now." He knew without asking what she wanted, needed, craved. He lifted himself up and with one smooth motion plunged into her. She arched her neck back at the joining, and he leaned forward, taking her mouth with his own. She could smell, taste herself on him, and that was more erotic than anything she had ever experienced. She wrapped her legs around his back, drawing him in deeper, deeper. She was on the edge, on the very edge of the precipice the last four years with this man had brought her to, and she wanted to feel it all, experience it all. It was far beyond the physical; she knew that now. She wanted him as her man, her very own, from this moment on, and as she reached her crest and sailed over it, she knew it would be. He was thrusting faster now, his cock filling her, making her his, until he moved hard inside her one last time and groaned. He collapsed on top of her. She released her legs and he rolled off, holding her close, kissing her jaw, her temple. Then he propped up on one elbow and looked at her, his eyes twinkling, that beloved crooked smile quirking his mouth. "How about a glass of wine?" he asked.