From: Kate Rickman Date: Fri, 15 Oct 1999 18:09:31 -0400 Subject: Summer into Fall (1/1) Kate Rickman Source: xff Reply To: kate.rickman@mindspring.com TITLE: Love for all Seasons I: Summer into Fall AUTHOR: Kate Rickman E-MAIL: kate.rickman@mindspring.com DISTRIBUTION: Anywhere CLASSIFICATION: V, MSR RATING: R SPOILERS: FTF DISCLAIMER: Just the wall, not the bricks. SUMMARY: Scully spends a month at her mother's cottage on Chesapeake Bay and finds more solace than she sought. Introspection, then action. What *should* have happened after FTF. AUTHOR'S NOTE: Fluff, pure fluff. I'm writing a series of relationship--OK, fluff--pieces, starting summer 1998 and continuing as inspiration strikes until I get tired of fluff. My universe runs parallel with CC's universe only where I want it to. Where applicable, I write relative to The X-Files Time Line, archived at http://www.usd.edu/~mmarek/xf/. Love for All Seasons is and will be: I. Summer into Fall--this story II. Coloring Fall III. Winter Solstice IV. Winter into Spring--COMING SOON! IV. Spring Leaves V. Summer VI. etc. Note: I am not a linear writer. Sections II and III will be written after section IV, but you can visit my web site and look for them anyway-- http://hate.rickman.home.mindspring.com/ As always, thanks for reading! *** September 21, 1998 4:43 PM I can't believe it's almost fall. Geese sail south in neat vees against a blue sky spotted with just a cloud or two. Gold-tipped trees crowd the shore and reflect across the still waters of the bay. The sun is warm against my back but against that warmth, now and again, the gentle wind has a crisp edge; its cool fingers trace the healing scars on my face, a fine web of frost-bite and chemical burns. A month ago, I retreated to my family's beach house to lick my wounds and to heal and to think. This house echoes with warm memories of Mom and Dad, my brothers and sister and I, all laughing and happy. This is the house were I spent my summers, nurtured, maturing through my teens into adulthood. There are only good ghosts here and it comforts me to be with them. I lean back against a tall piling that marks the end of the dock and close my eyes, listening to the gentle whisper of the waters passing under me, running out to be lost at sea. That was my life, before. The events of the past few weeks have been a wake-up call for me. The Powers That Be in the Bureau slapped me in the face with demotion and transfer to a dead-end job in Salt Lake City. Mulder shocked me with an anguished confession of his feelings--his need--for me. Then there was the almost-kiss that rocked my world. I close my eyes and remember the emotion in his face and the tears streaking down mine. I remember the tickle of his breath against my cheek and the gentle first touch of his lips. I remember wanting his kiss, opening my heart for it. I also remember that damned bee and how Mulder literally went to one end of the earth to find me and bring me safely home again. I hear a splash and open my eyes. A circle widens in the water nearby. Fish. While I'm watching, another fish--perhaps it's the same fish--leaps into the air, its scales shining gold in the evening sunlight. With a flip, he hits the bulls-eye, splashing through the first mark and into the water again. The second circle chases the first, ever widening, never meeting. Both slowly drift away and are gone. That was my life, before. I've spent the past six years unconsciously drifting toward Mulder and consciously pushing him away. Mulder is not the man I would have chosen for myself. He is dark, moody, driven, tortured. He invariably takes the most difficult path through life. But somehow we have grown together, his rhythms becoming my rhythms, my needs becoming his needs until I am no longer certain how to separate the two of us. Even though I am in Maryland and Mulder is in Massachusetts, the 500 miles between us is a bond, not a gulf. Mulder has spent his month on the Vineyard, at the house he inherited from his father. After the first few days, he sent me a hesitant e-mail. Shy, almost. The message was shockingly intimate by Mulder standards. No X-File, no conspiracy, no mutants, no aliens. Just simple stories about painting the porch and what he found while cleaning out the attic. Simple, but perfect. Each morning I eagerly boot my laptop, logging in for Mulder's late-night e-mail and sending my early morning reply. This faceless communication, safe, typing in black and white to an impersonal screen is an easy medium. I find myself telling the screen things I'd never consider saying to Mulder about my life, my feelings, my dreams. For once we talk about ourselves and not about The Work. We both choose our words carefully. We dance cautiously around the kiss and its meaning. But between the lines we acknowledge that we've willingly stepped over a line in our relationship. In a way, we've spent the last month negotiating the rest of our lives. A raft of geese raucously plummets to earth on a marshy neck of land just north of my dock. The tall grass conceals their sleek summer bodies; only heads show above the weeds as they waddle among the tufts of Goldenrod, pecking and grumbling. It's a beautiful time, Fall. It's a time when nature holds its breath. It's a time for change. It's time for me to change. I roll onto my stomach, my face over the edge of the dock. A vague reflection stares back at me from the ripples. Red hair, tied in a ponytail that falls over one shoulder. A purple sweatshirt. Between them, my face: the moving water blurs my blemished skin and makes it clear again. It is my face and not my face I see. Just the way I want it. I push one finger through the water and watch the long trail that streaks away from it, a long ribbon that widens and rolls out into the bay. This is my life, now. The dock vibrates beneath me. I sense someone moving along the boards, coming in my direction as the vibrations grow stronger. I turn to see a pair of heavy black boots appear next to my shoulder. Oh, Lord. I twist an awkward kink into my neck and follow a pair of well-worn jeans north. They are faded, hugging long legs in all the right places, slipping tightly over narrow hips. Oh my. A light cable knit sweater, charcoal gray, drapes over the them, hanging from broad shoulders. Mulder stands there, hands in pockets, his chin casually unshaven, his hair overgrown and falling carelessly into his eyes. Holy cow. "Hey Scully." The timbre of his voice sends shivers up and down my spine. I push into a sitting position at his feet. I shade my eyes against the setting sun and look into his tanned face without speaking. I can't speak, in fact. My tongue is firmly stuck to the roof of my very dry mouth. "Hey." He offers me a hand and I take it, letting him pull me onto my feet. "Mulder." I pry my tongue loose and mumble his name. My voice trembles as I climb onto shaky legs, retrieving my hand and using it to unsteadily brush down my sweatshirt. "What brings you here?" "You." Unvarnished. Both sides of my brain are shouting *run, Dana, run* but they point me in opposite directions and cancel each other out. Frozen, I use the one remaining functional part of my body to babble, "How did you get here?" Cool, Dana. Mulder reaches out to touch my cheek. This is not a patented Mulder touch, caring but cool and impersonal. This is different. This touch burns me from each of his fingertips. Warmth surges up and over my head. Something passionate swelled between us, tense, exciting, forbidding. Then his stomach growls. Loud. We burst out laughing. The tension evaporates. It's just Mulder and me again. "You don't happen to have anything to eat around here, do you Scully?" Mulder rubs his belly. "Been a while?" I say over my shoulder, smiling broadly as I lead the way off the dock. "Yeah. I caught the 6 AM ferry and I've been on the road ever since." Mulder catches up with me as we wade through the grass in the direction of my mother's house. My pulse settles down to a steady thrum in my veins as we walk and trade innocent pleasantries. The house, which is ordinarily pretty, white and neat, tonight shimmers like a fairy palace as the setting sun washes the clapboards with gold. Petunias hang around the edge of a porch that wraps around two sides of the house. I have tended my flowers carefully this summer and a riot of blues and reds and pinks and purples cascade from the pots to sway gently in the evening breeze. Tips of white curtains flutter from open windows as Mulder follows me onto the porch, his heavy footsteps a counterpoint to my lighter ones on the wooden stairs. I raise an eyebrow at Mulder's duffel bag, which sits discreetly to one side of the front door, tucked behind the glider. This is no courtesy call on his way home to Virginia; he plans to stay with me awhile. Little fingers of anxiety play around the inside of my stomach as I heft the bag and bring it into the house with us. I don't make the pretense of putting it in a guest room; instead I push open the door of my own room and set it there, feeling Mulder's eyes against my back the whole time. Despite my best efforts, I can't quite meet Mulder's gaze when I return to the living room. He helps me out--the room is empty. I walk the few steps into the kitchen and find his backside sticking from the refrigerator where he forages for something to eat. I gulp and avert my eyes from the taut denim, moving around him, reaching for the salad things. "So how was the drive?" God, that sounds stupid to my ears. My shoulder rubs against his muscular one as I pass him the lettuce and tomato and mushrooms and croutons. Salad-making does not exceed his culinary skills. I've seen him do it before. "Good. Not too much traffic." Mulder smiles and plays along, rinsing the lettuce in cool fresh water from the sink. "How was your day?" He pats each leaf dry meticulously, his long fingers stroking the lettuce through the thick fabric of the towel. I force myself to ignore the long stroking fingers as I pour water onto the rice mixture and seal it with a lid. I turn the heat to low then turn to Mulder. Let's get this out of the way, I decide. Without warning, I push him against the counter and slide up his chest until I'm on the tips of my toes and our faces are nearly even. I take his face between my hands and, still not daring to look into his eyes, focus my attention on his lips instead. They are moist and parted, straight white teeth showing behind them. Before the coward in me wrests control of my body, I sink into those lips, working mine across them, feeling their warmth, feeling them open to me. Mulder's arms slip around my back and he pulls me against him. I lean into his warm strength, my fingers threading through the long hair at the back of his neck. I am surprised by the quiet whimper that escapes his throat as his tongue and mine meet and slide together. I pull back, kiss the line of his jaw, breath his essence from the skin of his neck and burrow my burning face into the soft knit of his sweater. He holds me and I hold him and I listen to the blood rushing through my veins and the pounding of Mulder's heart beneath my ear. After a few minutes, standing there together, I turn from his arms and take the barbecue tongs from the counter. "I'll start the coals." I peek at his face as I turn toward the front door. What I see there shakes me to the soles of my feet. I see love. I see unshed tears. I see his need for me. I see his need for me to need him. I take my time lighting the grill, meticulously arranging the coals, and placing the metal grid just-so on top of it all. The crisp evening air cools my face, which I know is as red as the glowing coals I push around with my tongs. Mulder, bless him, understands my need for a moment to myself. I hear him working in the kitchen, rattling the flatware, clattering of plate against plate as he sets the table inside. As the sun fades to indigo twilight and the coals settle into a deep glow, Mulder appears at my side with a plate of marinated fish. "Look what I found in the refrigerator," he murmurs into my ear, holding the plate toward me, somehow making a pile of dead fish into something strangely erotic. I fork the fillets onto the hot grill where they sputter and pop. Mulder's fingers creep across my nape followed by the humid gust of his breath. The soft warmth of his lips against my sensitive neck flows into me, feeding the heat that blooms in my belly. I concentrate fiercely, fork trembling in hand, and turn each section of fish to grill the other side. How do we make it through supper? Barely. Mulder, damn him, found candles stored beneath the sink and sowed them throughout the house: two on the dining table, three on the sideboard, four scattered around the living room and, I would discover later, three small flickering votives in the bedroom. We eat our meal in golden dusky candlelight and soft gray shadow that hangs thick with promise. Then it happens. While clearing the table, I turn from the sink and collide with Mulder. I steady myself against him and suddenly find both hands beneath his sweater, gliding across the smooth skin that covers his back. My eyes crawl up his chest, across his neck, over his chin, and finally meet his gaze. Mulder's eyes are hot and dark and deep. Now. The time is now. Then his leg is between mine and I press myself hard against him, reaching for his lips with my own, feeling his arms come around me and lift me in the air so that I naturally wrap both legs around his waist, pulling the sweater over his head as I slide my arms up his back and around his shoulders, finally devouring his lips with my own while a tinkle of breaking glass sounds somewhere in the far distance. With his tongue exploring my mouth and his hands roaming beneath my sweatshirt, both touching sensitive forgotten places, Mulder stumbles blindly from the kitchen, caroms off a living room wall to one in the hall, lurches into the bedroom door jamb, and finally staggers across the polished bedroom floor to fall across the bed. I waste no time, ripping at his buttoned fly, peeling the jeans and underwear down his legs in one long pull, throwing the useless garments at the far side of the room before leaning down to kiss him *there.* He groans, jumps beneath my lips, then pushes me back against the mattress and drags my sweatshirt over my head with one hand, dropping it, forgotten when his eyes focus on my bare breasts, nipples popping in the cool evening air. Watching him watch me, I pull down my jeans with trembling hands and kick them away, letting one leg fall to the side, opening myself to him, feeling as wet and as ready as I have ever been for the touch of a lover, feeling the feather-light tickle of his fingers advance along my thigh and climb higher, sliding across the heat of my core, through the curls at the top of my thighs to the sensitive skin on my breasts. His lips follow the path his fingers took and finally I moan because I can't help myself. Mulder pulls back and looks me in the face, giving me a chance to back out. "No way," I tug him toward me, breathing heavily, needing this as badly as he does. Our consummation is a simple act after so many years of foreplay. He slides his naked body up the length of mine, joining us in a single movement, filling me completely. It is simple, but perfect. Pleasure swirls up and through me as he starts to move his hips. I bite my lip in an attempt not to cry out. Mulder frees my lips with his own and I whisper into his mouth. He smiles against my words, thrusts more deeply within me. I wrap my legs around his hips and move against him, letting go, opening doors, holding nothing back. "Hey Scully," his words come out as a gasp and a chuckle. Familiar words in a new context. I open my eyes and see him grinning above me. There are no dark clouds in Mulder's face, our lovemaking has blown them all away. So help me, this is the face I want, the face I need to see first thing in the morning, last thing at night, for the rest of my life. I spin into his light, grip him and thrust against him, climb with him into that soft warm place where we can float forever. Much later, I wake. Perhaps it's the weight of the moon glow that spills over Mulder and me where we lay twined beneath the sheets. Perhaps it's the tickle of Mulder's breath as it slips between lips parted in sleep and spills across my cheek. Perhaps it's the throbbing, the life surging through parts of me that have been left untouched for too long. Maybe all these things nudge me through my unconsciousness and bring me back to wakefulness where I lay in the loose circle of Mulder arms and simply watch him sleep. Simple, but perfect. Mulder stirs, rolling onto his back. After a moment, his eyes flutter open and, blinking, he turns his head toward me on the pillow. A sleepy smile stretches across his face. "Will we be awkward in the morning?" It has been so long since I've slept next to a man and woke in his arms. "Yes, maybe. A little." He folds me into him, his arms strong around my back. "You'll blush and turn away so I can't see your face," he murmurs into my hair, "I'll beat myself over the head for being such a fool to think you'd ever really care for me this way." Silly boy. I taste his shoulder with a leisurely swirl of my tongue. Hot and salty with a tang of Mulder. Delicious. I sigh and continue the thread. "I'm afraid to look at you because I'm scared to death you'll regret this..." "As if, Scully." Mulder breathes quietly against my ear for a moment. Then, "Do you?" "What?" "Regret this?" Insecurity tinged his voice. "No way," I whisper against his chest as I drift into sleep. *** END (1/1) kate.rickman@mindspring.com ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ http://kate.rickman.home.mindspring.com