All These Years

By: LittleStrawbaby

Rating: M

Pairing: MSR

Spoilers: all things

A/N: I'm new to the fandom, please be gentle. Better late than never, though, right? Big thanks to Linnared for the beta, you're the bomb, my sista. I don't own anyone, I'm not making any money here, suing me for copyright violation would cost you far more than what you're actually gonna get.

We've been here, like this, more times than I care to recall. It was pathetic only yesterday—actually, we've been pathetic for the last 7 years, but who's counting--the two of us sitting here, speaking of concepts neither of us can ever fully comprehend, the air around us heavy and electric with deeper meaning. Finally, consciously, I've made my choice; the past is truly buried, I'm free of the weight of Daniel's judgments and disapproval. It is my decision now—do I travel further along the path I have found myself on or do I double back, quantifying and rationalizing the things I've seen, dismissing that which I cannot explain as delusion, mere imagination?

I do not remember falling asleep, nor do I recall him carrying me to his bed; my next awareness is a warm body spooned against mine, soft breaths grazing my ear, ruffling my hair, a protective hand splayed on my belly. I try to dredge up outrage at his chutzpah, but this feels too good, too right. We've danced around these feelings, teasing and tormenting ourselves with seemingly innocent touches, looks and witty banter laced with subtext.

My eyes seek the glowing digits of his alarm clock—it's two in the morning and I'm wide-awake despite the exhaustion I'd felt just hours ago. I'm dying to speak with him, there is so much I have to say, but he is sleeping so peacefully, I don't have the heart to wake him. I am attempting to pinpoint a specific incident, a moment in time wherein my feelings for him shifted, but no such instance springs to mind. Was it the first time he held me? Or perhaps the determined, unyielding belief that he would recover me after my abduction, after I nearly died? Or the night he sat at my bedside, the cancer ravaging my body, and you cried yourself to sleep because you believed you couldn't save me this time. Perhaps all of the silly cases we had chased, the endless days and nights, driving, flying, running…

My thoughts are again interrupted by a soft sigh that raises the fine hairs along the sensitive flesh at the nape of my neck, his hand pulling me flush against him. My eyes drift shut as my ass settles against his manhood and he hardens slightly, a soft groan escaping his lips.

"Scully," he mutters.

I turn in his arms, my decision made in a split second, choosing a path of no return, throwing my clinical, rational turn of mind to the wind, acting purely on emotion and gut instinct. Love, hate, affection, heated arguments, and yes, desire, these are all the myriad of emotions tied up within me, as I start down the path that might be Heaven—could be Hell—it all depends on your point of view; these are tell-tale indicators of passion, of feeling, and the line between love and hate is nearly indistinguishable, because we all love and hate those who mean the most of us. But my gut tells me this is Heaven, this is love, and if I run from it this time, there might not be another chance; because there will never be another who affects me as he does. I feel it is only fair to mention that my confidence is bolstered by his uttering my name while asleep and sporting an erection.

My leg slides between his and I cup his face, kissing him softly, whispering against his lips, "Mulder. Wake up, sleepyhead."

"Mmm, five more minutes," he mumbles, his hips slowly flexing against my pelvis.

"Paging Special Agent Mulder. Your wake-up call is waiting for you." I grin mischievously, my hand grazing his abdomen and slowly trailing south, my fingers teasing his inner thigh.

"Oh yeah, Scully." His eyes flutter open, meeting my gaze, the desire fading fast as he realizes I'm really in his arms. "What are you--ohmigod."

He shifts, struggling to disentangle himself from my arms but I hold firm, tightening my legs around the leg between my own, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling his head closer, our lips meeting. The sense of completion is overwhelming; it feels as if we have been moving toward this for so long, but something has kept us from taking that final step and I smirk against his lips as I realize he has stopped squirming, he is as engaged in this as I am, is eager to memorize my taste, to discover what pleases me. It is any number of things, a conflict of interests, unprofessional conduct, the destruction of our working relationship and the now fragile friendship we have been trying to nurture back to health, our own fears of rejection, of real intimacy.

He stiffens in my arms and breaks off the kiss, his heavy breaths washing over my face, his eyes searching mine as he whispers hoarsely, "Please, Scully…what are you doing?"

"Something I should have done years ago, Mulder. You can't tell me you don't want this too, you're lying if you say you don't want this." I pray my voice doesn't betray my fear of his rejection, my desperate need to have his approval, his respect, his heart.

"I do, but not for the wrong reasons. I don't want you to regret this, to file this away tomorrow or days or weeks from now as a mistake or an error in judgment or a rebound thing. I want— "

"Ssh," I whisper. I cover his lips with a fingertip, a smile on my lips. "I will not regret this. Not ever. This is right, Mulder…we fit. We're two pieces of the one thing and we both know it. This moment was inevitable."

"How…when did you know? Was this part of today's spiritual quest?" he asks suspiciously.

"I've known for a long time. I just couldn't…we weren't ready. But our ghosts have been laid to rest, we can move on now."

He smiles at me then, that slow, sexy grin I so love, and he nuzzles my nose with his own, then his lips find mine. As he covers my body with his own, thinking stops and sensation takes the forefront, and I give myself over to the feelings, truly letting go for the first time, allowing myself to just feel.

My climax is cataclysmic, my cries echoing off the walls of his bedroom, my body trembling uncontrollably as I stare up at him, my fingers stroking the contours of his face, fascinated by his expression of agonized pleasure. And he finds his release, groaning my name, his life spilling into me as he collapses onto his forearms, his hands buried in my hair, his lips caressing my shoulder. Fate has bound us to each other, much more tightly than either of us can ever imagine, and suddenly, in a moment of clarity, an 'ah-hah!' moment, everything that happened today makes sense. But this clarity slips away, to the recesses of my subconscious, as his hand finds mine and clasps it, his lips covering my own.

He slips from my body, and I gasp, disappointed to lose this precious connection. Smiling down at me with a loving smile, he peppers my face with kisses, and I've never felt so at peace before, so wanted, so loved. We lay face to face in each other's arms, whispering our dreams, our needs, our fears of the ever-present darkness lurking on the periphery of our lives, until we drift off.

I awake sometime later, still tangled in his embrace, our familiar connection strong and unbreakable once more, and this is a balm to my weary soul. I kiss his forehead and then his lips and carefully disentangle myself from his arms. I gather my clothing from the floor and slip into the bathroom. As I wash my face, my mind begins to work again and I can no longer deny the truth to myself.

I've spent too much of my life staring out the proverbial window, watching the world pass me by, in syncopated time with everything around me. I've spent my life playing by the rules, never taking risks, denying myself of all the everyday joys and pleasures life has to offer, living a mundane existence, my penance for sins I didn't commit.

The nickname "Ice Queen" goes back further than the FBI, it goes back to junior high. But with him, I feel anything but frozen inside. The fortress I have built around myself was quite easily and effectively torn down by him and for whatever reason, he alone can see behind my cool, aloof exterior to the passionate heart that beats within my chest—but I never let him know that, not completely, not until this night. I have offered him glimpses from time to time, but I cannot speak to my level of consciousness in these revelations.

I pull my shirt on and tuck my hair behind my ears, checking my reflection. It is still early but I must go home; I need to shower and change my clothes, to prepare for the day, for the first encounter with Mulder after everything that has happened between us. But I don't regret this, I'm eager to find out where we go from here.

I pause as I pass by his bed, my eyes drinking him in, wanting nothing more than to crawl back in with him, to surround myself in his warmth, his scent, to forget the world around us as we launch an in-depth investigation into each other. But we can't afford to be irresponsible; our relationship must not appear outwardly changed in any way, so I don't linger.

In the kitchen, I leave him a note reassuring him that I will see him at the office, that I don't regret a single moment. I set the timer on his coffeemaker because he's forgotten it again and I leave, locking the door behind me. I can't wait for the day to begin—I had a career to live for just hours ago but now there is so much more, something infinitely more rewarding. My partner, my friend, and now my lover—this brings new meaning to my life and light chases away the murky shadows that have hunted me. I am, at last, complete.

The End