Author: Daydreamer
Posted: 9 November 2002

Even Now

He was standing directly in front of the sink, holding a crystal sugar bowl as if he had never seen one before and had no clue as to its use. Mulder trying to be domestic never failed to amuse her. She eyed him critically, trying to see him as she had years ago.

She could remember the first time she saw him, sitting in front of the display unit, fiddling with slides and papers. Even then he was striking -- long and lean, with hair that made her fingers itch to touch it, and eyes that called to her from within their depths, and an intelligence so sharp, a mind so bright, just being in his presence blinded her. From the moment she had first seen him, Scully had felt him as a part of her. Blood and bone, muscle and nerve: being with Fox Mulder was like a never-ending explosion of feeling alive and vibrant. Sometimes it was good, sometimes not so good, but always, always, it was vital.

Even now, after all this time, she was always on fire for him.

Even now, she would come awake at four o'clock in the morning and peel back the covers so she could look unrestrained at the curve of his leg, the knobbed column of his spine.

Even now, at the end of a long day, her head pounding from note-taking, her back and feet aching from standing at the table through three autopsies, what she really wanted to do was run her fingers all over the hair on his body, even the wiry hairs that were so carefully hidden between his legs.

Mulder saw her come in and placed the sugar bowl in the dish rack. He put the cheerful yellow terry cloth dish towel down on the counter next to the sink. She noted that the muscles in his shoulders were still powerful, though he was slightly more slender now than he had been when Scully first met him. His hair was graying now, too, and his eyes were still deep, but could be hard and cold.

Except when they looked at her.

Scully put her palms flat on the kitchen counter and pulled herself up until she was sitting on it. She had on a suit, though she had discarded the blazer as soon as she got home. The linen skirt fit nicely, and the material rode up her legs as she settled herself in place. The top two buttons of her silk blouse were open, and as Mulder watched, she undid a third. She'd discarded her bra with the blazer when she'd passed through the bedroom earlier.

The kitchen was dark and cool and shadowy, and as she stared at the man across the room, she could see his eyes dilate and his nostrils flare.

"Jesus, Scully," he breathed, as she leaned back on her elbows and beckoned him to come closer.

He moved slowly across the room, and it pleased her that after years of this, he could still display this endearing hesitance, that he still exuded an aura of bewildered amazement at his seeming good fortune.

But she knew better. She was the lucky one.

He placed his hand on Scully's knee, then cleared his throat to speak. His struggle for self-control both amused and flattered her. It was nice to know he still had to struggle. "What did you find?"

She kicked off her heels, each falling with a distinct thud on the earth-colored tiles of the kitchen floor, and ran a stocking-covered foot slowly up his leg. A soft sigh as the pressure of his hand increased, and then she began to speak, relaying her findings, sharing her conclusions. Duty done at last, she asked, "Do we need to do anything else this evening?"

Mulder's hand inched higher, to the flat side of her thigh, sinewy and hard. She was beginning to feel what she wanted to feel. She was dizzy as hell, and somehow, in the pounding of her heart and the blood rushing about in her body, she had missed his answer.

She inched forward on the counter, and into his hands, twisting herself against him. Her clothes had begun to feel too tight, too hot. Everything was too hot.

His finger reached out, stroking her lightly in the V of her neck and she shuddered at the passion this simple touch evoked. Why had they waited so long to surrender to this feeling? Why had they denied themselves for so many years?

"Scully?" he said now, and she pulled herself back, away from her narcissistic enjoyment of his hands on her skin.

She tugged at his waistband, then got her hand up under his shirt and stroked the sparse hair on his chest. She pulled at his shirt buttons until they came undone. "I love it that you stopped wearing undershirts," she told him.

"Nobody wears undershirts anymore," he shot back.

The next thing she knew, he had lifted her up off the counter and put her down on the floor. She could feel the cool smoothness of ceramic tiles against her back. Her second-best cream silk blouse was gone and she couldn't remember it coming off. The air conditioner was turned up high and she was freezing, even as she thought she was going to combust. She felt stiff, but pliant, heavy and light, all at once, like folded meringue.

"Jesus Christ," Mulder whispered into her hair, "are we really going to do this here?"

"Yes," Scully told him.

She put her hands on Mulder's pants, feeling the bulge hidden under the dark wool. It pulsed beneath her fingers, making her smile. Then she pulled off her skirt by herself, threw it over her head, and covered herself with her lover.