Three Times II - Overture Mirrored

Overture Mirrored

I can't leave it like this. I only did what he'd have done. And yet he acts betrayed, leaving me isolated, bereft.

We're out of the car, but I don't know where we go from here. Mulder resolves the problem for me. "Do you want to come in?"

I need to clear the air, and he needs to trust me again.

His movements appear so smoothly self-assured, so certain, and I wish I could make him break his stride and pause for long enough to look at me. We need time together, even if there's nothing to be said. Perhaps if we eat something it'll provide a distraction, something familiar to do, and maybe there'll be comfort in that.

Oblivious to my presence, he kicks off his shoes as soon as he walks through the apartment's door. Should I switch on the lights? His eyes flag some kind of warning so I push the door closed, losing the illumination from the hallway. The aquarium offers just enough glow for me to navigate safely to his couch.

My cell phone has his local pizza guy in its memory, and I can't help but wonder who's on his speed dial. I'm not sure why I'm ordering pizza, I guess it's easy food, no thought or even cutlery required.

By the time he returns from the kitchen, I've dared to switch on the table lamp. I didn't ask if he wanted pizza, he didn't ask if I wanted coffee. It just happened, we can't even talk about that.

He's rubbing at his temples and I itch to volunteer my help. As a doctor bearing gifts of paracetemol, as a masseur with magic fingers. Let me fix that, Mulder. Of course, I don't say anything.

The pizza guy knocks on the door and Mulder heads for the kitchen; I guess that means I'm buying.

"There's money in my jacket," he shouts, and I'm so relieved to hear his voice that I'm still half smiling when I sit down with the pizza, and he reappears in the kitchen doorway, offering beer.

My smile isn't returned, he swallows and the shutters come down still further. Retreating to the far end of the couch, switching on the TV, he channel surfs until he catches Bart Simpson crashing head first into some blazing fight with Lisa and leaves it there. The great thing is you just know Bart and Lisa are going to sort it out.

I'm not so sure about us, at least Bart and Lisa talk to one another.

"I don't understand why you're alive. You told Skinner you couldn't talk to me." I hear his words and wonder if, perhaps it would be better if we didn't talk after all. "I thought...."

"That he'd taken me."

I know, Mulder. I know. And I'm sorry, but if I'd let you follow me the game would have been over before it had even begun

Our plates end up on the coffee table together. His portion, mostly eaten. Mine, partially dissected into its constituent parts but otherwise untouched.

I can't leave it there. I wasn't taken, but that didn't mean I had a choice. Did Skinner sense that? "Skinner didn't agree?"

"He said there was nothing he could do. Nothing I could do, either. He was right."

"You said you understood."

"That if you'd been killed it would have been worth it?"

We could be killed any time, any place. Spender didn't need to take me on a road trip to do it. Doesn't he get that? "Mulder?"

"And that I wouldn't need to know why you'd died?"

"If he'd offered the deal to you, you'd have gone. It made sense."

"Hustles always do."

"But he seemed...."

"He told you something you want to hear, and looked in your eyes as he did it. The perfect con."

"I knew that he might be lying."

"But you wanted to believe him, so you did."

I didn't believe him. Not really. But I did believe I might have learned something. Made contact with someone. We know Spender's got knowledge we could use, I've got a lump of it in my neck. Mulder's chased slimmer leads for the chance of smaller gains.

"But you'd have taken those odds. If there had been any chance."

"Then why wasn't that the message on my machine?"

Why wasn't it? Because Mulder wouldn't have let me go. He'd have followed me, the same way I've always followed him. And I couldn't let that happen, this was my deal. "I thought you might try and find me."

"And if you said there was a 'family emergency' I wouldn't?"

I guess, I hoped.

"I called your mom."

Mom. She must be worried sick. Oh, God.

"Don't worry, I called her again this afternoon to say you were on your way home."

And I didn't. I didn't want to worry her. I don't check in every day. She wouldn't have been worried. Not until Mulder called. Of course, Mulder would call her. I told him there was a family emergency.

I think I'm going to be sick.

"Scully." His voice has lost its desperate force. He's kneeling on the floor in front of me. When did that happen? "It's OK. You came back. You made it back."

It's not OK. I've hurt him. I've hurt Mom. And Cobra's dead because he wanted to talk to me.

"Not your fault," he says. And I don't know quite what he's referring to, I'm not really sure what I said to him.

And suddenly I'm holding him, tightening my fingers around his arms, and he's telling me it's alright, that it's over, that it was OK, that he didn't blame me for trying.

It's not true though, is it? I went looking for glory and just ended up being conned. "I looked into his eyes."

Mulder tries to pull away, but I'm not ready to let him go. I've got to explain. I've got to tell him how the con worked. Mulder once told me that Deep Throat had said that a lie is best hidden between truths, and there was truth in some of CGB's words.

"He told me something fantastic. And I wanted to believe."

His body remains tense, but he doesn't stir from the spot, I no longer feel as if he's trying to pull away. I need him to understand. If something good can come from this, it's up to me to make it happen.

His words are almost impersonal, as coolly analytical in tone as I need to keep going. "If he'd been for real, he wouldn't have needed to stop you from talking to me."

Can I tell him this? "He said you were mule-headed, that you thought you could overthrow the system."

"He's right about that."

It comes easily to him, this forced jollity. My God, Mulder, you can profile a monster, you can analyze a photo of a stranger's corpse and tell me why the choice was made, what need was addressed by the death. Why can't you read me? Can't you see that I've got something important to tell you?

That's unfair. The story's mine to tell, not his to guess.

My fingers drift over him, telling him my story in a way that right now my voice cannot.

I'd die for you, Mulder. But loving you's hard. You swallow me up, steal my dreams, wash away my fears. There's so little of me left that it's hard to let go. I could drown in you.

Your beliefs, your energy, your courage. You. You send me into battle and it's an honor to be at your side. You make me laugh and cry, but above all, you make me think. Can you imagine how scared that makes me feel? Can you imagine how hard it is for me to walk away from the need in your eyes?

I can see the tears that he won't cry, they mirror my own. I can hear the stutter of his breathing, it echoes mine. This is us, a messy ball of confusion and unity.

The Smoker knew, he understood what strength I see in you. "He said - that I'm drawn to powerful men."

His reply is like nothing I'd imagined. His delivery, softly restrained, is the same demanding professional tone he uses when he needs to hold the attention of a skeptical audience. "Anything he said, he said to divide us, to drive a wedge between us. We can't let him do that."

Divide us? No, that may have been his intention, but that's not what I learned. We can be so much more. Let me try.

His action preempts my words. His mouth meets mine and the explanation I was struggling for has flown. We don't need words. We just need this. Perhaps this started in pain but maybe we can end it in pleasure.

It's not our first real kiss, but this time I haven't got the protection of other people and the context of tradition to hide behind. I've had time to think since New Year's. I've replayed his kiss and my reaction to it a thousand times. The kiss was an offer, delivered without pressure. Unthreatening and undemanding - a promise, not a threat.

Mulder is a scientist at heart. He runs behavioral experiments on people, sets out the bait and studies whatever falls into the trap. He's doing the same with me, running a non-destructive test on my feelings, going as far as he dare without jeopardizing what we've already got.

Easing back a few inches, he stares at me, and through me, like he's looking for my soul. He's waiting for me to bolt, or at least offering me the opportunity. But I've got no reason to run away from this, from him. It's easier to show him that, than to try to tell him.

My fingers play with the back of his neck, sliding up into his hair and he seems to understand the invitation. He eases back into my caress, continuing those experiments of his, still giving me plenty of time to pull away.

He turns his head and I discover that my wrist is an erogenous zone, or maybe his mouth discovers it for me.

"Beautiful." He says, and I agree.

I touch his lips and he reacts instantly, pulling my finger into his mouth and gently biting.

And I hear a bark of laughter come from deep in my throat, and he reacts by releasing my finger, and starting a spider walk along my arm. Infinitely slowly, his mouth tiptoes over my wrist, tracks past radius and ulna, pauses to study my elbow before seeking out the humerus, and my anxiety builds as fast as my excitement. I need to speed him up. If we don't keep moving, I could easily lose my nerve.

At last, and at his own pace, he finds my neck and the effect's instantaneous as he touches my bare skin.

"Oh, God." Did I say that?

I guess so, because I feel a jolt of amusement shudder through his lips.

He rests his cheek against mine. His skin's just a little rough, just enough stubble for me to know that this is real. His lips brush mine and he's gone before I can take the bait. His mouth finds a flutter of nerve endings on my cheekbone and I gasp at his discovery. His chin traces the line of my eyebrows and I almost giggle as he tells me that he loves my mind.

As I do yours, Mulder.

Kiss me. Stop teasing. I know this is another test but I'm ready to graduate.

He meets my lips again but his mouth's gone in a flash and he's licking my earlobe instead. Is that growl coming from me?

They say sex is like riding a bike - that you never forget. But I'm scared that I'll start to wobble if we go too slow.

"Mulder?"

It starts as the softest of kisses, a gentle exploration. His lips press against mine, gently easing my mouth open. His tongue slides against my top lip, and the rhythm of light and slow, turns firmer and faster sending sparks through my brain. I chase his tongue with mine; they dance and swirl.

His fingers comb my hair, and I'm losing the ability to breathe and kiss at the same time. He seems to sense it, easing our mouths apart, dusting his lips over mine a couple more times. Those final contacts are so light that even as he pulls away, the electric shock of his touch makes me feel as if he's left part of himself behind.

His fingernail skims across the underside of my lashes and I know that the dampness that brightens his eyes is mirrored in my own. Don't think sad thoughts, Mulder. "I'm fine."

Poor choice of words. His eyes close and he shakes his head. So, I try again. "Come here."

Ah, that's better. His eyes open and he moves slowly forward.

I make space for him to join me on the couch and he does.

This is really happening. Fuck you, CGB - I'm not scared of loving Mulder.

He closes his mouth over my nipple and the heat scalds me. His fingers push past the waistband of my pants and his touch is slow burn and I'm melting.

I can do more; I need to do more.

Careful maneuvering earns me a few inches of space, just enough to start the process of unbuttoning my shirt. He sits back on his heels, staring down at me, fascinated, and maybe even a little shocked. Good, I want him to know that there is no one-sided seduction here, that this is a meeting of two equals finally ready to act.

I'm not really dressed for the occasion, but perhaps that's a good reason to make this more strip than tease. A wave of my hand is enough for him to understand my intentions, and he quickly follows suit.

It's not the first time I've seen him naked, but up until now, his nakedness has always been a signal that there was something dreadfully wrong. Which is why this is like nothing that's gone before.

Beautiful, he really is. Long limbs, sleek muscles, powerful shoulders - a runner, a swimmer. But is it a sin to admit that the most beautiful thing about him is the look in his eyes? His eyes make me look beautiful.

I almost think he would be content to look, at least for a while, but I'm not. I need to move on and this couch could be the venue for old lovers reminiscing over their misspent youth, but why make tonight complicated when there's a real bedroom only feet away?

So, I gently tug him to his feet.

Seconds later, I'm pressing him back onto the bed and he complies, placing himself in my hands.

There are no words and that frightens me a little. Mulder's a talker. Give him a topic and he can give you a speech. But maybe tonight should be different, maybe it has to be. Maybe we spend so much time in the cerebral world that we need the silence to let us feel.

Maybe that's why Mulder's not looking at me. His eyes have caught sight of the mirror and locked onto our bodies' reflections in there. Maybe he needs that distance to take it all in, to make him believe that it's really the two of us.

Yes, Mulder, it's hard for me, too. And right now I'm distracted by too many thoughts, too many memories. I have to close my eyes to let myself feel.

I feel his hand on my breast, and I'm in awe of his patience. Fox Mulder, patient? It sounds ridiculous. Yet in this, I guess, I already knew that much about him. We've waited for seven years.

His fingernail makes my nipple sing, but it's too distracting. The need that burns in me, to take this next step, to make this union complete, is too urgent. There will be time enough for leisurely exploration later.

I pull back from the contact, gently shaking my head and I know that he sees and accepts my request, because he sighs and I feel his hand move away, tracing slowly over my ribcage, across my bellybutton and down. Oh.

Not yet. I've got other plans for tonight and I'm so much on edge that if he focuses his touch on me, I know it'll be over too soon. And then it'll turn into a race, because I know my body. I'm not that good a partner after I find that first release. Multiple orgasms are something that other women have. I'm just grateful if I can share one with a lover.

So can we take a raincheck on that, Mulder? First nights are tough enough without adding to the obstacles. "Not now."

And he seems to accept that as well, and I'm grateful, because I need to prepare myself to put this change behind us.

He's been hard since we stripped; I've been ready since he kissed me. But it's been a while; my body's not used to accepting such a beautiful intruder. So I'm not going to rush things, not too much anyway.

I slide over him, massaging his cock with my most delicate flesh.

"Oh, God." We murmur together. And Mulder gives a chuckle of surprise.

It's my cue to move and I do. Slithering over him, my flesh, liquid and engorged and female meeting his, hard and shatteringly male. I can smell our excitement build. I slide over him, and slide over him, again and again and again. Until my clitoris is almost overwhelmed by the friction, and my vagina screams out its craving for more attention.

And his hands meet my breasts again but I don't need the extra stimulation. What inspires me now is what's going to happen next. If something good can come of the last three days, maybe it's this.

I lean back, experimenting with the pressure of his flesh against mine.

"Scully."

Yes, Mulder. It's me. I'm right here and it's time

My hand finds him, his penis velvet soft over steel hard. There's no mystery here, just a man and a woman and an act as old as time. Not just any man, this is the man I'd die for. And this is not about some fate worse than death, this is about life.

His delighted hiss is my command, and at last I'm rising above him, guiding him into me. I've never been so ready in my life. But I still need to take it slow, I don't need pain before I can feel pleasure. In any case, this final slow motion act destroys my remaining fears, reminds me that we've evolved into this. That we're not just here because we're drunk on my adrenaline and his. That we haven't been tricked into this by hormones or fear.

He presses up into me and I groan, my lips form an, "oh," as my flesh strains to accept him.

And I do accept him. I accepted the mysterious workings of his mind long ago. I have accepted that our souls are entwined. I can accept his body as well.

I do. I revel in the sensations, relax into the rhythm.

For years, I had this vague, nightmare of a fantasy that we might one day make love but that if we did then I'd be consumed by him. That if our bodies met, then he'd have it all. That I would lose myself in him.

How is it that tonight of all nights I can finally take that risk?

I've risked so much to be with this man, and now, this new contact feels like no risk at all. How could I have ever feared this?

Spender says I'm drawn to powerful men, and he's right, but that makes it sound like a kind of gold digging, a dewy-eyed interest in reflected glory. But it's not, I've used them as a measure of myself, and sometimes as a source of strength and inspiration.

My connection to Mulder is about so much more than simple desire. I wonder if he knows, the energy I draw from him?

I draw on his energy now.

Mulder thinks too much. This, he needs to feel. I need him as lost in the sensations as I am.

Just let it happen, Mulder. Don't get distracted searching for my rhythm, find your own. Don't worry about what moves will make me enjoy this, I already am.

Rocking above him, it's all so easy. Come with me, Mulder.

"Ahhh!"

Was that me? I guess so. His hips surge up into me, his hands pull me down to him, his lips greet mine and I'm no more capable of directing his movement than I am of stopping my heart from beating.

In an instant our positions are reversed. I'm lying on my back and he's slamming into me, his fingers kneading my breast. I want to open my eyes, I'd love to see his expression. But I daren't break the spell so I have to be content to groan, and allow myself to imagine the fire I'd see in his eyes.

He's consuming me, his mouth closes over mine and demands a response. My lips hum into his touch. His fingers tangle in my hair, creating sparks as they skim across my ears. My body shivers and squirms, and he responds by letting his body collapse onto mine. His solid weight that could be crushing, in this context is pleasingly all embracing instead.

But he only crushes me for a moment, and then I'm groaning because he's pulling away. What's wrong? Don't stop. Get on with it.

"Scully?" He says, reinforcing my name with a twist of movement that takes my breath away

"Ahhh."

Pulling away from me, he reaches back along the bed and locks his fingers around my ankles, and I'm too confused to respond. I can't guess his plan, but I've got no desire to stop him, and no idea how to help.

I have to let it happen and an instant later, it does. He maneuvers me as he chooses, folding me over so my knees hit my chest, then releasing me so my feet rest against his shoulders. He slides into me, smooth and slow, but certain, withdrawing for an instant only to stroke deeper when he returns.

It's the cool, steady rhythm as much as the solid thrust of his hips that overwhelms me.

It may have been a while since I last did this, but I think I'd remember if it had ever felt this good.

The sensation's too much to respond to, and my muscles crumble under his touch. I have to grip the sheets to stop myself from falling. His fingers press past my lips and I have to bite down on them to keep my hold on reality.

"Touch yourself."

I guess I won't be able to keep my hold for very much longer. He shifts the angle to make it easier for me to slip my hand down to the inferno where our bodies meet.

"Ah." The tingle of my first touch, makes my clit twitch, electric shock of a response. I have to make the pressure less direct, and compensate by pushing harder. And I can hear him groaning above me. I just know he's got to be watching this now, and feeling it too, enjoying the extra pressure of my knuckles as they collide incidentally with his cock.

He speeds up, just slightly, just enough to make me want to change my pace, too. And my fingers respond, accelerating, pressing, almost crushing, and I'm at the top of the ski-jump and looking at the long slope down. And I'm not afraid, he pushes my fear away, it's the most natural thing in the world to let myself move forward.

"Ah."

And I'm flying and floating and falling and the sensations tumble over one another and the contractions explode through me and I'm there, falling and falling and falling without ever hitting the ground.

It's a while before I get my breath back, a while before the spasms finally fade away. It's a while before I realize that he's still pushing into me, and I'm shocked and more than a little disappointed to find his rhythm unchanged, his breathing unruffled. While I was flying apart, he was dancing to a different beat.

Mulder, where are you?

I thought I was going to find you. And instead, I get here and find I'm all alone.

I thought that if I could let this happen, and survive, then it would prove that my fears of losing myself were groundless, that Spender was wrong. That I could let myself - love Mulder.

Tonight was not the time for such a step. Mulder was too raw. I was too hyped up on what might have happened and what actually had. This wasn't the right time.

Autopsies are my business, and even here, even with him still stroking into me, I can't switch off this urge to dissect.

Spender was wrong. I can love Mulder.

But this is wrong, too. I'd always promised myself that if one day we found ourselves in bed together, it would not be because pain or fear had put us there. We'd be there for the sake of joy. And as I feel Mulder move above me, as persistent as an automaton, I know there's no joy here.

I push up into him, to remind him of my presence. He responds, not by changing that relentless rhythm but by easing back just far enough to let me uncurl myself. I cautiously move my legs so my feet can rest on the bed again.

My thighs complain at the change of position, my muscles cramping under the continuous pounding from his body.

His back is smooth and his muscles ripple as I stroke him. The movement of my hands feels strange to me, involuntary even, but it's out of place only because it's mistimed. It's as if we missed too many steps, skipped directly to the main event and never gave ourselves time to explore. We drifted apart even while we were joined together.

Is this the price I have to pay for pushing his hands away?

Oh, God. What a fucking mess. A comedy of errors that leaves me numb, a blank slate under his weight.

Is it too late to start over?

"What do you want me to do?" His words are passionless and without form, as if he expects to be told to stop fucking me, and to take care of this itch of his some other way. But I don't want that. I want to set things right. But I don't know how.

"Let me love you."

And he hears me, even though I swear I never spoke those words aloud. I know he hears me because I can feel his body go instantly rigid and his breath go ragged and his steady thrusts turn into erratic spasms.

His weight crushes me as he comes. His mouth avoids me, clamps onto his own fingers for support as he shudders to a halt.

I comb his hair with my fingers, and he rolls away from me. Withdrawing, in more ways than one.

I won't stay the night, we need time to think.

Tonight was not the night to rush into this.

We need one another too much to rush the morning after.

The morning after can wait.

Continue to "Three Times - Restart"