The Unicorn Tamed 5: Acquiescence

This isn't my couch.

First stray thought of the morning, penetrating through slumber to tickle his conscious mind with its realization. Scent of freshly-brewing coffee, reinforcing: this isn't my apartment, and adding the corollary thought, what am I doing at Scully's place?

Then memory came surging back to him, of what had happened the night before...

I have a sex life! Not much of one as yet, but so much more than he'd been able to enjoy for years... I have a sex partner. A real live person, not a body on a screen or a voice on the telephone; a warm, tangible presence beside him, doing things to his anatomy that went far beyond anything he'd dared to imagine.

And best of all, it's Scully... Scully. Dana Scully. His partner, his friend; the only one he trusted. The only person to whom he could possibly have revealed this part of himself. She'd listened to him spill his humiliating secret, and had come to him anyway, unafraid of his damaged psyche or his fear, loving him and helping to make him whole.

God, it had been wonderful...

Movement from the kitchen caught his eye, and there she was: freshly showered and wrapped in a bathrobe, hair caught up in a terry-cloth turban -- she made her way to the couch, knelt beside him. "Hi," she said, smiling. "Sleep well?"

Her words sailed right over his head, meaningless; he was wholly caught up in the sight of her, pink and rosy and glowing -- the scent of her, shampoo and soap and femaleness -- the utter glory of his memories, and the knowledge that he could reach out to her, touch...

His fingers caught a stray damp tendril of hair, then moved to caress her cheek, amazed by the pleasure inherent in such a simple act. "Scully," he murmured, with something akin to awe.

She blushed, head ducking away from his scrutiny; he caught her chin, raised it gently so that he could look at her lovely face. "Thank you," he whispered.

"It was my pleasure," she responded, "in more ways than one," and her hands rose, encircled his wrists and held them loosely. "Want some coffee?"

"In a minute." Other, more pressing needs than caffeine were making themselves known; he released her and sat up, finding the effort to be uncomfortable in several ways. "You did say that I had a change of clothes here, didn't you?"

"I did," she confirmed.

"Good," and he levered himself to his feet and stumbled to her bathroom.

Last night, he'd been so wonderfully fatigued that getting up to clean himself and change had been out of the question. Now, in the bright light of morning, he was discovering that semen dried overnight on flesh and fabric was a lot like glue... All sorts of things were stuck together, and getting them unstuck was a challenge, especially since he'd only begun to wake up. For a couple of awful moments, it seemed that he was going to have a choice between ripping out half his pubic hair and wetting his pants; but he managed to resolve the situation satisfactorily, with only a minor amount of discomfort and no further loss to his dignity.

Showering seemed a hell of a good idea, and he shed his clothes and stepped under the spray. No cold shower this morning, to assuage the last traces of frustrated arousal; steaming hot water, instead, to rinse away the last traces of last night's pleasure and bring new life to muscles tired from unaccustomed exertion. So much nicer, this way of facing the day. He took his time bathing, stepped out of the shower finally to find last night's clothes gone, and fresh garments neatly stacked on the closed toilet lid: t-shirt, sweatpants, socks, his 'emergency clothing stash' -- and a never-used disposable razor lined up beside a still-wrapped toothbrush on the side of the sink. Grinning at Scully's resourcefulness; he made use of both.

When he was finished shaving and brushing his teeth and dressing, he stuck the new toothbrush in the holder, next to Scully's, and spent a moment studying the tableau, liking how it looked. There was a feeling of permanence about having his toothbrush next to hers in the bathroom, a vague primitive sense of ownership and being owned that felt oddly comforting.

By the time he emerged, Scully was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, sitting on the couch where he'd slept drinking coffee; an untouched mug, still steaming, rested beside hers on the table. "Morning, beautiful," he said, settling down beside her, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and pulling her close, loving the way it felt to do so, to have the freedom to do so.

"Afternoon," she corrected mildly, snuggling against him; forsaking the coffee awaiting him, he turned sideways on the couch so that he could embrace her properly.

"Already?" he murmured, burying his face in her hair -- scent of her shampoo, one he couldn't define: fresh and woodsy, the scent of green leaves and new forest growth after a spring rain.

"You slept through most of the morning. I would have woken you, but you looked so peaceful that I couldn't bear to..." She twisted in his arms, gazed up at him, eyes filled with warmth. "I know you don't generally sleep too well."

"Scully, you know me so well." He considered the statement, couldn't help grinning. "Better than ever, now."

"And getting to know you has never been so much fun." Her face brightened into a smile -- then faded slightly. "No regrets?"

"Regrets? Are you kidding? No." Mulder studied her face closely. "You?" he asked, dreading the answer.

The return of the brilliant warmth to her face was a more eloquent answer than her verbalization. "No," she said, and he felt her arms tighten around his waist; he hugged her, held her close, savoring the contact.

"So," she said, her voice muffled against his chest. "We still have the rest of Saturday ahead of us; what do you want to do today? Besides that," she added, before he could give the so-predictable answer.

"Oh, I don't know," he answered, thinking, I don't care, as long as we're together. "What do you suggest?"

The skies were overcast, threatening rain; but that didn't seem to be dampening anyone's spirits. Children laughed, while their indulgent parents shelled out money for yet another ride or game or tempting sweet -- the sounds of merriment rang out through the parking lot, transformed by the presence of the traveling carnival into a temporarily magical place.

Strolling hand-in-hand with Scully through the midway, Mulder couldn't help but wonder: is that what's happening here? Temporary magic, illuminating the bleakness of his life for one brief moment, before...

"Mulder," her voice cut through the fog of his thoughts, patient and understanding, "come back to earth, will you? I miss you," and he glanced down at her, smiled, and obeyed as best he could.

They stopped at a booth and he bought cotton candy, picking tufts of gossamer spun sugar from the skein and feeding them to Scully, momentarily distracted when her lips closed around his fingers to suck the last bit of sweetness from his flesh: it brought about thoughts of the logical next step, and how her lips might feel wrapped around his... Swiftly, he dispatched the concept to the back of his mind, before it could provoke a reaction beyond his control.

Scully, being Scully, didn't miss the brief tremor that raced through him; she caught his hand in hers, kissed his fingertips, her eyes conveying a silent promise.

"Don't," he cautioned her briefly, meaning, not here, and she nodded in agreement.

But as they took their seats in the tiny cabin of the ferris wheel and felt it lurch around them, she snuggled close, her hand settling against his chest... "Don't," he said, more firmly, and pushed her hand away.

She seemed hurt, for a moment; then the clouds lifted from her face, as she reached for understanding. "Why?" she asked.

"Phoebe," he began, and didn't bother to continue; the single word was enough.

Scully sighed. "Is there anything in your world that isn't tainted by her memory?"

He thought about it for a moment. "Not much, no," he admitted, feeling the shame of it anew.

A soft hand caressed his cheek, gentle coolness against the hot blush that had crept over him. "I hate her for what she's done to you," Scully muttered darkly.

Somehow, her anger cheered him; he smiled. "Thanks," he said quietly. Then, with a faint grin: "It's nice to have someone to hate her with."

Her laughter was like music to his ears.

The ferris wheel lifted them aloft -- the sun was beginning to dip lower, signaling the imminent onset of evening, and illuminating Scully's face with a golden glow; the balmy breeze stirred her copper hair. "You're beautiful," Mulder whispered, letting himself discover the fact as if for the first time. For so long, he'd repressed that knowledge, not allowing himself the luxury of appreciating her loveliness. Now, though, things were different.

Why? Because she jerked you off? spoke the cold voice of insecurity within him, determined to shatter his fragile bubble of happiness. One hand job, and you think everything's rosy... you should know better than that; life isn't that good to you, not ever.

But Scully was smiling up at him, her face alight with a glow that surpassed the sunlight's touch -- "Mulder, I love you so much," and for a moment, there was no insecurity, no fear, no lingering memories of the BritBitch, nothing but her smile, her warmth, and the promise of a future unlike anything he'd ever dared to dream about.

For that moment, the past was a thousand light-years away; and he reached out to her, slid his arm around her shoulders and drew her close.

Inevitably, though, the memories rose to haunt him; he felt himself tense, and glanced down to see Scully's eyes on him inquiringly. "Phoebe liked to... play," he muttered, haltingly, forcing out the words because she deserved to know why he couldn't do a simple thing like cuddle with her on the ferris wheel like any of the other couples in the adjacent capsules. "In public. She said that it was another part of my lessons, another way of learning control..."

Another soft sigh from the woman in his arms; she moved to disengage -- but his arms wouldn't cooperate, wouldn't let her go. "I just want to be with you," he murmured, feeling tears stinging his eyes, holding them back with all his strength because he was just so goddamn sick of crying...

"I'm not Phoebe," Scully said gently.

"I know. God, I know." She was everything to him that Phoebe had never been; it seemed an obscenity to so much as mention Phoebe in the same breath as this woman, this angel... "You deserve better than this, Scully. You deserve better than I can give you."

"But all I want is you." Such a simple statement, delivered in such a calm tone, yet it struck straight to the heart of him, lodging deep inside his soul and sending resonating tremors through him.

Scully, his angel; and all she wanted was him. Fox Mulder, rampaging bundle of desolate paranoia and mental trauma... but he was the one Scully wanted, and no other. It almost made him feel... worthy. As if he were a normal man.

He fought to hang on to that feeling of worth, of normalcy; fought back the demons of doubt with every ounce of strength he possessed.

Her lips brushed against his, in a gentle kiss. "Try to relax," she urged him, "enjoy the moment. This moment, Mulder, not the memory of things that happened long ago. I know -- I know you've been hurt, deeply, and I'm not trivializing your pain. But the past is over, gone; and no matter how vivid the memories are, they're not real, not now." And her hand moved, sliding across his chest in a slow caress, then down over his stomach. "You and I," she said, "right here, right now -- this is real."

Down, and down... over his crotch, just the lightest feather touch, but it stirred embers of desire to full raging fire. "Scully..."

"She would have done this, and left you hanging," still in that quiet, calm, logical tone that brooked no denial. "But I'm going to take you home tonight and give you... whatever you want, whatever you need. I don't tease, Mulder; I make promises. That is real. That is the way things are, now." Her hand settled on his thigh -- far enough away from his subsiding hard-on to allow him some measure of comfort. "No more broken promises, no more pain. Not from me."

And he could only look at her, gaze into her eyes, seeing the sincerity there, and the caring. "Scully," he whispered.

Again, her lips grazed his; and this time he kissed her, pulling her close into a real kiss, feeling the resurgence of need within him and not quite as afraid of it as he might have been. Tonight... God, what a promise.

The ferris wheel dipped lower, heading for the ground in a slow, lazy arc; one more turn, and the ride would be over. And then... "I don't suppose you'd want to leave so soon," he said tentatively, resting his chin on top of her head.

She chuckled. "I'd like to stay out a little longer," she said. "It's not often that we have the chance to just be together, without chasing something or being chased..."

"True," he conceded; but just the thought of her, being with her, feeling her body against his, her hands on him again, was enough to make him want to break all speed limits getting back to her apartment. "I guess there'll be time later..."

"All the time we need," and her voice was a throaty purr, incredibly seductive, sizzling down his spine to his groin and settling there, adding to the fire.

Mulder drew a deep breath, and forced back the feeling -- something he'd become well accustomed to doing, over the years. "I need a little space," he murmured; and she gave it to him, moving to the far end of the bench seat without comment.

"You okay?" she asked.

"I'm fine," and it was true; a few scant days ago, the level of arousal he was experiencing would have led to a cascade of fear and dread, prompted by the knowledge of what he would have to go through to assuage it -- but now, things were different. Now, there was the promise of sweet release in Scully's arms...

Do you have any idea of the gift you're giving me? he wondered. You're giving me my life back, Scully. You're giving me back a part of myself I never thought I'd regain.

And then, the inevitable whisper of doubt in his mind: She's a doctor, it said nastily, it's in her nature to heal. It's not you, it's not love; she's just doing her job...

Fuck you, he told the voice firmly, resolved not to listen to it any more.

But the voice persisted.

Back in Scully's apartment, his stomach comfortably filled with hot dogs and ice cream, he watched Scully settle her brand-new carnival-won teddy bear into an easy chair; watched as she made her way back across the room to sit on the couch beside him. Time for her to fulfill her promise, said the icy voice inside him. She's an honorable woman; she won't break her word. Desire has nothing to do with it...

She reached for him, and involuntarily, he flinched.

"What's wrong?" she asked him, sounding surprised.

"Nothing," he said guiltily. She's my friend. My partner. She loves me. That's what this is about, not some misguided sense of responsibility...

Are you sure? the voice responded.

"Don't give me that." Again, she reached out -- he forced himself not to shy away as her hands glided over his arms, his shoulders. "Tell me what's wrong."

He couldn't. How could he? To admit to her that he doubted her love... intuitively, he knew that nothing he said could hurt her more. "I'm just -- I guess I'm still nervous," he murmured: a partial truth.

She considered him, for a long moment. "Come here," she said finally, stretching out on the sofa; and with only brief hesitation, he settled down beside her.

Her arms wrapped around him, guiding his head to her shoulder; he reached out and embraced her in turn, acutely aware of the curve of her breast, so close... Oh, God, I want her. Why does this have to be so damn difficult? Why can't I just... hold her, and make love to her, like any other man would? Why does every damn minute have to be a struggle? I hate this, I hate being this way...

"Damn it," he whispered, feeling tears threatening again -- and I'm so damn sick of crying!

"Mulder, Rome wasn't built in a day. We'll get through this," and her voice was so calm and devoid of pity that it helped stabilize him, helped chase away the incipient tears and the doubt.

"Will we?" Will I? It would be easier, he thought, in a moment's despair, just to crawl back into my goddamn hole and stay there, alone with my videos and cold showers. Not to have to be fighting, every moment...

Her hand reached up, began nonchalantly unbuttoning her blouse, revealing a little lacy scrap of a bra covering gorgeous globes of flesh, and it was all he could do not to touch... then she reached out, took his hand and brought it there. Of its own accord, his fingers glided over the lace, finding the hidden nub of her nipple, palm curving to cup her breast... Oh, god.

He could feel it starting, now; the heat building inside him, consolidating and centering at his groin -- involuntarily, his hips moved to bring his swelling cock in closer contact with her, rubbing against her -- and he heard the echo of Phoebe's voice, enough to thoroughly diminish his desire: no better than an animal; for heaven's sake, Fox, control yourself...

And then another voice, a real voice, stronger and more vivid in his ears. "Mulder, yes," in Scully's breathy tone, letting him know that it was all right.

Who to believe? The voice he'd been hearing in his head for years of his life, or this new voice of sweet reason? He wanted... god, how he wanted; but no matter how hard he tried, the damning voice of loathing wouldn't go away.

"Mulder, look at me," and he opened his eyes -- when had he shut them? -- and gazed up at her. Scully. Not Phoebe, teasing him and taunting him and deriding him for the reactions she'd provoked. Not Phoebe, Scully... holding him, stroking his back, moving to kiss him gently... Not Phoebe. Scully.

Scully.

She held his gaze, as her hand undid the front clasp of her bra and drew it aside, as the arm wrapped around his shoulders tightened; he stared into her eyes, willing himself to believe in the reality of now instead of the memory of then... he moved, unable to resist the lure of her breasts, levering himself up on one elbow and leaning over to kiss her there. None of his research, cinematic or textual, had prepared him for the fact that the underside of her breasts were warmer, and ever so faintly coated with a fine layer of Scully-flavored sweat; hesitantly, he applied his lips to the areola, sucking briefly on her nipple -- discovered he liked the sensation, discovered from her quivering and her moans that Scully liked it too, and kept it up, with more conviction than before. Odd, that Phoebe had never let him do this; she'd let him touch her, after a fashion, had taught him how to perform oral sex, but never allowed him the intimacy of kissing her anywhere else but her lips...

Phoebe doesn't matter, now, he told himself, and struggled to banish the specter from his mind.

Easier said than done. The ghost of Phoebe had lived there for so long that it knew the terrain: knew where to hide, where to lurk and wait for a vulnerable, unbarriered moment so that it could spring out and sabotage him. Will I ever be free? he wondered, with momentary despair.

Beneath him, Scully moaned again, bringing him firmly back to the here-and-now.

Her breasts, her stomach, moving slowly down her body... Now, in this he had some measure of confidence: the BritBitch might have never thought him good enough, but he'd been able to bring her to climax. Surely, he'd be able to do the same for Scully. A return of favors granted, and favors promised; and maybe I won't feel so damn stupid, he thought briefly, if I can at least display some sort of competence in something. Small slim fingers ruffled through his hair, stroking, urging him onward; small soft cries of pleasure, reassuring him that he was doing at least a passable job of pleasing her.

The couch wasn't the best place for what he had in mind; it took some awkward maneuvering to find a workable position - - eventually, they found one: Scully, half-reclining on the couch, himself kneeling on the floor between her spread legs. "Mulder," came her token protest, "you don't have to..."

"Shh," he said absently, and applied himself to the task.

It reassured him that she was already wet; proof positive that her arousal wasn't feigned. Scully wouldn't do that! protested one part of his mind, while a far more cynical corner of his consciousness ignored the statement. Now, to work: not a particularly pleasant job, not something he'd ever really enjoyed, but an equitable exchange -- a job that had to be done.

Or so he thought, until he bent his head to apply his tongue to fevered flesh.

A revelation: she tasted nothing like Phoebe -- her flavor, like her scent, was wholly her own. Much more pleasant -- although that could have been his own subjective opinion, based on his emotional state. But that wasn't the best part... Phoebe had always been still, quiet, breaking her silence only with level-voiced instructions on how he should proceed. On the other hand, Scully was all cries and moans and quivering tremors, whimpering a little as he found her rhythm, fingers lacing through his hair and shuddering with the effort of not pulling his head down against her...

I could get to like this, Mulder mused absently.

Scully was liking it, that was for certain. And that -- the liking, and the certainty -- made all the difference.

At some point, he forgot all about Phoebe, too caught up in Scully's rapture for anything else to intrude -- he led her along the slow climb to climax, aware only of her heat and her pleasure, until she dissolved into shudders, crying out his name -- and was startled to find himself coming with her; he'd forgotten his own arousal, he'd been so submerged in hers. More laundry to do, spoke up some overly- pragmatic part of his mind; he barely listened to it, more concerned with the revelation of his own sexuality. Generally, achieving orgasm required major exertion -- this time, it hadn't even required contact, just Scully's legs draped over his shoulders and the taste of her on his tongue...

"You are incredible," he heard her say, and the breathless satiation in her voice rendered the statement utterly credible.

For a moment, he rolled it around in his mind. I'm incredible? Tremendously empowering, that thought; more so, coming from her. Say that often enough, Scully, and I might just believe it...

He planted a parting kiss on sweat-damp curls, disengaged - - helped her arrange languorous legs into a comfortable position on the couch, then stretched out beside her as best he could. "Mulder, you..." as her hands reached for his nether regions.

"Not necessary," he told her, "you're pretty incredible yourself," and found himself smiling as she nestled into his arms.

"I love you," he heard her say, and luxuriated in the sound of it: the words, and the sleepy happiness of her voice. She loves me. She does. And we're so good together... Maybe this will work out after all. Maybe... maybe, everything's finally going to be all right, for me.

And the voices of damnation inside his skull were noticeably silent.

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