Fleeting
By DramaPhile
Rating: PG-13 for sensuality
Spoilers: None
Keywords: S, MSR, A, Scully POV
Summary: He can't tell me where he's been, I know better than to ask. All I need to know is that he's running and he's alive
Disclaimer: if I was making money off this, do you think that I would be a broke college student?
Author's Notes: This piece is my first in over a year. Sorry it's short, I never did have the patience for long stories. It doesn't take place in a particular season, and was not intended as ninth season, but can be taken that way if you are so inclined. Personally, I refuse to acknowledge that S9 even exists. Nonetheless, in this universe, Mulder is on the run from Them and Scully must stay behind. Thanks to my clone for encouraging me to keep writing during my slump.
~X~
Big guns are pointed at me, Big guns are pointed at you
Everybody's waiting to see what we're gonna do
You spin around and disappear under the floor where I stand,
I'm left with, I'm left with a bag in my hand.
-Bree Sharp, Walk Away
~X~
He always comes to me the same way.
There is never any rhyme or reason to the times, the days, but he always seems to know when I'm home. I imagine The Lone Gunmen tip him off; they're his only link to here these days.
It's always evening, always my apartment. I'm performing the mundane tasks of my day, watching tv, catching up on my medical journals or Oprah's latest book club selection, when I hear my front door unlock.
He appears like a ghost, a memory I can't shake. He never looks the same twice, always new hair, new clothes, new facial hair, new scars. I can almost sense him, his appearance never throws me.
We stare, walking towards each other as if in a dream, the world slowing down for that moment as we each drink the sight of the other in. A hand reaches out, mine or his I cannot say, and the electric charge between us becomes magnetic. Our bodies snap together, hands everywhere, kisses and touches bruising, not caring what aches and pains the morning will bring. I want to touch him everywhere and I do, memorizing over and over the planes of his skin, his lean muscles, the fine bones of his face.
"We can't keep doing this," I murmur in the midst of the bruising kisses assaulting my mouth, and he says "I know," and presses my back against the wall, never stopping, never hesitating. Gentleness can come after, only the need guides us now. Too many months apart cannot be satisfied easily in one night, but we will try.
He makes me sick with worry sometimes. I know he can't tell me where he's been, I know better than to ask. All I need to know is that he's running and he's alive. His pulse, fast and strong beneath my fingers, the heat of his skin, the warmth of his kisses, this is all the proof I need at this moment. He is alive. I am alive.
And before it is light, he will slip away into the darkness like a shadow, as though he was never here.
But not today.
I can't sleep, so I lay awake and watch him dream, wondering what he's been doing these months. His skin is tanned golden brown and his chestnut hair is streaked blond. I can still feel where his stubble branded my skin. He looks older. Perhaps I do too. I long to trace the fine creases by his eyes and on his forehead with my fingertips. His body is harder, stronger than last, his muscles are more well-defined. Maybe he's been doing manual labor. I imagine him working all day in the sun with those calloused hands, maybe in a small town, or a city. Only God knows where.
I miss him, sometimes so much it hurts. My heart aches and my strength
drains away. No one can ever know that I cry some nights when I'm alone. A tear escaped the prison of my eyelids and I snuggle closer to him, reveling in the scent of aftershave and soap and sweat and something distinctly male. It will linger in my bed for days after he's gone, comforting me as it always does.
He rouses next to me. Carefully extracting himself from my arms, he sits up and searches for his clothes on the floor. I put a hand on his knee and prop myself up. He turns and looks at me, wide-eyed, for a moment, then sets again to his task. He thought I was asleep.
I step out of bed, not bothering to cover myself, and find his t-shirt. I sniff it languidly and then slip it on. He has found his boxers and jeans by now, and I come up behind him and wrap my arms around his stomach, feeling the warm, taut skin on his back.
"Please don't do this, Scully," and he starts to pry away my arms.
"I need you." There is nothing that can express my feelings except that. He stops and turns to face me, touching my cheek tenderly.
"And I need you, but I have to go." I turn towards his touch, kissing his palm.
"I just wish... One frenzied night every few months isn't enough. I-I want you to stay, I want to go with you, I want this all to end, I-" His warm lips press against my forehead and his arms encircle my waist.
"I do too, but you and I both know-"
"-that we're safer apart." I finish his sentence. "I know." I thread my fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and we kiss, slowly, sweetly.
"Someday," he murmurs into my hair, "Someday this will all be over and I'll get you that little house with the white picket fence and a porch where we can sit and watch the world go by."
I can feel a lump forming in the back of my throat.
"We'd get restless after a week of that."
He smiles, a fleeting curve of his lips that fades. I will not cry. I
cannot cry in front of him.
"Please, just a little longer." But I already know that we can't. The sky is already becoming light, the sun will soon rise and Mulder will turn into a pumpkin and I'll be left with one shoe and a memory.
He kisses me again and lifts his shirt up over my head and pulls it on. I hold him tightly and we murmur words of love before he pulls back and leaves me, like a shadow that was never here.
And I cry.
By DramaPhile
Rating: PG-13 for sensuality
Spoilers: None
Keywords: S, MSR, A, Scully POV
Summary: He can't tell me where he's been, I know better than to ask. All I need to know is that he's running and he's alive
Disclaimer: if I was making money off this, do you think that I would be a broke college student?
Author's Notes: This piece is my first in over a year. Sorry it's short, I never did have the patience for long stories. It doesn't take place in a particular season, and was not intended as ninth season, but can be taken that way if you are so inclined. Personally, I refuse to acknowledge that S9 even exists. Nonetheless, in this universe, Mulder is on the run from Them and Scully must stay behind. Thanks to my clone for encouraging me to keep writing during my slump.
~X~
Big guns are pointed at me, Big guns are pointed at you
Everybody's waiting to see what we're gonna do
You spin around and disappear under the floor where I stand,
I'm left with, I'm left with a bag in my hand.
-Bree Sharp, Walk Away
~X~
He always comes to me the same way.
There is never any rhyme or reason to the times, the days, but he always seems to know when I'm home. I imagine The Lone Gunmen tip him off; they're his only link to here these days.
It's always evening, always my apartment. I'm performing the mundane tasks of my day, watching tv, catching up on my medical journals or Oprah's latest book club selection, when I hear my front door unlock.
He appears like a ghost, a memory I can't shake. He never looks the same twice, always new hair, new clothes, new facial hair, new scars. I can almost sense him, his appearance never throws me.
We stare, walking towards each other as if in a dream, the world slowing down for that moment as we each drink the sight of the other in. A hand reaches out, mine or his I cannot say, and the electric charge between us becomes magnetic. Our bodies snap together, hands everywhere, kisses and touches bruising, not caring what aches and pains the morning will bring. I want to touch him everywhere and I do, memorizing over and over the planes of his skin, his lean muscles, the fine bones of his face.
"We can't keep doing this," I murmur in the midst of the bruising kisses assaulting my mouth, and he says "I know," and presses my back against the wall, never stopping, never hesitating. Gentleness can come after, only the need guides us now. Too many months apart cannot be satisfied easily in one night, but we will try.
He makes me sick with worry sometimes. I know he can't tell me where he's been, I know better than to ask. All I need to know is that he's running and he's alive. His pulse, fast and strong beneath my fingers, the heat of his skin, the warmth of his kisses, this is all the proof I need at this moment. He is alive. I am alive.
And before it is light, he will slip away into the darkness like a shadow, as though he was never here.
But not today.
I can't sleep, so I lay awake and watch him dream, wondering what he's been doing these months. His skin is tanned golden brown and his chestnut hair is streaked blond. I can still feel where his stubble branded my skin. He looks older. Perhaps I do too. I long to trace the fine creases by his eyes and on his forehead with my fingertips. His body is harder, stronger than last, his muscles are more well-defined. Maybe he's been doing manual labor. I imagine him working all day in the sun with those calloused hands, maybe in a small town, or a city. Only God knows where.
I miss him, sometimes so much it hurts. My heart aches and my strength
drains away. No one can ever know that I cry some nights when I'm alone. A tear escaped the prison of my eyelids and I snuggle closer to him, reveling in the scent of aftershave and soap and sweat and something distinctly male. It will linger in my bed for days after he's gone, comforting me as it always does.
He rouses next to me. Carefully extracting himself from my arms, he sits up and searches for his clothes on the floor. I put a hand on his knee and prop myself up. He turns and looks at me, wide-eyed, for a moment, then sets again to his task. He thought I was asleep.
I step out of bed, not bothering to cover myself, and find his t-shirt. I sniff it languidly and then slip it on. He has found his boxers and jeans by now, and I come up behind him and wrap my arms around his stomach, feeling the warm, taut skin on his back.
"Please don't do this, Scully," and he starts to pry away my arms.
"I need you." There is nothing that can express my feelings except that. He stops and turns to face me, touching my cheek tenderly.
"And I need you, but I have to go." I turn towards his touch, kissing his palm.
"I just wish... One frenzied night every few months isn't enough. I-I want you to stay, I want to go with you, I want this all to end, I-" His warm lips press against my forehead and his arms encircle my waist.
"I do too, but you and I both know-"
"-that we're safer apart." I finish his sentence. "I know." I thread my fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and we kiss, slowly, sweetly.
"Someday," he murmurs into my hair, "Someday this will all be over and I'll get you that little house with the white picket fence and a porch where we can sit and watch the world go by."
I can feel a lump forming in the back of my throat.
"We'd get restless after a week of that."
He smiles, a fleeting curve of his lips that fades. I will not cry. I
cannot cry in front of him.
"Please, just a little longer." But I already know that we can't. The sky is already becoming light, the sun will soon rise and Mulder will turn into a pumpkin and I'll be left with one shoe and a memory.
He kisses me again and lifts his shirt up over my head and pulls it on. I hold him tightly and we murmur words of love before he pulls back and leaves me, like a shadow that was never here.
And I cry.