The Unicorn Tamed 6: Intervention

She was tired, so tired. How long had they spent tromping through the mud in the rain, looking for signs of something that might or might not exist? The hot shower helped, but just barely; it soothed the aches in her muscles, but the fatigue persisted.

At least the day was over. Tomorrow would likely be just as bad... but that was tomorrow.

As she exited the shower, struggling to force the cheap motel towel to cover the parts of herself most chilled by the sudden transition from hot water to cold air, she heard the television blaring sports from the adjoining room... Things had changed between them, but work was still work; and she knew his routine well enough to know what she would find, were she to step through the unlocked door...

After shrugging into a warm robe, she did so, and found her expectations fulfilled. The television proclaimed loudly that the Mets were trailing at the bottom of the seventh, but he wasn't paying attention; instead, he was poring over the case file, papers scattered all over the bed. "You want to order a pizza or something?" he said, without diverting his attention from the paperwork he was studying.

"I'm not hungry," she informed him, "I'm going to sleep."

At that, he looked up. "You all right?" he asked her, the concern in his dark eyes unshielded by his reading glasses.

"I'm fine," she reassured him. "Just tired."

"Okay, then. Sleep well, Scully." And the warmth in his voice went straight to the core of her, reminding her: he loves me, she thought, knowing it without the tiniest fragment of doubt, even though he'd never spoken the words.

She smiled at him, went back to her own room, slipped out of the robe and into her standard on-the-road sleepwear -- t-shirt and shorts; too inconvenient to be caught in a nightgown or in the nude, should something happen unexpectedly -- made certain that her weapon was concealed from casual view, yet within easy reach should it be needed -- shut off the light and slipped beneath the covers, letting the fatigue swallow her whole.

Sometime after that, between twilight drifting and true slumber, she heard the connecting door open. "You asleep, Scully?" came the soft query.

"Mmmm," was all she could manage; and was dimly aware of the door closing again, then the distant sound of the shower in the next room running. Amazing, she thought blurrily, he's actually getting an early night's sleep, just before the last fragments of consciousness drifted away.

...Then she was awake again, staring at the ceiling and wondering what had wakened her. Something's wrong? she thought uncertainly, lying perfectly still so as not to alert any intruder to her change in status, readying herself for the quick spring to the bedside table where her weapon waited -- but there were no tell-tale sounds of intrusion, no sign of impending danger. Only the sound of the shower going, in the next room...

Startled, she glanced at the clock. Hours since she'd bid him goodnight; was he still in the shower? That seemed odd...

Something's wrong, she thought.

Silently, she slid out of bed; noiselessly, she made her way to the connecting door, pressing her ear against the thin plywood. Yes, that was definitely the sound of the shower running... Carefully, she eased the door open and stepped through, into his room.

The television was displaying the pay-per-view porn channel advertised prominently on the cable box, and she glanced at the writhing bodies on the screen with a flash of irritation. I hope he charged this to his credit card instead of to the room, she thought, annoyed at the thought of having to explain the line item on the motel bill when it came time to submit their expense report. And he isn't even watching the damn thing; instead, he's been in the shower for god-only-knows how long...

And then, she remembered.

At the time, she'd been too concerned with his obvious distress to pick out individual details; her mind had been thoroughly occupied with how best to reassure him. Now, though, his recount of the experience returned to haunt her: She'd just leave me... hanging... and I was so completely under her spell that all I could do was stand in a cold shower until the feeling went away. Even now, half the time that's the only thing that works...

Shit. Oh, shit.

Slowly, soundlessly, she opened the bathroom door. No steam issued forth from the tiny room, confirming her suspicion -- and through the thin translucent shower curtain, she could make out his silhouette: fully aroused and making no attempt to assuage that arousal, standing in the path of the shower spray, trembling.Now what the hell do I do?

He'd suffered so much humiliation already -- what would it do to him to be discovered in such a state? Would it make it worse for him, to have her walk in on him...? But she couldn't just walk away and leave him, either. What the hell do I do now? she wondered miserably.

Then she heard the sound -- just barely; such a small sound, it was -- a whimper, or maybe a sob; and that decided her.

She moved determinedly into the room, flung back the shower curtain, reached past the ice-cold shower spray and wrenched the temperature-control over to the warm part of the spectrum in the same frantic motion, and stepped into the shower beside him.

The cold had taken its toll; his testicles were drawn up so tightly against his body that they had to have hurt, even though his erection had entirely failed to subside... His eyes were closed, his face contorted into an expression that might not have been pain, but certainly wasn't pleasure. It took him a moment to register her presence, and in that moment she wrapped her arms around him and pulled his shivering body close against herself, struggling to provide warmth and comfort at once. "Scully?" came the hesitant query, in a voice that trembled as fiercely as the rest of him.

"Why didn't you wake me?" she asked him, fighting to keep her own anguish from showing.

"You were tired," in the same small voice, "you needed your sleep," and his arms slid around her, seemingly of their own accord, reaching instinctively to pull her close.

She wanted to rage at him: you stupid fool! Don't you know that I'm here for you, damn it? How the hell can I help you if you won't let me? but bit back her anger before it could surface. Nothing could be more guaranteed to cause him to retreat completely into the shell he'd built for himself.

Instead, she merely held him, warming him and shivering herself, as the water temperature slowly climbed from freezing to something approximating heat, feeling her wet clothing clinging to her skin and exacerbating the chill. Her own discomfort was negligible, compared to his; he was so cold -- as the water warmed, she maneuvered him into position to receive the brunt of the spray. It's a wonder you haven't died of hypothermia, all these years. Oh, Mulder, you damned idiot... and she was glad of the water all around them, the water streaming off her hair to trickle down her face: it masked her tears, so that he wouldn't know that she was crying.

One thing to know what Phoebe had done to him, to witness his skittishness in all matters sexual: another thing entirely to see him like this, miserable and helpless, desperately trying to numb his desires because it was what he'd been painstakingly taught, and all he knew how to do...

Someday, she would have the good fortune to see Phoebe Green again; and when she did, she would just have to even the score on his behalf. It was as simple as that.

In the meantime, she had to do something about this.

He clung to her, seemingly oblivious to his erection pressed against her, shivering even harder as the warming water streamed over him, restoring his body temperature to something approximating normality -- then she realized that it wasn't just chills making him shudder: he was crying into her hair, a soundless outpouring of misery. She thought about what to do about that, finally opting to not notice -- it seemed kindest, at present, to let him have what privacy she could. But she held him as tightly as she could as he cried, trying her best to convey her feelings without cumbersome words -- that she was there, that she loved him, that she wouldn't allow him to suffer alone, no matter how much he might want to.

Slowly, his tremors diminished; slowly, he seemed to regain some measure of control.

And then, the sweetest feeling in the world: his hips moving, thrusting against her, pressing his hard-on into her in an attempt to seek relief.

She tilted her head upward, and his lips met hers: no reticence in his kiss, no uncertainty, only a harsh, needful hunger. For the first time, she felt his hands fumbling at her clothing, moving to pull down her shorts...

Again, she felt uncertainty consume her. It was what she'd hoped for: to have him take the initiative sexually, and never mind whether it was confidence or desperation fueling his actions -- but here? The bathtub surface beneath them was slippery, and if one of them should lose balance... it was possibly the worst, most hazardous place for a sexual encounter. But if she stopped him now, it would give his self-consciousness and fear a chance to kick in, and they might never recover the lost momentum...

For the second time that evening, a sound decided her: a soft moan of passion emanating from his throat -- and she resolved to simply be as careful as she could.

Her shorts hovered at mid-thigh; she wriggled them down and kicked them off without breaking the kiss -- had to separate herself from him a moment later, just long enough to wrench her t-shirt over her head. Then they were naked together in the warm water, skin against skin, his hands roving urgently across her back to pull her against him, and she felt her body responding to his evident need, desire surging within her to meet his.

There was no finesse to his caresses: they were the artless gropings of a horny teenager in heat -- unsurprising, since his sexual development had been forcibly arrested at about that point. Somehow, that turned her on even more -- that he was consumed with wanting her, beyond any remembrance of the teachings that the Bitch had so cruelly drilled into him. For a moment, she thought he would try to enter her, but the logistics were all wrong -- instead, his hips ground against her, rubbing his erection frantically against her wet skin, until he came with a shuddering moan, spurting hot semen over both of them.

"Oh, god," he whispered, when he could speak. "I am so sorry..."

"For not waking me up?" she responded, determined to derail the train of self-pity before it could emerge from the depot. "You can apologize for that, if you want."

"Scully, I..."

"Shut up, Mulder," pulled his head down and kissed him fiercely; and after a moment, felt him relax and go with it, abandoning himself to the kiss.

"I'm here for you," she told him, when it was over. "Get used to it, okay?"

"So, what, I should just impose my needs on you whenever I'm horny?" His voice was sardonic. "No matter how tired you are, no matter how inconvenient it might be..."

"I don't want you torturing yourself any more! You don't deserve it," and her voice broke on the last words; she turned away from him, her hands clenching into fists as she fought to hold back the tears.

She felt his hands come to rest lightly on her shoulders. "Scully?" in a questioning, fearful voice.

"You don't deserve it," she forced out from between clenched teeth. "You shouldn't have to go through this! And I would give anything -- anything -- to make it all go away..." Her voice failed her; her eyes closed, struggling to rein in the hot tears stinging her eyes.

Then his hands were turning her, moving her to face him, drawing her close. "Scully," in a voice that held bewilderment, astonishment at the ferocity of her emotion, amazement that she should care so much, and pure unalloyed love... and she fell into his arms, buried her face against his chest and sobbed helplessly.

Once or twice before, she'd cried in his arms -- always when some case, some situation, had gotten so far out of hand that she'd been unable to restrain her misery. Always before, it had been hellish -- hating herself for needing comfort, for needing anyone else, for not being strong enough to weather the disaster impassively. Now, for the first time, she let herself cry -- let herself need him - - and was amazed by the sense of comfort that washed over her, by how sweet it was to cry and be consoled, by how wondrously safe she felt in his embrace.

Gentle kisses, on the top of her head, on her forehead, on her eyelids -- soft pressings of lips, speaking all the words he couldn't quite bring himself to say -- and then, the most astonishing thing of all.

"I love you so much, Scully."

Startled, she stared up at him, unblinking, unbelieving.

He met her gaze with level certainty. "I love you," he repeated, and it seemed to her that he was marveling himself, at how easy it was to say the words, at how good it felt to say them.

She tried to speak, failed; and he pulled her close again, and held her as she cried into his chest.

Her tears slowed to stopping at about the same time the hot water began to run out; she sniffled and pulled away from him reluctantly, not wanting to let go. Now that I've learned to lean on him, she wondered, in a moment's panic, will it always be like this? Will I forget what it means to be strong and self-sufficient? Then she remembered holding him as he'd cried, and came to know for the first time that dependence had nothing to do with strength. I can lean on him and still be strong, she told herself, just as he leans on me...

She glanced upward to meet his eyes. "I love you," she said softly.

His hand reached out, slid along the side of her face, cupping her cheek. "Let's go to bed," he murmured.

She was tired, so very tired; and so it seemed that the rest of the night passed in a jumbled haze of sensation. Later, she would remember it in bits and pieces, isolated scenes without continuity or congruence. The feel of the cool sheets against wet skin. His fingertips tracing lazy circles around her nipples, driving her slowly up the wall. His startled cry at the sensation of her lips applying suction to his cock for the first time, a hoarse moan of pleasure so uncommonly intimate that she almost climaxed at the sound of it. His laughter joining hers as they struggled to find a not-too-awkward position for sixty- nining, and thinking how wonderful it was to hear him laugh, and in that context. Her amused realization that his oral technique at cunnilingus faltered in direct proportion to whatever she happened to be doing to his cock at the moment. Tasting his semen for the first time, swallowing it because finding a discreet way to spit it out would have broken the mood, discovering that swallowing wasn't really all that bad, after all. Being on the verge of falling asleep with her head on his thigh, only to have him jump out of bed, muttering curses, at the realization that the television had been playing the pay- per-view porn all that time, unnoticed, at the rate of fifteen dollars per hour. Laughing with him again, at the realization that neither of them had noticed the porn transpiring on the screen, being more concerned with the erotic scene they'd been creating for themselves. Feeling his lips claim hers in mid-laugh, and deciding that she wasn't really that tired...

She awoke to harsh sunlight battering her sensitive eyes, damp sheets tangled around her legs, and the awareness that she was alone in bed. Sleepily, she dragged herself to the bathroom to deal with her full bladder and the cottony taste in her mouth, went to her own room to retrieve her bathrobe, then sat down in his room's only chair to wait for Mulder to return.

Within ten minutes, he did. His shorts and sweaty t-shirt signified that he'd gone for a run; the paper bag in his hand signified that he'd gotten as far as the Denny's. Silently, he handed Scully the bag; she began to open it, then found her face being turned sideways and upward: he kissed her, slowly and sweetly and thoroughly.

"I think we've been going about this all wrong," he said. "I think the swamp is the wrong place to be looking for clues."

Scully stared at him, baffled. Oh, right. The case.

"What do you suggest?" she asked him, managing to hide her amusement. Trust Mulder to wake up after a night of passion and be preoccupied with work.

"I think we should return to the scene of the crime. Maybe we overlooked something."

"Maybe," she agreed, sipping at the coffee he'd bought her. "If it doesn't involve traipsing through the mud for hours at a time, I'm all for it."

He nodded, and began picking up the paperwork that had been scattered all over the floor when they'd hit the bed last night. "There's got to be something I missed," he muttered to himself, leafing through the file.

She took another drink of the coffee, then levered herself tiredly out of the chair. "I'm going to take a shower," she called out to him.

Mulder glanced up from the file -- set it aside at once. "I'll help," he said, in a soft, seductive voice.

Surprised, she stood still while he advanced toward her -- stood very still as he untied her robe and eased it off her shoulders until it fell to the floor, leaving her nudity exposed. "If that's all right?" he queried, with a hint of his former uncertainty.

"It's perfect," she responded swiftly; and he smiled.

She was tired, still so tired; yet all awareness of her fatigue was swept away by the feel of his arms closing around her, and the knowledge that they were making very definite progress against his dysfunction.

And that knowledge, along with the memory of the night and morning past, sustained her as they spent another day -- yes, again -- traipsing through the mud together.

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