Taming The Unicorn 11: The Taming Of The Unicorn

"Okay, so... how are we supposed to do this? Do I carry the luggage in first, or do I carry you in first, or what?"

"It doesn't matter, Mulder. Just open the door."

Her first view of the honeymoon suite was of its ceiling; then he set her down, and she took a look around. It was beautiful -- but then, considering the price they'd paid for it, she'd expected nothing less.

"Look, Scully; a sunken hot tub. Just what I need for my back -- y'know, I think that dress of yours must weigh about fifty pounds, 'cause I don't remember you being that heavy..." He placed their suitcases on the floor just inside the door, came to stand beside her. "Well, this sure beats that expense-account motel we were staying in."

"Yeah." She slipped one arm around him, settled into his side. "It's nice," she added, feeling unaccountably tongue-tied.

"It is," he confirmed, and there was a long, awkward silence.

"So," Mulder said, after awhile, "here we are."

Scully tilted her head upward to look at him. "Are you as nervous as I am?" she asked him.

"Who, me? Nervous? Me? Nervous? Naaaah," he denied, and she laughed.

She turned to face him, wrapped her arms around his waist; his arms slid around her, holding her close, and he studied her face as if he'd never seen it before. "You're my wife," he said, in a tone of wonder.

"Yeah," she agreed, looking at him and thinking, husband, not just partner anymore, husband, and feeling the weight and the importance of it. "Weird, isn't it?"

"Really weird," he agreed fervently. One hand rose, rested against her cheek. "And, y'know, the best thing that ever happened to me."

"Me, too," Scully said, feeling her nervousness drain away: it was going to be all right.

She rested her head against his chest, just enjoying the embrace for a few minutes, letting his closeness settle her jangled nerves, allowing herself time to get used to the whole idea. Married, she was married, they were married now... who would have thought, years ago, that walking into the basement office of the FBI's Most Unwanted would lead to this?

"And to think," she said softly, "it all started with a bet."

He chuckled. "Best bet I ever lost."

"So, slave-for-life," she teased, "when are we getting you fitted for chains and a collar?"

"Gee, I thought that's what the wedding was for," was his response, innocently-voiced; and she hit him -- not too hard, just lightly enough to let him know that she didn't really mean it.

"Ow," he said, grinning -- and then the mischievous smile turned into something deeper, warmer; he took her hand, the one that bore the simple silver band, brought it to his lips and kissed it. "Mrs. Mulder..." he began -- then paused, frowned. "'Mrs. Mulder's my mom."

"Mrs. Scully-Mulder?" she suggested, feeling something within herself twinge at the sound of it. Mrs. Scully- Mulder...

"Okay. Hey, d'you suppose I ought to call you Dana now? Since we're married and all..."

"Only if you want me to call you Fox," she told him, and watched his face crinkle into a look of distaste.

"Have I ever mentioned how much I hate that name? Seriously," he said, "it sounds better when you say it, but I still hate it."

"Mulder," she said patiently, "on the rare occasions when you have called me Dana, I have had to look around the room to ascertain who you are speaking to."

"So I should call you Scully, then...?"

"You always have," she reminded him, "why stop now?"

He smiled: the smile she so cherished, the wide, happy smile that she'd so rarely seen -- at least, until they'd begun their love affair. "Scully," he said, "my sweet, sexy, smart-ass Scully. I love you, y'know."

Her breath caught in her chest; it was an effort to speak. "I know," she murmured. "I love you, too."

"I sure hope so; you married me, after all. You should probably take off that dress," he mentioned, "we have champagne to drink, and..." his voice trailed off, expression altering subtly, to that look of wonderment she'd seen before. "One day, one of our kids may want to walk down the aisle in that dress."

She knew what he was feeling: at his words, she found herself envisioning the future, their future. Babies, growing to become children, and then adults; and she and Mulder helping them grow, watching them bring home stray animals and report cards and dates and someday, children of their own...

"Yeah," she agreed softly -- then added, "Let's just hope it's not one of the boys," and he roared with laughter.

Scully took her suitcase into the bathroom with her, carefully slithering out of the dress; a shame, she thought ruefully, that she'd never wear it again. But someday, her daughter... She hung it up carefully on the padded hanger and zipped it into the garment bag she'd brought for just that purpose.

She caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror, found herself gazing at her reflection. Not as young as she'd used to be, that was for certain. And there were scars: as much a part of her job as her badge or her gun. Obvious, from the image in the glass, that she wasn't a girl anymore...

...she was a woman. A wife. Mulder's wife. And someday, the mother of his children...

The thought thrilled her, scared her, made her want to lock the bathroom door and hide even as another part of her wanted to run naked into the bedroom and fling herself into his arms... She shook her head, silently scolding her reflection. You're being ridiculous, Scully.

I'm a newlywed. I'm supposed to be ridiculous, the reflection retorted, and she smiled at the absurdity of the internal dialogue.

Quickly, she freshened up her makeup, applied a quick spray of perfume to her hair -- a trick she'd learned long ago: a way to keep her skin from tasting unpleasantly of alcohol -- slipped into a silk robe, and emerged hesitantly from the bathroom, dress in one hand, suitcase in the other. Mulder, she discovered, had changed from the rented suit into the bottom half of a pair of black silk pajamas; he was sitting in one of the easy chairs, staring at the television, restlessly flipping the remote control from channel to channel, click-click-click, not seeing any of what was flickering past on the screen.

"You are nervous," she said softly.

He glanced over at her. "Damn straight I'm nervous," he said, setting the remote down on the small nearby table. "I mean, talk about performance anxiety..."

"Why?" She seated herself on the arm of the chair, let one hand ruffle his hair -- he usually kept it neatly combed; that was probably why she loved to tousle it into disarray.

"Why?" he echoed. "Because I want this to be perfect for you, that's why."

"It is perfect, Mulder; it's already perfect." Her other hand folded itself around his, fingers entwining. "We're together, now and for the rest of our lives. Everything else... is just icing on the cake."

"But icing is the best part of a cake," he responded, with logic so flawless that she wanted to smack him for it. "Hey, you didn't wait all this time to lose your virginity just so I could screw it up, right?"

Scully shook her head, exasperated; how was it that he could be so right, and so wrong, at the same time? "Mulder," she sighed, "first of all, I waited so that I could be with the right man, which I am. Second, I'm not losing anything, I'm gaining a soul-mate. Third, wedding nights are traditionally supposed to be disastrous, so anything that doesn't send me to the emergency room screaming in pain will be fine by me. Fourth, you're not being graded on this; I'm not going to hold up a card with a numerical score when it's done. Finally... this isn't an ending, you know. It's a beginning. And if it isn't up to your standards of technical perfection, well, we have the rest of our lives to practice. Okay?"

He gazed at her affectionately. "Well, excuse me for wanting to be good in bed," he said mildly.

She laughed. "Just don't worry about it."

"I want this to be right for you," he countered, insistently.

"It is right for me. You are right for me," and he pulled her down, into his lap, into his arms.

For a while, they cuddled together, semi-watching TV. "Why are we watching the Weather Channel?" Scully wondered, and he picked up the remote control and began flipping channels again. "Not sports..."

"It's basketball," he protested.

"Mulder," she said, and he sighed and changed the channel.

"Casablanca?" he suggested, after an interval of channel- surfing.

She thought about it, shook her head. "Something with a happy ending."

"Oooh, look, Scully, alien abductions, hosted by Mike Farrell..."

"And no work," she scolded him lightly.

Click, click, click. "Wanna learn how to re-shingle a roof?"

"Not today, Mulder."

More channels flashing past. "Mating habits of elephants," she said thoughtfully.

"Anything but that. The last thing I need right now is an inferiority complex," and she laughed.

Click, click, click. "Here we go, Road-Runner cartoons. We can't go wrong with Road-Runner cartoons."

"As long as nothing in this room was manufactured by the Acme company," she agreed.

The antics of the coyote and the road-runner occupied their attention for awhile; but Scully grew restless. Idly, she let her hand drift across his chest, fingertips trailing through the sparse hair there, then brushing lightly over one nipple.

She felt him shiver, felt him plant a light kiss on the top of her head. "You trying to seduce me, Agent Scully?"

"Now why would you think that?" she responded, and allowed her hand to drift lower, toward his stomach.

Another shiver, of a different sort. "Don't tickle," Mulder warned.

"Oh," she said sweetly, "you mean, like this?" and he jumped half out of the chair.

"You want to play? Okay, I'll play," and he set to work with a vengeance, until Scully was on the floor, giggling helplessly and vainly attempting to squirm away from his fingers.

"Stop!" she pleaded.

"Should I? I don't know... I like to hear you laugh," but all at once his fingers stilled, stroking instead of tickling, as he stretched out beside her on the carpeted floor. Her robe had fallen open, and he bent his head to kiss each breast in turn, so that neither would feel neglected. "Hey, you wanna do it on the floor?"

"My back would never forgive me," she said, and he knelt beside her, offered her a hand and helped her up.

Once on her feet, she automatically pulled her robe closed -- not knowing quite why; suddenly, she was nervous again. "What's wrong, Scully?" Mulder asked, picking up on her anxiety.

She shrugged. "I suppose there's something to be said for spontaneity," she murmured. "It would have been easier if this had just happened..."

"So I'm not the only one with performance anxiety, huh? C'mere," and he enfolded her in one of those wonderful, all-encompassing Mulder-hugs that she so loved. "Like you said: it's not the end, it's the beginning. And it'll be all right."

She leaned into him, enjoying the feeling of resting against his strength, being held and protected. Something she would never allow herself in the course of their work, where it was imperative that she rely on her own strength; but an infinite joy when they were alone together. "It sounds awful, I know," she said at last, "but I just want to get this over with."

"Get it over with? I think I'm wounded," he replied, in a joking voice; but she thought she discerned a trace of actual hurt beneath the light tone.

"It's just..." she struggled to explain, "it's an intimidating thing, you know?"

"An intimidating thing," he repeated. "I didn't know I was that big," and she slapped at him, smiling. "Well, now I know: I have an intimidating thing."

"Better intimidating than underwhelming," she retorted.

"As long as you think so." The teasing tone slipped away, leaving only concern, and love. "I'm not going to hurt you, y'know. I mean, I'd rather cut my own throat than hurt you."

"I know. I trust you, Mulder; you know that."

"I know." He was silent for a moment, absently stroking her hair, fingertips twining through the strands without ever tangling in them. "You know what I think? I think we should try out that hot tub, because y'know, you smell."

She stepped back, surveyed him with disbelief. "You are just sooo romantic," she noted dryly.

"That's why you married me," he parried, grinning. "I wonder what happens when you put bubble bath in a jacuzzi?"

"A vast proliferation of bubbles?" she hypothesized.

"Well, we don't have to clean it up, do we?" he countered mischievously; and she grinned wickedly back at him.

He poured half the bottle into the hot tub before she could stop him; and together they watched as the bubbles grew and overflowed onto the carpet. "You know, they might make us pay for damages," she realized belatedly, and together they fetched towels from the bathroom to mop up the worst of the mess.

She turned her back on him before taking off her robe, feeling ridiculous about it, since it was nothing he hadn't already seen -- felt slightly better when she noticed that he was doing the same thing -- and finally they were in the tub together, staring at each other from opposite ends through the miasma of bubbles. "Well," he said, "we're both naked; that's a good start."

Scully laughed, albeit a trifle self-consciously. "This is so silly," she said, "for us to be nervous now, after everything we've been through together."

"You think it's silly?" Again, his tone was light and playful, but with a deeper undertone. "You think it's silly that I'm terrified out of my wits, that I won't be good enough, or last long enough, or be able to get it up at all?"

She moved her foot to nudge his, underwater. "You really are nervous," she said, somehow surprised by the depths of his worry.

"Hey, you just have to lie there and spread your legs; I'm the one who has to be Mister Wonderful."

"Mulder..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. But I can't help how I feel. You matter to me," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"Well, you matter to me, too. And this is not just for me, you know," she reminded him, "it's our wedding night."

"Our wedding night," he repeated. "You know, I thought for some reason that saying the vows would be the hard part; I never expected that the honeymoon would be our main stumbling block. I mean, it's not like we've never been together before... I'd even venture to say that we're pretty good at it."

"We are," she agreed. "Well, except maybe for that one night, when we had the flu..."

"Yeah, that was pretty disastrous, wasn't it? Let me tell you, if that had been our first time together, I would have crawled under a rock and stayed there, for the rest of my life," and she laughed. "I don't even know why we bothered trying; we were both feeling so lousy..."

"We were in bed together," she said, "it was inevitable; we couldn't help it." Remembering, she laughed again -- though it hadn't been funny at the time. "At least you managed not to throw up on me."

"It was close, though. Hey, Scully," he mentioned, "why are you on the other side of the tub?"

"Why are you?" she challenged.

"Come here."

"No, you come here."

They stared at each other for a moment. "I'll meet you in the middle," he said at last, and she nodded.

He stood up, extended one hand to her; she took it, rose to her feet -- then she was in his arms, feeling his body against hers, warm and wet and slippery from the soap- bubbles: skin against skin, deliciously intoxicating. His eyes, dark with passion, seeming to gaze into her soul; his lips, seeking hers and finding them, seizing them gently, capturing her with his kiss. A slow fire building within her, simmering heat that had nothing to do with the jacuzzi's hot water, consuming her little by little until her entire nervous system was: his manhood pressed against her, hard and insistent, signifying a longing that matched hers.

"Let's go to bed, Scully," he murmured huskily, in a voice roughened by desire.

She didn't trust her own voice; she simply nodded, and took his hand, let him help her out of the tub and lead her to the oversized bed.

The room was warm enough that she didn't feel chilled; the satin sheets were delightfully cool against her fevered skin. She pulled them up, over herself, but his hand stopped her -- "Let me look at you," he coaxed, drawing the sheets aside. "You're so beautiful," in a hushed voice. "Scully. I love you so much."

Tears formed in her eyes, tears of joy, a happiness so deep that it could be expressed in no other way. "Mulder," she said, trusting him to hear everything she felt in the single word, knowing that he would understand.

He knelt on the bed beside her, drew her into a sitting position, kissed her -- his hands roamed over her breasts, down to her hips, in almost a possessive motion; mine, they seemed to say, my wife, my love, and she yielded to him, letting the heat of his hands soak into her skin and melt away any lingering unease. Suddenly, she needed to feel him close; and she pulled him to her, savoring the feel of hard muscles and soft skin and the tautness of arousal that coursed through him -- felt him tremble: "Scully," a soft sigh that sent shivers through her.

She leaned back, pulling him down with her, feeling his weight atop her, pressing her into the mattress even though he braced himself with one arm to keep from hurting her; oh, it was wonderful. Everything was wonderful; and she marveled that she could ever have been afraid of this, could ever have felt nervousness, when every moment of togetherness between them was sheer perfection. Even that time with the flu, even with chills and nausea as a deterrent, it had been wonderful to rest in his arms and know that she was loved: even with stringy hair and pasty- pale skin and a runny nose, she had still been beautiful to him.

To him: Mulder, her husband. "I love you," she whispered, and kissed the tip of his nose.

He kissed her back: her lips, her neck, her breasts, hands and lips and tongue teasing and caressing her everywhere -- she wondered hazily if her skin tasted of soap, but if it did, he obviously didn't care. Lower, and lower, heading purposefully toward his favorite destination; his hands snaked around her hips as his lips found their target, and she laced her fingers through his hair and cried out softly as his tongue made contact with the center of her arousal, bringing simmering desire to the boiling point.

Closer and closer he brought her, to the pinnacle of pleasure, until she was so close that she could hardly bear it; and then he was moving, to rest atop her again, his hardness positioned between her thighs -- she wrapped her legs around him, and felt him tremble. "Ready?" he whispered.

And now, at the moment when she should have felt the most nervous, all she could feel was love. "Yes," she whispered back.

Slowly, so slowly, so carefully, she felt his cock ease into her, probing the tender aperture... she felt herself stretching to accommodate him, and it didn't hurt; no, not at all. He pulled back a bit, then pushed forward a bit more forcefully, entering a little more deeply -- one more time, one last thrust, and he was inside her, all the way, filling her completely.

She lay still, adjusting herself to the feeling: a wild flurry of thought raced through her mind -- this is it, and ohmigod, it's finally happening and now I am a woman... the last, an archaic feeling straight from some old romance novel, an embarrassment to her modern-nineties- liberated-female psychology; but at that moment, it was what she felt, and she couldn't bring herself to feel ashamed of the emotion. I'm so glad I waited. I'm so glad I waited for him.

"Scully," and she opened her eyes, looked up at his sweat-slicked face. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she breathed, unable to quite describe just how okay she was; and he kissed her, a swift soft kiss for reassurance.

And then he moved, withdrawing and thrusting again, and she let out a startled cry of pleasure, for no amount of clinical knowledge or research could possibly have prepared her for how incredible it felt.

Buried within her once more, he hesitated. "You sure you're okay?"

"Stop again, and I'll kill you," she whispered, only partially joking.

A soft breath of laughter. "I love you so much."

Then he was moving again, sweet hot friction against sensitive tissue, every stroke bringing her a whole new world of pleasure, totally unlike anything she'd ever known before, almost too good to bear. She gazed at him, seeing in his face the strength of his arousal, and his control; how hard it was for him to keep it slow and gentle, when his body was screaming for more... his eyes met hers, locked with hers, and through that connection it seemed as if their souls met and intertwined: as if she could see straight into his heart.

Feeling him inside her body, inside her soul, she knew with utter certainty that this was right; this was perfect; this was home.

So completely in tune, they were, that she knew when he just couldn't stand the slow pace anymore, because it was the same moment that her own body demanded more; harder, now, and faster, exactly as she needed it to be, speeding them both toward the point of no return. And then it was upon her, pleasure upon pleasure, so incredibly strong that she didn't think she could survive the intensity of it -- a howl welled up in her throat, a long keening cry of passion, held back by the same slender thread that separated her from orgasm -- she felt the same sudden tension in him, knew he was there with her, so damn close that it hurt: tension building, and building, and building, until she thought that she would explode...

...and then she did: both of them, together, screaming cries of passion that should have deafened each other, endless rippling contractions that seemed to echo in time, spasms of ecstasy, of relief, of pure wondrous completion.

Reality returned slowly. His weight upon her, his breathing hoarse and irregular in her ear, the pounding of his heart in rhythm with her own, and a sticky wetness between her legs that might've been uncomfortable at any other time, but felt at that moment like a badge of honor. And still, even then, the small residual echoes of orgasm, little twinges of lingering pleasure penetrating and saturating her utter contentment.

He moved sideways, rolling off her, an effort that seemed to require every bit of what little energy he had left; his arms wrapped around her and took her with him, into a comfortable embrace. She gazed at him, at his warm, pleased smile -- and all at once she was laughing, great uncontrollable peals of laughter: relief, and happiness, and absolute satisfaction with her life, and the world.

"Y'know," she heard him say, through her giggles, "it's not generally a good sign when they laugh, afterwards," but something in his tone told her that he understood; and she pulled him close and kissed him hard, just to be certain.

"Hey, Mulder," she said, still unable to quite stop laughing, "guess what? We had sex, and we survived."

"Speak for yourself," he responded, "I'm still not sure I won't require CPR, after that."

"It was incredible, wasn't it? See, you worried for nothing," she scolded him lightly.

"Well, I had to make up for that time with the flu," he reminded her.

Suddenly, the giggles were gone, leaving only a vast tenderness. "It was perfect," she told him, fervently. "Thank you, 'Mister Wonderful'."

He met her smile with one of his own. "Anything for you, Scully," he said. "Anything."

And yawned. "Wouldja mind too much if I took a little nap?" he queried.

"I'm halfway there myself," she informed him, yawning in return.

"Good. I'll meet you in my dreams, then," settling himself into position, tugging at the pillow until he was comfortable; waiting for her to do the same, then wrapping one arm securely around her, just like always.

"See you there," she said sleepily, and he kissed her lightly as she drifted off.

A full bladder awakened her from a sound sleep -- and Mulder was still holding her, dammit; she had to untangle herself from his embrace before she could get out of bed.

She swung herself upright, stood -- nearly fell over; I thought it was just a cliche, she thought hazily, but my legs really do hurt. Wow.

Somehow she managed to stumble to the bathroom, and take care of necessary business. She splashed her face with cold water, looked at her reflection in the mirror... I don't look any different, she thought; and then, Yes, I do, though she couldn't pinpoint the difference, exactly.

Now I am truly a woman, she thought. Oh, God, that is a cliche. Somebody shoot me before I start spouting love poems, and carving little hearts and initials into the furniture...

But she couldn't quite stop smiling.

She turned on the shower, intending to soak away some of the unfamiliar aches in her legs and back -- paused; somehow it didn't seem right for Mulder to wake up alone in bed on their honeymoon night. So she padded back into the room, bare feet moving soundlessly on carpeted floor, peered at his sleeping form to see if he was anywhere near consciousness. "Mulder?" she inquired, resting one hand on his bare shoulder.

"Mmmmm?" came a bleary sound from the pillows.

"I'm gonna take a shower," she told him.

"Mmmmm," was the reply, just as incoherent; and she tugged the blankets up over him, and went back to the bathroom.

The hot water eased into her muscles, relaxed her -- and got rid of the dried sweat and other secretions, for which she was thankful; parts of her had been starting to itch. She luxuriated in the heat, and the steam, remembering... felt the memory beginning to arouse her anew.

Marriage. Sex. Mulder. God, I've got to stop grinning like an idiot; my face is starting to ache. She laughed softly. I'm as giddy as a newlywed. Hey, wait; I am a newlywed. So I suppose it's permissible, and laughed again.

After awhile, she heard the bathroom door open. "Scully?" said a familiar voice, sleepily.

"Yeah," she responded. And who else would've snuck into the shower while you were sleeping, genius? But then, that was Mulder...

"Mmmm," came the acknowledgment, and she ducked her head under the spray to wash out the shampoo.

Shortly thereafter, the glass shower door slid open, bringing with it a burst of cold air. "I ordered coffee from room service," she heard him say. "And new sheets from housekeeping."

"Good move," she said, rubbed water out of her eyes and opened them. "You look tired."

"I am tired. Happy-tired. S'okay," and he slipped his arms around her waist, drew her close. "How about you, you okay? No regrets?"

"Regrets?" she said, keeping her voice absolutely sober. "Yes, I have regrets; you're too big, you're too good, and I want a divorce."

Expecting to see him smile, she glanced up instead to see his stricken face -- "I was kidding," she said hastily.

"I'm not awake yet; don't joke like that," he chided her, and she felt him relax. "Seriously..."

"I feel wonderful," Scully told him, sincerely, "and I am so happy."

And there was the smile she'd been waiting for. "Me too," he said. "So you don't want a divorce, then."

"Mulder, there is no way in hell that I am ever letting you get away from me." She hugged him, hard. "Wash your back?" she offered.

"Sounds like heaven," he agreed.

And thus they began the rest of their lives together.

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