Title: This Day. . .
Author: Exley_61 exley61@yahoo.com
Spoilers: None
Summary: an Autumn mourning. . .
Archive: Sure, just let me know where.
Rating: PG-13, sexual situations
Feedback: Oh yes, please.
A/N: not beta'd just came over me and wrote it
quickly down. I hope you like it.
XXXXXXXXXXX
This Day
by Exley_61
XXXXXXXXXXX
Wasn't it supposed to be raining?
This is the thought she woke up to this
morning as she quietly slipped out from
Mulder's embrace, the bed dipping as she left
the toasted covers. Scully abandoned his soft
snores, their bedroom door snicking closed.
Her socked feet padded across the chilled,
wooden floor. Making her way toward the
sliding doors situated off their living
room, Scully enters the insulated porch,
sighing. Despite their best insulation
efforts, the room still manages to capture
a bit of the morning chill.
The chatter of cicadas blend with the soft
ruffle of autumn leaves. The early morning
wind swirls the fallen leaves about the lake
front. Scully looks out toward the expanse of
cedar water spread out before her. Golden light
glitters across it like a topaz jewel.
She can see Mr. Whitely's in his row boat, as
she does every morning. Determination hasn't
faded from the old man as he once again makes
his attempt at that big catch. It's a catch
which has escaped him since before Mulder and
Scully had moved to this mountain range. They'd
moved to White Haven nearly four years ago.
The Pennsylvanian mountain air agreed with
them.
Scully looks out at the clear morning and
shakes her head. She had truly expected
to hear the pitter-patter of rain against
the cabin's roof. She expected to see the
surface of the lake spit back the rainfall
this morning.
Yet, the sun has climbed over the tree-topped
mountains, filtering through the branches
to streak the cool crisp morning in a
dazzling prism of rays. As the morning
progresses, the sunbeams have begun to
dwindle down into a consistent spot light
highlighting the view laid out before her.
If anything, Scully notes to herself, today will
wind up being unseasonably warm for late
October.
But still... she even expected to maybe
hear the distant rumble of thunder, or
at least see the jagged strobe light of
lighting sizzle across the sky. Instead,
the vista shimmers in rustic tones. The
warmth of color and sound tugs at her
mind, denying her expectations and
temporarily subduing the familiar
pangs of loss that this day always
brings.
"Scully."
She doesn't turn around, her eyes travel
the lazy slide of Mr. Whitely's oars
as they dip in and out, in and out, of
the water. Arms encircle her waist, Mulder's
breath fluttering her hair, his bare
chest presses against her. "He's still
at it?"
"Mmm,"she responds, reaching up to his embrace,
entwining her fingers with his weathered ones
as they rest against her stomache.
Mulder's body is the furnace of heat she needs. It
chases away more than the autumn cold skipping its
way across her skin -- it also tamps down the
feelings of loss squeezing at her heart.
"I don't know how I'm going to do today,
Mulder," she whispers, gripping his hands more
tightly, trying to pull herself into him.
"Shh," he whispers, nuzzling her neck, his lips
moist and soft against her skin. "I know, Scully,
I know."
And she feels the shutter he's been holding
in-check slip past his determination, his body
trembling against her. Turning around in his arms
she lays her check against his chest, comforted by
the soft thump, thud of his heartbeat. She takes
security in the knowledge that she has
this. . . that she has him if nothing else.
She voices her thoughts," I don't know what
I'd do without you, Mulder. I don't know
what I. . ."
Mulder crushes her against him, enveloping her in
arms that refuse to allow pain to touch her. . . arms
that she knows are incapable of stopping that pain
from happening no matter how hard he tries.
She can taste the salt on her lips, her tongue
flicking out to moisten them. Reaching up she wraps
a shaking hand around Mulder's neck. She pulls his
face toward hers, trying to succor the pain of
loss in his love.
He hasn't shaved yet, his morning stubble scrapes
softly against her sensitive skin and she loves it.
She loves the added sensation of familiarity
telling her, 'That he is real, that he is still
here with her.' She knows this truth and she's
accustomed to this morning ritual of love and
caresses.
"God, I love you, Mulder." She sighs against
his mouth, her tongue retracing his lips, tasting
him, smelling him, her nose nudging against his
warm cheek. "I love you so much."
And she's crying gentle sobs now, sobs that he
catches with his mouth, not letting her pain fall
into empty spaces. Tears have slipped from his
eyes as well. She can feel them warm against
her flushed face.
This is familiar, too. Every year this is
familiar. Sometimes she can hardly believe
it's been even more than a day since they've
been reunited. Sometimes, she can hardly believe it's
been seven years since she's held William
in her arms and sometimes she can hardly believe,
for Mulder, it's been even longer than that.
Sometimes.
He pulls her back into the house, back through the
living room, back into their bedroom all the while
bathing her in an unrelenting love -- touches, kisses
caresses coupled with unneeded, but nice, whispered
assurances of his devotion. It's a force that she
can barely comprehend, but that she doesn't need to
because it mirrors her own heart. Together they
find the solace to greet this day --
Yes, to greet their baby's birthday.
They don't forget. They can never forget what
was and what's to come. For today, though, they
will leave the fight and fly into each other once
more, sticking to only remembering what was, what
they had for that little while.
"Scully, shh...," Mulder whispers again and she
can feel his voice vibrate down her throat, against
her skin, within and without. She drags her nails
through his hair, the strands soft against her
fingertips. Her hands slide over him and down
his back, grabbing reaching, continuing to demand
he help her remember what was theirs and help
her forget what no longer is.
She never expected the pain and the loss to leave.
Of course not.
So she continues to pray that her little boy
is safe and maybe on this day she prays a little
harder that he is more than safe -- that baseball
games are watched and little league is played, and
that maybe, on this day, she will find a little bit
of peace which has never come to touch the ragged
hole left in her heart those many years ago.
She gasps as Mulder trails soft, wet kisses
down her throat. His breath chills each spot
where his lips brand her his once again -- and
she thinks, again, if she can be thankful for
anything, she's thankful for this. . . for
Mulder.
She finds solace in his scent. He smells of
the purity of nature -- his skin holding onto
the autumn air he runs in every morning and
the yard work he's become accustomed to. The
smell mixes with the taste of sweat and coffee
and her. Yes, she can taste herself on him.
Scully can identify her vanilla bath wash on his
skin along with her dandruff shampoo. They mix
with the smell of their laundry detergent, all
of which and more coalese into what is indelibly
just "them".
She knows he tastes the same on her, that he, too,
can find himself against her skin. Mulder can
trace his mark on her as if it was something
visible.
"Oh Scully," he whispers, his voice raspy penetrating
the unspoken silence between them. The room begins
to be filled with soft gasps, wet kisses, and whispered
encouragements -- all soothing tones that lay a balm
to her heart.
Scully sits up, pushing Mulder off her. He sits
on his haunches on the floor before her. Reaching
to her, Mulder begins to slowly undress her with
a reverence she doesn't even begin to feel she
deserves, but continues to accept nonetheless.
Smiling at each other, he tugs the flannel robe off
her shoulders and lets the material pool around
her. Leaning in for another kiss, his fingers
adeptly unbutton the cotton nightgown that she
loves wearing -- loves burrowing under the
covers and against his back, the washed softness
of the garment a favorite.
Scully reaches out to trace the
contures of his face with the pads of her fingers,
running them over his cheekbones, over his eyebrows,
following the dips and panes of his face that are
cherished a little bit more each day. His lips
kiss her fingertips which have come to rest against
his soft, soft, lips before she drops her hands
onto her lap.
He slides the nightgown off her shoulders, the
material joining the way of her robe. The
pads of Mulder's fingers take their turn to
retrace and reaquaint himself with
the center of her throat, down over her
collar bone and down, down between her
breasts. He pauses to feel her heartbeat
race against his palm.
Scully places her hand atop his, before bending
forward and capturing his lips with her own.
She tastes him, tasting home and reminding
herself that she isn't alone, not today. . . not
in this, and not ever again.
Smiling, she pulls back and lifts her feet for
him to strip off her fat, thermal socks. His deep
chuckle rumbles an echo in her chest as he
slides his hands down her thighs, over her
calves and lets his finger slip under the
elastic of the each sock. He pulls them off,
sending them flying on the floor behind him.
Mulder launches off his haunches and pushes
Scully back onto the bed, his bare chest
covering hers as he devours her mouth with his,
his tongue flicking over her teeth, her tongue,
leaving the warmth of her mouth to rub his cheek
against her own. His lips taste her ear, finding
that spot which always causes her to tremble
all the more.
"Mulder," she gasps, clutching his heavy weight
against her, pulling him closer still. She can feel
his grin against her skin as he continues to tease
her but suddenly she feels his smile fade. He pulls
away from her to stare into her eyes. In her gaze,
she knows he can see how she holds him so completely
because she can see so much of herself held within
his own.
"I don't want to forget," he tells her and she
can feel trails of tears sliding down the sides
of her face to wet her hair line. She watches
the tears slip down his cheeks as well. "I let myself
wonder, you know. Only today do I. . . I let myself
wonder. . . if he's got my. . . if he has your. . .
if he's . . . if he's. . ."
"I know. . . I know," Scully says, repeating over
and over, her voice trembling mantra with barely
maintained control. She sits up and twists so
that now Mulder lays beneath her upon their
rumpled bedding.
"I know," she whispers, punctuating each
declaration with a fevored kiss.
And she does know. . . she knows that she has to
be strong for him just as much as he must be strong
for her. There is no question of that fact. His
vulnerability is her strength, his trust and love
something that she cannot live without. Today they
will not get lost in their love making.
They will not forget.
They couldn't possibly. . . but what they can
do is find each other once again...
...and again
...and again --
all the while remembering a little boy who won't
be scampering into their room, who won't be begging
the two of them to go to out and play. . . who
won't know how much his parent's hearts break just
a little bit more each year on this day.
~fin~
FEEDBACK PLEASE :o)
exley61@yahoo.com
Author: Exley_61 exley61@yahoo.com
Spoilers: None
Summary: an Autumn mourning. . .
Archive: Sure, just let me know where.
Rating: PG-13, sexual situations
Feedback: Oh yes, please.
A/N: not beta'd just came over me and wrote it
quickly down. I hope you like it.
XXXXXXXXXXX
This Day
by Exley_61
XXXXXXXXXXX
Wasn't it supposed to be raining?
This is the thought she woke up to this
morning as she quietly slipped out from
Mulder's embrace, the bed dipping as she left
the toasted covers. Scully abandoned his soft
snores, their bedroom door snicking closed.
Her socked feet padded across the chilled,
wooden floor. Making her way toward the
sliding doors situated off their living
room, Scully enters the insulated porch,
sighing. Despite their best insulation
efforts, the room still manages to capture
a bit of the morning chill.
The chatter of cicadas blend with the soft
ruffle of autumn leaves. The early morning
wind swirls the fallen leaves about the lake
front. Scully looks out toward the expanse of
cedar water spread out before her. Golden light
glitters across it like a topaz jewel.
She can see Mr. Whitely's in his row boat, as
she does every morning. Determination hasn't
faded from the old man as he once again makes
his attempt at that big catch. It's a catch
which has escaped him since before Mulder and
Scully had moved to this mountain range. They'd
moved to White Haven nearly four years ago.
The Pennsylvanian mountain air agreed with
them.
Scully looks out at the clear morning and
shakes her head. She had truly expected
to hear the pitter-patter of rain against
the cabin's roof. She expected to see the
surface of the lake spit back the rainfall
this morning.
Yet, the sun has climbed over the tree-topped
mountains, filtering through the branches
to streak the cool crisp morning in a
dazzling prism of rays. As the morning
progresses, the sunbeams have begun to
dwindle down into a consistent spot light
highlighting the view laid out before her.
If anything, Scully notes to herself, today will
wind up being unseasonably warm for late
October.
But still... she even expected to maybe
hear the distant rumble of thunder, or
at least see the jagged strobe light of
lighting sizzle across the sky. Instead,
the vista shimmers in rustic tones. The
warmth of color and sound tugs at her
mind, denying her expectations and
temporarily subduing the familiar
pangs of loss that this day always
brings.
"Scully."
She doesn't turn around, her eyes travel
the lazy slide of Mr. Whitely's oars
as they dip in and out, in and out, of
the water. Arms encircle her waist, Mulder's
breath fluttering her hair, his bare
chest presses against her. "He's still
at it?"
"Mmm,"she responds, reaching up to his embrace,
entwining her fingers with his weathered ones
as they rest against her stomache.
Mulder's body is the furnace of heat she needs. It
chases away more than the autumn cold skipping its
way across her skin -- it also tamps down the
feelings of loss squeezing at her heart.
"I don't know how I'm going to do today,
Mulder," she whispers, gripping his hands more
tightly, trying to pull herself into him.
"Shh," he whispers, nuzzling her neck, his lips
moist and soft against her skin. "I know, Scully,
I know."
And she feels the shutter he's been holding
in-check slip past his determination, his body
trembling against her. Turning around in his arms
she lays her check against his chest, comforted by
the soft thump, thud of his heartbeat. She takes
security in the knowledge that she has
this. . . that she has him if nothing else.
She voices her thoughts," I don't know what
I'd do without you, Mulder. I don't know
what I. . ."
Mulder crushes her against him, enveloping her in
arms that refuse to allow pain to touch her. . . arms
that she knows are incapable of stopping that pain
from happening no matter how hard he tries.
She can taste the salt on her lips, her tongue
flicking out to moisten them. Reaching up she wraps
a shaking hand around Mulder's neck. She pulls his
face toward hers, trying to succor the pain of
loss in his love.
He hasn't shaved yet, his morning stubble scrapes
softly against her sensitive skin and she loves it.
She loves the added sensation of familiarity
telling her, 'That he is real, that he is still
here with her.' She knows this truth and she's
accustomed to this morning ritual of love and
caresses.
"God, I love you, Mulder." She sighs against
his mouth, her tongue retracing his lips, tasting
him, smelling him, her nose nudging against his
warm cheek. "I love you so much."
And she's crying gentle sobs now, sobs that he
catches with his mouth, not letting her pain fall
into empty spaces. Tears have slipped from his
eyes as well. She can feel them warm against
her flushed face.
This is familiar, too. Every year this is
familiar. Sometimes she can hardly believe
it's been even more than a day since they've
been reunited. Sometimes, she can hardly believe it's
been seven years since she's held William
in her arms and sometimes she can hardly believe,
for Mulder, it's been even longer than that.
Sometimes.
He pulls her back into the house, back through the
living room, back into their bedroom all the while
bathing her in an unrelenting love -- touches, kisses
caresses coupled with unneeded, but nice, whispered
assurances of his devotion. It's a force that she
can barely comprehend, but that she doesn't need to
because it mirrors her own heart. Together they
find the solace to greet this day --
Yes, to greet their baby's birthday.
They don't forget. They can never forget what
was and what's to come. For today, though, they
will leave the fight and fly into each other once
more, sticking to only remembering what was, what
they had for that little while.
"Scully, shh...," Mulder whispers again and she
can feel his voice vibrate down her throat, against
her skin, within and without. She drags her nails
through his hair, the strands soft against her
fingertips. Her hands slide over him and down
his back, grabbing reaching, continuing to demand
he help her remember what was theirs and help
her forget what no longer is.
She never expected the pain and the loss to leave.
Of course not.
So she continues to pray that her little boy
is safe and maybe on this day she prays a little
harder that he is more than safe -- that baseball
games are watched and little league is played, and
that maybe, on this day, she will find a little bit
of peace which has never come to touch the ragged
hole left in her heart those many years ago.
She gasps as Mulder trails soft, wet kisses
down her throat. His breath chills each spot
where his lips brand her his once again -- and
she thinks, again, if she can be thankful for
anything, she's thankful for this. . . for
Mulder.
She finds solace in his scent. He smells of
the purity of nature -- his skin holding onto
the autumn air he runs in every morning and
the yard work he's become accustomed to. The
smell mixes with the taste of sweat and coffee
and her. Yes, she can taste herself on him.
Scully can identify her vanilla bath wash on his
skin along with her dandruff shampoo. They mix
with the smell of their laundry detergent, all
of which and more coalese into what is indelibly
just "them".
She knows he tastes the same on her, that he, too,
can find himself against her skin. Mulder can
trace his mark on her as if it was something
visible.
"Oh Scully," he whispers, his voice raspy penetrating
the unspoken silence between them. The room begins
to be filled with soft gasps, wet kisses, and whispered
encouragements -- all soothing tones that lay a balm
to her heart.
Scully sits up, pushing Mulder off her. He sits
on his haunches on the floor before her. Reaching
to her, Mulder begins to slowly undress her with
a reverence she doesn't even begin to feel she
deserves, but continues to accept nonetheless.
Smiling at each other, he tugs the flannel robe off
her shoulders and lets the material pool around
her. Leaning in for another kiss, his fingers
adeptly unbutton the cotton nightgown that she
loves wearing -- loves burrowing under the
covers and against his back, the washed softness
of the garment a favorite.
Scully reaches out to trace the
contures of his face with the pads of her fingers,
running them over his cheekbones, over his eyebrows,
following the dips and panes of his face that are
cherished a little bit more each day. His lips
kiss her fingertips which have come to rest against
his soft, soft, lips before she drops her hands
onto her lap.
He slides the nightgown off her shoulders, the
material joining the way of her robe. The
pads of Mulder's fingers take their turn to
retrace and reaquaint himself with
the center of her throat, down over her
collar bone and down, down between her
breasts. He pauses to feel her heartbeat
race against his palm.
Scully places her hand atop his, before bending
forward and capturing his lips with her own.
She tastes him, tasting home and reminding
herself that she isn't alone, not today. . . not
in this, and not ever again.
Smiling, she pulls back and lifts her feet for
him to strip off her fat, thermal socks. His deep
chuckle rumbles an echo in her chest as he
slides his hands down her thighs, over her
calves and lets his finger slip under the
elastic of the each sock. He pulls them off,
sending them flying on the floor behind him.
Mulder launches off his haunches and pushes
Scully back onto the bed, his bare chest
covering hers as he devours her mouth with his,
his tongue flicking over her teeth, her tongue,
leaving the warmth of her mouth to rub his cheek
against her own. His lips taste her ear, finding
that spot which always causes her to tremble
all the more.
"Mulder," she gasps, clutching his heavy weight
against her, pulling him closer still. She can feel
his grin against her skin as he continues to tease
her but suddenly she feels his smile fade. He pulls
away from her to stare into her eyes. In her gaze,
she knows he can see how she holds him so completely
because she can see so much of herself held within
his own.
"I don't want to forget," he tells her and she
can feel trails of tears sliding down the sides
of her face to wet her hair line. She watches
the tears slip down his cheeks as well. "I let myself
wonder, you know. Only today do I. . . I let myself
wonder. . . if he's got my. . . if he has your. . .
if he's . . . if he's. . ."
"I know. . . I know," Scully says, repeating over
and over, her voice trembling mantra with barely
maintained control. She sits up and twists so
that now Mulder lays beneath her upon their
rumpled bedding.
"I know," she whispers, punctuating each
declaration with a fevored kiss.
And she does know. . . she knows that she has to
be strong for him just as much as he must be strong
for her. There is no question of that fact. His
vulnerability is her strength, his trust and love
something that she cannot live without. Today they
will not get lost in their love making.
They will not forget.
They couldn't possibly. . . but what they can
do is find each other once again...
...and again
...and again --
all the while remembering a little boy who won't
be scampering into their room, who won't be begging
the two of them to go to out and play. . . who
won't know how much his parent's hearts break just
a little bit more each year on this day.
~fin~
FEEDBACK PLEASE :o)
exley61@yahoo.com