Title: Cosmic Or Chemical
Part: One
Author: Nikayla
Pairing: Mulder/Scully, MSR
Set During: 11x03 Plus One
Rating: M

A/N: I haven't written a fic in a while so I'd love some feedback if I should continue :)


"We'll think of something."

The way she looks at him, she hasn't done that in...

The thought hasn't even been finished before what distance was between them is gone, an act that is all his — she hasn't moved an inch. He was close, closer, closest before he even realized, the decision on a delay; two seconds behind the action, but following in exact synchronicity. Her lips are soft, memorable. He hasn't forgotten the texture or taste of her at all. It's been living and breathing its own lifetime, in a corner off in his mind, where they hadn't fallen apart. Where he'd always make her happy.

The Truth had always been most important. Still was in most ways. But somewhere along the roadmap of their winding and weaving time together her happiness had become of paramount importance, and he thought himself singularly equipped to provide it. He had been, for quite some time, but slowly the Truth had seeped back in, took up too much space, borrowed from where only she had been allowed to reside, until finally she made the Adult Decision, and moved out. He could only blame himself. And that Truth he'd still yet to find.

Now even more Truths alluded them, and yet he found himself once again only concerned with one, this time, the Truth of what they'd once been. The Truth of what he'd never moved on from, and never would. A kiss the most tangible piece of evidence to his theory that he could provide.

"Mulder..."

"Scully."

He says it so matter of fact, like the decision's made. Male and female agents cannot fraternize in the same hotel room. But this isn't just any male and female agent. This is Mulder, and Scully. Two halves of one whole. And they've been here before. The second kiss is proof of that, both pulling closer at once, both certain that it's not just needed but wanted, not because she's scared — Dana Scully does not get scared. But when she does this is not the security she seeks. This is something different. Something almost predestined. Like who were they kidding these last long years? That they could stay apart indefinitely, indelibly, that they wouldn't end up right here all over again. The unspoken rule they wordlessly agreed to when they rejoined the FBI; to be partners in every sense but one, now wordlessly broken because words were not needed. Just a name, said just so, and a kiss.

It is not the kiss of young lovers, she knows, because they are no longer young. But it's not the kiss of old flames either, because that flame never really burned out. It's been simmering quietly in the background of every room, made brighter when a certain kind of look was exchanged. And there have been many looks. A flame that's waited so patiently, and now could burn down a house with them in it.

The hand he'd draped over her makes slow, practiced work of each button until none are left, and he touches her skin almost reverently, remembering how it felt from so many times before this. But then his quiet moment is interrupted, her hand moving to take his and slide it upward; some things never change. She hasn't changed. Her fear of growing old is completely misplaced from where he's sitting. She's still as soft, and beautiful as when they were (almost) still young. His hand engulfs her breast, two puzzle pieces that have never found a more perfect match. She sighs softly against his lips, girlishly in fact, in part because it's been so long; in part because he's just so damn good at this. Her silk covered leg casts out on a rogue mission, sliding between his, just at the calf but it gets his attention. She always has his attention. Even when his mind is buried deep in a conspiracy she's there; a touchstone that keeps him from falling in so far he'll never make it back out. Telling him how wrong he is, always, about everything. Well not everything, but all the things he needs to hear to stay afloat. His hand kneads at her flesh, thumb raking over the sensitive peak and she leans into it, seeking something more substantial. He's never been wrong when it comes to this.

A breath escapes from her lips, billowing out against his. It carries with it a sound; needy, demanding, it says she wants more without her even needing to speak. He understands. By something cosmic or chemical he can't say. She would know but he doesn't dare ask, not now, not when it could alter the outcome he wants to hurtle against. He feels her leg moving again, this time hooking over his thigh, lean muscle clenching, a counterweight to pull herself effortlessly above him. Knees press in to the pull out mattress and it squeaks beneath them, the sound combining with the low rumble she pulls from his lips, when her hips meet against his through too many layers of fabric. He grasps at her, with the hand that isn't still cemented to her breast; grasps at her slight, enticing curves. They've grown slighter as she's gotten older, and he wonders if he is the only one who can see she's only gotten better with age. Between the two of them, perhaps. But he's seen more than his share of fellow agents take note. Ones much younger than him, who think they have any idea how to be with a woman. This woman. The one who's begun grinding her hips against his.

Another rumble builds in the back of his throat, muffled only in part by a kiss. She smiles at it, lips blooming out at the sides, he can't see it but he can feel it, can feel her teeth pull at him before the kiss takes over once again. Her hands pull at the hem of his undershirt, his own reluctantly release their hold on her so she can pull it up and off. Nails meet his chest and every nerve stands at attention, pulsing beneath her touch, firing all along the line she drags down, fingers tracing muscle, somewhere between delicate and electrifying.

He can't remember the last time they were like this. Yes...actually, he can. If he'd known it was to be the last time he'd have made it last longer. But now, he supposes, it wasn't meant to be the last time afterall. And he hopes, perhaps foolishly so, that this isn't either.

The rhythm she's working up between them has always been her own. She likes being in control, and he likes letting her be; most times, at least, and this is one of them. He wouldn't dare change a thing. This case is confounding, even he who thinks he has it all figured out can't come to a reasonable explanation to convince her reasonable mind of it. He isn't crazy. Perhaps in the morning he can try one more time. Hope that at the end of the afterglow she might finally believe him. As if that has ever worked before. "Mulder," she whispers it, half gravel half silk. Wantonly she proffers his name, tells him everything she desires within two syllables; he can't remember the last time she said his name like that.

Yes, he can.

All at once he gathers her to him, hands gripping at her, the bed squeaks and clanks as he flips their position. He hadn't meant to but now, hearing his name and all it asks of him, it happens on pure instinct. On memory almost full, but still wanting for more pieces of them. The puzzle that could never be complete. There's always more to add to it; he wonders what color this part will be. Perhaps it will be blue. Cerulean — God no, anything but cerulean blue. This will be a deep, dark navy. The color of the silk he pulls down her legs, mingled with the cream of her complexion; a pale, soft color, that compliments the tan of his skin. Or so he's always thought.

His strong fingers press against her thighs, she shouldn't be letting this happen, not on a case, in a room bought and paid for by the Bureau, but she honestly doesn't give a damn. Not when he's looking at her like he is, not when he's touching her like he is. His hands feel rough against her skin, and it's that roughness she craves. He doesn't treat her like porcelain, he never has — he's watched on while others might think she was in over her head, because he knows she is capable; she knows her limits, and if she reaches them he will be there. He's always been her equal, her opposite, her perfect other. Not a hero she didn't ask for and didn't need. He had always been exactly what she needed. And that's much more than she can say of other men. They had tiptoed around each other for years, neither wanting to breech that line of impropriety, save for a kiss one New Year's Eve, that they'd never spoken of since. There was no need to really, not when there have been so many since then.

Her hands find his face in the dim glow of the room, pulling him to her to share yet another, a languid, desperate kiss. With every breath she's surrounded by the scent of him, til it burrows into her very bones. That musk that lingers on all his clothes, and sometimes hers, when in recent months they've been close — too close — and yet not as close as this. It will settle against her skin before they're done, intermix with her own; sweat, sex, pheromones. Memory, yet again, of when their scent was always at some stage of combination, never drifting far from one another; visions not unlike his slide machine flicker one after the next in her head.

Nails drag against his skin once again, this time at his back, clawing at him to come closer, until he feels her breasts press against him, the steady beat of her heart across from his. The cadence fills the void between his own thrumming heartbeat, their pulses in equal but opposite tandem, much like them.