Taming The Unicorn 6: The Definition of Forever

"Scully..."

"What?"

"Nothing."

She shrugged, went back to the paperwork she was doing; he tried to tear his eyes away from her, and couldn't.

It had become patently obvious that she was waiting for him to make the first move, that she was giving him every opportunity to do so, that she would welcome any pathetic, feeble attempt on his part -- he missed her desperately, missed her smiles and her kisses with an intensity that consumed nearly every waking moment -- and yet somehow, he couldn't seem to take the single step that would bring them back to their old unity.

He'd tried to write her a letter, had wasted several hours staring at a computer screen, typing and then deleting his efforts; intelligent, eloquent, he'd never had a problem stringing sentences together in ways that suited his needs, but when it came to telling Scully how he was feeling, he just couldn't find the words.

Roses were sterile, impersonal; singing telegrams, too flashy for her subdued tastes; there was no way he could afford another expensive present, like the ring that she'd never stopped wearing -- and the simplest forms of communication were the ones giving him the most difficulty. He couldn't figure out what to say, what to do...

And all he could think about was touching her, what it felt like when she touched him... but he couldn't very well tell her that, could he?

The situation was getting ridiculous; it was all so stupid! It hadn't been this difficult the first time she'd gone down on him, or the first time he'd lavished his attentions on her... but then, this meant more. Those first times, they'd been able to pretend it was just a dare, only the terms of a wager, but now...

She'd said that she loved him. Not just the affection he'd come to take for granted, never again merely the deep caring of a close friend. Even in the face of his rejection, even as he'd pushed her away, she'd stood her ground with firm resolve and told him that she loved him. Now, she was sitting only a few feet away, her eyes flickering in his direction every few minutes, waiting for him to say something, anything, and he couldn't.

He felt incredibly awkward, like the twelve-year-old boy who'd had the most outrageous crush on his teacher... and then it came to him, in a wave of inspiration; he didn't know if it was the most brilliant idea he'd ever had, or the most unfortunate, but at least it was something.

Grabbing a pen, he scribbled a few words on a sheet of paper, then began folding it before he could lose his nerve, flattening each fold to razor sharpness with careful precision -- a triangular shape formed from the flat page; and when the paper airplane was finished, he aimed with trembling fingers and threw, watching as the projectile sailed across the office and lodged in her sleekly shining hair.

Startled, she plucked it from her hair; sparing him the briefest glance, she unfolded the paper, smoothed it out flat on the desk -- and he waited, feeling the weight of the lump in his throat approaching nausea, his stomach turning somersaults in anticipation of her reaction.

Her brow furrowed slightly, and his heart stopped beating -- it's wrong, it's all wrong, I should have said more than just, 'I love you'...

...and then she looked up at him, and smiled.

Warmth in that smile, sunny sweetness; limitless patience, complete acceptance; affectionate amusement and silent sympathy, and the pale shimmer of unshed tears sparkling in her bright eyes. "So," Scully said, her voice soaked through with tenderness. "You want to stop for pizza on the way home?"

And all he could do was nod: something had come undone inside him, some vital restraint, and he knew, he just knew that if he tried to speak, he was going to break down completely. Crying, laughing maybe, and at least a fifty percent chance that he'd start kissing her and not be able to stop...

She nodded back, and returned to her work; and Mulder closed his eyes and tried to remember how to breathe.

The walk to Scully's car seemed endless, eternal, one step after another stretching into infinity, just like the hours and minutes and seconds had been, all leading up to this -- he followed her, close enough to touch and not daring, not trusting his own control, his ability to stop with one small caress. Carpooling, a convenient excuse, a way to avoid relinquishing that last bit of contact with her, which he could not survive without... now, she was so close, they were so close to being close again, and the tension of waiting was fraying his nerves to shreds.

Once inside, he buckled up the seatbelt, strapping himself securely into the passenger seat so that he couldn't give in to his longings and reach out... he snuck a quick look sideways at her, found her looking at him at him, and wondered if he was wearing the same expression of forthright desire that graced her lovely face.

"I think," said Scully, slowly and evenly, "that we can safely forget about the pizza."

He tried, he really tried to dredge up something witty and snappy in return, but all he could manage was, "How much do you like that shirt?"

The rich sound of her merry laughter surprised him, delighted him, caused a shiver of pure lust to course down his spine and settle in the usual locale; her voice, when she spoke, was a low purr that finished the job her laughter had begun, leaving him hard and aching. "How much do you like yours?"

Breathe, Mulder, breathe. "Y'know," he murmured, trying to sound casual and not even managing to approach it, "my place is closer."

"Mmm." She inserted the key in the ignition with deliberate care, turned it; the engine growled to life. "Close is good," she remarked.

Their commute was much shorter than it would have been, had they headed north and east toward her apartment; and with every passing mile, the nervousness and desire built tension inside him, until his stomach felt as if it was tied into knots -- a not unfamiliar feeling where she was concerned. Things were so much the same, so much different than before. Distance between them, yet he was acutely aware of her every breath, the almost imperceptible tremor in her hands, the taut anticipation that lived inside her own soul. So close, and so far... the dichotomy tugged at him, magnified the faint shred of fear that he could never quite escape. How was it possible? How was any of this possible?

Scully. His partner, his friend, a doctor and scientist... a goddess, a mysterious and magical creature who could grant his every wish save one, fill all but the single corner of his soul reserved for his lost sister... that one spot was reserved for Samantha: everything else inside him, everything else he was belonged to Scully. How, in this day and age, could such a thing occur? She was an independent woman, and he was a relatively liberated and reasonable man, and this was the stuff of fairy tales -- as if she were the princess who might kiss a frog and break the spell that held the prince bound; as if he were the valiant knight who might defend his lady from the fearsome ogre that lurked beyond the castle moat. Ridiculous... Scully was perfectly capable of defending herself, and he'd managed to survive over three decades without ever once finding himself croaking from an enchanted lilypad, and the feelings that lurked in his heart were archaic and idiotic, unworthy of note.

Except, maybe, for one basic truth, he realized, as she stopped for a red light.

"I love you," Mulder said softly.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she blinked hard. "I can't drive while I'm crying," Scully responded, her voice completely level, very calm.

His fingers curled around her hand, lifted it from the steering wheel and brought it to his lips; he kissed her palm, then replaced her hand on the wheel where it had been, all without a word.

Five blocks later, they hit another red light. "Love you too, y'know," came the murmur from the driver's seat.

"I know," said Mulder, and that was the best part: he really did. Could feel it, warm and vividly real inside himself, with a certainty he'd never quite possessed before.

"I'm sorry," he added, a little while later, after they'd cleared the bridge and entered Alexandria.

Scully shook her head. "We both made mistakes," she reminded him. "It happens. We'll survive," and it made him smile, because for the first time he actually found himself believing it.

As they neared his apartment, he let his hand edge tentatively toward her, until his fingertips touched her thigh; and she slid her own hand from the wheel and twined her fingers with his, even though it meant she had to navigate the last turn with difficulty.

She had to let go of his hand, in order to park; and he nearly sprained his fingers in his anxious rush to unfasten his seatbelt; can't do that, I'll need those later, was the dim thought that passed through his distracted mind as he followed her to the door.

Then they were inside, alone, apartment door shut and locked and sealing them together; he gazed down at her, some part of him marveling at the accuracy and texture of his dream, knowing that it was too good to possibly be true.

Her lips parted, shaped his name, aided by the low slow sultry growl that emerged from her throat -- her arms encircled his hips, drawing him to her, and abruptly it was unbearably real, and more than he could stand. The feeling rushed through him, that feeling, the same sudden swift escalation of passion, the same sweet sharp loss of control, and he seized her, lifted her off her feet... suppressed his imminent climax by the barest margin; it had been far too long, he'd been far too lonely, to settle for anything so brief and superficial.

Instead, he held her, exulting in the fervent strength of her arms around him, savoring the intensity of their mutual passion. "Scully," he whispered in her ear, and her lips and teeth took hold of a section of his neck and sucked hard, branding him with what would surely be a notable hickey in the morning. The feeling of immediacy receded, just a little, just enough to allow him to breathe -- what was it about her that provoked him this way?

"I love you," he told her, and she blinked up at him and smiled that so-lovely smile, echoed his words back to him. That would be the reason, yes... ah, Scully.

One small hand settled at the nape of his neck and pulled him down firmly; he yielded happily to her insistence, where he could not quite allow himself to give in to his own. "So," she said, after the kiss. "Do you actually own a bed?"

It made him laugh. "Of course I do," he affirmed. "But, um, there's some stuff on it..."

She took his hand and entwined her fingers with his, set off toward the bedroom as he trailed behind her. "You're not kidding," she said, as she surveyed the situation.

"I usually sleep on the couch," he explained unnecessarily, feeling a hot flush of embarrassment rushing to his face.

"When you sleep at all, right?" She hugged him briefly, then set to work clearing the bed: moving the piles of laundry, stacks of papers, relocating them to the nearest possible site, and he hastened to help her.

Library books ("September 1991?" Scully noted in disbelief) that he'd never gotten around to returning, newspapers containing relevant articles that he'd never gotten around to clipping, the odd videotape here and there, migrating from the bottom-drawer collection in the living room -- one tape he'd been missing for some time, which he could have cared less about at that moment, since 'the real thing' was obligingly working on clearing some space for them to share; he chucked it into the garbage, heard the plastic case crack with the impact, and didn't dare look up to claim his partner's small, approving smile.

There was enough accumulated debris to have shielded the wrinkled bedspread from having gathered too much dust; he stripped it off, and studied the sheets he'd put on the bed the last time he'd actually bothered to prepare it for sleeping -- which had been when? how many years ago? They were still clean, not too musty-smelling; he would have preferred silk or satin for his beloved goddess's delicate skin, but he had the uncomfortable feeling that he didn't even own another set of bedsheets.

"Now I know why we always sleep over at my place," she commented, moving to her side of the bed -- funny, the way beds didn't have sides when she wasn't sharing them -- and beginning to matter-of-factly unbutton her blouse, the way she always did when she didn't quite trust him to take the proper care removing her garments.

And suddenly he was nervous all over again; was it really going to be this easy? Just... climb into bed with her as if nothing had ever happened to separate them?

"Scully... um, we should talk," he began.

"You want to talk? Now? Mulder, you never cease to amaze me." She kicked off her shoes and sat down on the bed cross-legged, tilted her head slightly to one side as she gazed up at him. "What's the matter?"

He followed her example, sat down facing her; he took her hand, trying to ignore her half-unbuttoned blouse and the luscious curves revealed. "I don't know, I just... there should be more to it than this. Shouldn't there?"

"More than love?" She shook her head. "What more is there?"

"How do we know this won't happen again?" he asked her.

"We don't know anything, Mulder." Her words were stark; her voice was warm and caring, sinking into his soul and saturating him with her concern. "We don't know that one or both of us won't be abducted or killed tomorrow, and we don't know that we won't inadvertently hurt each other. We don't know, Mulder; we can't." Her hands wrapped around both of his, massaging, caressing, reminding him of how skilled they were at other forms of pleasure. "All I know," she said, with quiet resolve, "is that I'm not willing to lose you, not for any reason; and anyone and anything that tries to separate us again is in for a fight." Her eyebrows lifted eloquently, punctuating her words. "Even you. Even me."

He freed one hand from her grasp, reached out to rest his palm alongside her cheek. "I agree," he murmured.

She turned her head slightly and kissed his hand, reached out to loosen and remove his tie. "Is that what you needed said?" she inquired, with the startling honesty he so treasured.

"Almost," he said, after a moment's thought. Very carefully, with utmost restraint, he began to complete the job she'd started, undoing her blouse button by button, more for something to do while he was talking than for lascivious purposes. "You know," he continued, almost casually, "you mean a lot to me. A lot more than I think you know."

"I think I know," she said softly. "Now... I think I know."

"Maybe." He caught her hands as they strayed to the buttons of his shirt, the left one in particular. "I meant what I said," and his fingertips brushed over the ring he'd bought her. "Forever. That's what I want with you."

All at once, there was a stillness about her, as if time had ceased to move. "Mulder," she said slowly, "tell me, what -- exactly -- does 'forever' mean to you?"

"Forever is forever, Scully," he responded simply. "As long as we have."

She glanced away from him, down at their clasped hands, or perhaps at her ring. "That... wasn't quite what I meant."

"Yeah, I know." The salesman at the jewelry store had congratulated him on his choice, wishing him luck with the impending engagement; he'd known exactly what the ring might be construed to imply. He'd bought it anyway, without bothering to question his motives. Now, finally, she was wondering -- and he hadn't the faintest idea what to tell her.

Her eyes met his, and he realized that she wasn't going to press him... "Forever is forever," she repeated, smiling slightly. "Not a bad deal."

He smiled back, relieved and vaguely disappointed at once, and finished unbuttoning her blouse.

After the frantic urgency he'd felt at the door, he was surprised to find himself undressing her slowly, prolonging the small ritual, savoring it -- too many nights, lying alone on his couch trying valiantly to sleep, he'd found himself remembering the little things: tactile memories of sliding her bra straps down her shoulders, following the line of the garment to the clasp at the back. The big important memories had been easy to block, but the tiny details of their relationship had snuck in under his defenses and undermined his resolve, time and time again. Now, every moment was unbearably precious to him, each touch a stark reminder of the solitude he'd endured; he wanted it to last, as long as possible.

She reached out and wrapped her arms around his neck, and he pulled her close and held her, delighting in the feel of her breasts against his chest, skin against skin... not just sex but intimacy, closeness and trust beyond anything he'd ever known, so immense and intense that physical desire paled in comparison. How could he have ever imagined resisting something so wonderful? Might as well try to stop the sun from rising. In his world, Scully had become a force of nature, something like a tornado or tsunami: a wondrous upheaval, shattering the complacency of his pain, rearranging the landscape into something brand- new, and leaving a rainbow in its wake.

The imagery made him laugh; and Scully stopped nuzzling him long enough to shoot him an inquiring glance. "What?"

"Oh, I was just thinking..." and he related the sequence of thought, so that by the end of the tale she was laughing as well.

"You think too much," she scolded him lightly. "'Hurricane Scully', indeed."

"You're too little to be a hurricane," he informed her, in the same airy tone. "A tropical storm, maybe."

"I think I've been insulted." She leaned forward and nipped his shoulder with her teeth playfully.

"Ouch," he said, with mild sarcasm, pretending to react. "Hurt me, baby..."

"Yeah?" She responded to his challenge by leaning further forward and seizing his left nipple ever so gently between her teeth, not biting, just barely grazing... and this time he didn't have to pretend; a fierce electric shudder raced through him at the sudden stimulation.

Breathe, he reminded himself, through the bright haze of passion.

"Hey," and the note of concern in her voice brought him back to earth, "are you okay?"

He blinked, focused, grinned at her. "Oh, I'm just fine."

"Mmm." Her hands explored the terrain. "Yeah, you are, aren't you?" she observed, and began to remove the rest of his clothes.

"And I suppose I'm the only one?" He let his fingers do some walking of their own, along her leg, up to her thigh and beyond. "Right through the pantyhose, huh?"

"Don't sound so smug. You might want to take them off while you're there," she suggested.

"Keep doing that thing with your hand, and I might just chew 'em off." Her skirt surrendered to his insistence, and she wriggled out of the garment, squirming delightfully. "Skirt, slip, pantyhose; what is it with all the layers?"

"How can you properly appreciate something if you don't have to work for it?" was her prompt reply, delivered in a teasing tone.

Abandoning his efforts to undress her, he cupped her face in both of his hands. "Believe me," he whispered, "I appreciate you, Scully."

Her hands covered his; her eyes shone up at him. "I believe you," she said. "I believe in you, Mulder."

She couldn't have said anything more perfectly right at that moment; he kissed her, very gently, very thoroughly, so that by the time they came up for air, both of them were trembling.

The last remnants of clothing disappeared quickly, until they were lying together naked on the not-too-musty sheets, on the bed that he'd used so rarely that he could remember each and every time; and he thought, memories like this, and I might just start sleeping here... For a time, he was content to simply hold her, to relish the feel of her body his own, to nestle close and snuggle; passion simmered on the back burner, while tenderness reigned.

Then her lips brushed against his earlobe, and she spoke directly into his ear, her voice soft and clear and steady. "I want you to make love to me," she said. "I want... all of you. Inside me."

It took a few moments to sink in -- even though she'd already told him as much: that had been purely theoretical. This was real, this was the opportunity he'd been waiting for, this was... this was...

This was Scully, who he loved; and he drew a deep, deep breath and forced himself to speak, though they were the last words he wanted to say. "I wouldn't be your friend if I didn't ask you... are you absolutely sure about this?"

Her expression radiated serene confidence. "I'm sure," she said simply. "You're the one."

Every dream, every fantasy he'd ever had about her, all culminating in this moment of exquisite promise... his erection pressed firmly against her, straining toward the virgin territory, aching for the long-imagined sensation of plunging into that hot, tight, wet heaven...

"No," he heard himself say; and it was an open question as to which of them was more stunned by his pronouncement.

Her wide-eyed shock began to mutate into hurt; and he rushed to explain. "Not now, not here, not like this... Scully, you've waited so long; you deserve better than this. You should have moonlight and roses, champagne, candlelight, romance... something special, something planned." A sudden burst of shyness struck him, bringing a wave of heat to his face, but he struggled valiantly to complete the thought. "I can't let you give me such a precious gift, not unless you let me give you something in return."

Tears sparkled in her eyes; she began to speak, choked up, tried again. "Y'know what?" she said unsteadily. "You never cease to amaze me."

"I hope I never do." He kissed her forehead, ignoring the tiny indignant voice that spoke up from within his midsection somewhere, demanding to know if he was insane for turning down such a chance: it was the right thing to do, he knew it. It was the only thing he could do -- this was Scully, after all.

"All I want is you," she murmured, "and I want you so much..."

"Oh, believe me, I feel the same way," he said fervently, with deep sincerity, "but more than anything else, I want it to be right. We've made mistakes... I don't want this to be one of them. I want it to be perfect for you." Her body shifted against his ever so slightly, creating friction, and another sharp tremor raced through him -- "I must be crazy," he muttered.

"You're noble," she corrected, punctuating her statement with a kiss. "And gallant." Her hand moved between them, wrapped around his hard-on; more friction, carefully applied, exactly the way he liked it best. "You're Mulder," said Scully, as if that explained everything, "and I love you."

With that, she kissed him in earnest, and he abandoned himself to the feeling, and to her.

Somewhere in the middle of things, with her on top of him setting the pace, he realized that she could have her way at any time -- he had so little self-control where she was concerned, and most of his resistance had been based on her preferences. But she seemed content with his decision; it was the same old routine, if ecstasy could ever become routine through repetition, which he doubted... in the end, it didn't matter what procedure they chose. Paradise by any other name was still the best thing that had ever happened in his life.

And afterwards, resting in each other's arms and letting the sweat dry, he reminded her: "You really have won the bet, you know."

"Hmm?" Lost in her pleasant languor, it took her a while to make the connection. "You're convinced, then."

"Thoroughly." It had been her contention that it was possible to have a satisfying sexual relationship without intercourse, and he had disbelieved. "It's official: I'm your slave for life."

"Ah, I see. So this is your idea of forever." Her fingers ruffled through his hair, trailed down his neck to his shoulders, playing connect-the-dots with the love bites she'd left there. "My devoted slave. One last task," she teased, "and I'll release you from your bonds."

"Is that supposed to be a chore?" he asked, tracing the ones he'd inflicted on her porcelain skin. "I'd consider it a reward for faithful service. And don't ever..." a spot along her collarbone beckoned to him, and he bent to place a kiss there "...don't ever release me, okay?"

"Promise," she whispered into his ear, running her tongue along the edge to the lobe, tickling him in more ways than one.

"Hey, boss... wanna go again?" Not the most romantic proposal, but she would understand.

Merry laughter was her response. "Sure," she said. "And then we can order that pizza. Your treat."

"Yes, ma'am," he said obediently, grinning from ear to ear, and headed down for another taste of heaven.

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