E-MAIL ADDRESS: flyn121@yahoo.com
CLASSIFICATION: S, R
KEYWORDS: Romance
E-MAIL ADDRESS: flyn121@yahoo.com
Website: www.geocities.com/cratkinsonflynn/
CATEGORY: DAL, Requiem post-ep
DATE: September 6, 2000
DISTRIBUTION: Xemplary, Ephemeral, Spooky, Gossamer, yes; anywhere else,
just ask. I share.
SPOILER WARNING: Passing reference to Tithonus.
RATING: NC-17 for adult expressions of affection
FEEDBACK: If you like it, just lemme know.
SUMMARY: What can I say? Sex is very life-reaffirming.
DISCLAIMER: My last name is not Carter. Dammit.

Special thanks to Christine, as always, for her patience, her input, and especially
her appetite for smut.


~~~~~~~
Ritual
by Flynn
~~~~~~~

We have this thing.

It really isn't that big a deal, I guess, but I find myself looking forward to it every
night.

Mulder's been staying with me for a month now. He's gotten stronger in the past
few weeks, and is talking more. He still can't remember anything about those
months he was gone. I try to blunt the edge of his frustration, but I know how
deeply it runs. No one knows that better than I do. I tell him to just give it time.
Look how long it took *me* to recall any details at all. Sometimes he sighs in
resignation, maybe nodding or offering the barest of smiles. Other times he
continues to fret, digs around on the Internet looking for I don't care to know
what, and talks about consulting Dr. Werber again. Yeah, like that guy helped you
out so much before, I want to retort. But I don't. It isn't so much that I'm avoiding
conflict with him, because if there's anything we know how to do, it's argue. It isn't
that I think he can't take it. He isn't fragile. No, what I'm avoiding is any friction at
all. I just don't want to go back yet. Back to how things were. Our reality is
different now.

I like it.

Just about every day now he says something about going back to his place, and
every evening he finds another reason to stay. *Just one more night* is the usual
couplet to that particular refrain. Part of me wonders if he'll ever make that final
break and take up the ragged threads of his life, actually move back into the lonely
apartment on Hegal, the one with the perennially empty refrigerator and the
dripping bathroom faucet. The rest of me wonders how I'll manage to adjust if and
when that day ever comes. I like him here. I like having him fall asleep beside me
every night. I like our talks about absolutely nothing. I like the easy intimacy we're
rediscovering. Though we sleep in the same bed now, we haven't made love, or
really even kissed. Not yet. We were so long getting to that point in the first place,
and it was all so new when he left for Oregon; nothing about it was second nature.

We're getting there, though.

So as I said, we have this ritual. It started a couple of weeks ago, I guess. It seems
he has a thing for my hair. I don't know for sure how long he's wanted to touch it
I've asked, but he won't give me a straight answer. I haven't done much with it
since his disappearance, so it's gotten long. Well, as long as I've had it in years, at
any rate. Perfectly understandable, I feel. At first I was immersed in the
investigation right up to my eye sockets - I just didn't give a damn what I looked
like. Now I have time, but after that first night .  well, I don't think I'll be rushing
to the stylist any time soon.

I was sitting on my bed - our bed now - and I was brushing my hair as I watched
the news. More conflict in Eastern Europe. More trouble in Russia. More
problems with the peace summit. Mulder was out in the living room - or at least I
thought he was. Intent as I was on the TV's unhappy tidings, I didn't hear him,
didn't know he was even around until the bed began to move and dip behind me. A
hand settled over mine and gently took the hairbrush away from me. "Can I do
that?" he asked. I acquiesced without replying. He plied the brush with studied
care, dragging it through my hair in slow, languid strokes. Within seconds I was
mesmerized. Anyone can tell you, it generally feels good to have their hair played
with. As a doctor, I know it encourages the production and release of endorphins,
and is known to generate alpha wave activity in the brain as well. Regardless of the
science, it was just damned soothing. He didn't say anything, but I know he
enjoyed it, too. He spent a few minutes brushing and playing with it; then he set
the brush aside and quietly set about getting ready for bed.

The next night he came in a little earlier. I was sitting on my side of the bed,
reading the new JAMA. I could feel him eyeing me as he stripped off his jeans and
shirt. Whereas he once would have flung them into the nearest corner, now he
folded them more or less neatly and left them on the chair. Vaguely I heard him
pad around the room, going to the bathroom to brush his teeth, doing everything a
person does before they go to bed. He came back to the bedroom and sat down on
his side of the bed. And began to brush my hair.

I suppose it surprised me. I dropped the magazine in my lap and let my head fall
back toward him. He used more than the brush, following through with his free
hand, stroking and finger-combing, massaging my scalp a little. It didn't take long
for my eyes to start to droop. He kept it up for a few minutes, and though he still
didn't say anything, I could tell he was smiling. Don't ask me how I knew; I just
did. Call it pregnant woman's intuition.

And so it went.

The nightly routine's a little longer now. In addition to my hair, he helps put lotion
on my arms, legs, and feet. Then he settles me on my side, surrounded by the
obligatory snowstorm of pillows, and he gently rubs and massages my shoulders,
then my lower back. He's always careful to follow decorum, and never once
suggests I so much as loosen my nightshirt, not even in jest. I must admit, his
careful politeness is beginning to grate just a little. He's my friend, and until rather
recently, my lover. Is it such a bad thing to admit that I'd like more from him than a
backrub? Not that I don't appreciate his backrubs. I just want  . more.

Be careful what you wish for, a very wise woman once advised.

Because I find I'm still not totally at ease around him yet, and until I am, I just
don't see how intimacy is possible. Maybe he senses that. True, we had been lovers
for a while, and in that time, we'd gotten good at it. But things have changed.
*I've* changed. Strictly speaking, this is not the body he touched and loved all
those months ago. That body had been slim and athletic, and the clothes it wore
always fell in the single digits. *This* body? Would he even recognize it? Oh, the
scars are the same; the laparotomy scar from where that New York idiot shot me.
The appendectomy scar from my childhood. The belly sporting those scars  .
well, it's changed a little.

Tonight when he brings the brush and the lotion to the bed, I'm ready. God, I look
forward to these sessions more than he realizes. I love his touch. I love his hands.
He kneels beside the bed and gently takes my book, marks my place, and puts it on
the nightstand. He brushes my hair a little, but I know it's just a warm-up; he'll save
the real treatment for last. We talk a little as he squeezes lotion into one hand and
begins on my arms. Mmm, a little hand massage tonight. I watch his expression as
he works. He's frowning a little, thinking about God knows what. I want nothing
more than to lean forward and kiss that little scowl away. I don't. Instead I tell him
about the appointment with my doctor the next morning. Thankfully, it isn't
particularly early. We'll have a chance to sleep in a little. He says it's time he
started going to these things with me. Been sitting on his ass for too long; reality is
beckoning to him. I just smile a little. He's getting restless. I can't help but feel a
little tug of regret. I knew this little domestic scene had to end. <Well,> I think as I
watch his hands glide down my arms, <perhaps not end. Perhaps, like the rest of
our relationship, it will simply evolve.>

He sits on the bed to do my feet. They've always been a little ticklish, but he seems
to know just what to do. He keeps his touch specific and just hard enough to avoid
making me squirm. Again, I find myself watching his face as he works. I want to
tell him how I'm feeling. I want to tell him how much I missed him, and that it
doesn't really matter where he's been because he's back, and that's all that matters
right now. I want so much to tell him these things. But I don't.

Does he hear my thoughts? Sometimes I think he does. Like now. His eyes flick up
to mine, and for a long while we just look at one another. His hands move slowly
and with supple assurance over my ankles, up my calves, to my knees. He smiles as
I flinch; another ticklish area. I have a sudden flashback, and I wonder if he can see
it in my eyes, in the flush I feel rising in my cheeks: I remember the feel of his lips,
caressing me where his hands are touching. Yes, he's kissed my knees. He's left
whisker burns on the insides of my thighs. He's made me writhe and whimper, then
cry out as I take flight. I've never really gone in for anything of an oral nature, so
to speak. He took great delight in showing me just what I've been missing.

Can he see it in my eyes?

His hands have stilled on my legs. His eyes are dark as they hold mine. What is he
thinking? I feel a shy smile begin. He holds up a hand to sustain my silence. "Be
still," he says very softly. The hand settles itself on my thigh, then slowly glides up
to my hip and the swell of my belly.

Unnerved, I catch his wrist. "No. I  . no. Please."

His hand twists under mine until I am the one being held. His eyes are still kind,
still soft, but I can see the determination in them. His voice is likewise soft and
even. "Nothing's changed, Scully. I just  . I want to see you." His hand spreads
out, encompassing a good portion of my girth. He must see my hesitation, because
a gentle smile tugs at his eyes, at his mouth. "I've spent the past month getting to
know the feel of you again. You're beautiful, Scully, you must know that."

No, I don't know that at all, but it's comforting to hear him say. My breath catches
in my chest as I force myself to relax under his touch. "Your idea of beauty,
Mulder, has always been a little eccentric for my understanding."

His hand is not still, but is moving in slow, steady circles. "My idea of beauty," he
murmurs, carefully nudging back the edge of my nightshirt, "needs only a mirror
for you to understand."

Oh, hell. Tears are starting to fog my eyes. I blink them back quickly. "Oh, you old
smoothie."

He edges closer, his eyes on my body as he slowly pushes the shirt up. "Who're
you calling old?" He makes a sound then, a tiny exhalation that tells me more than
any amount of mindless chatter. Whatever it is he considers beautiful, he's
evidently found it.

"Jesus," he murmurs under his breath. One hand spreads itself over me, barely
touching and yet warming me through to my very soul. The second soon follows.
His eyes are bright, and I realize the fringe of lashes is barely keeping his tears in
check. He gives his head one slow shake. "I  . I did this?"

Something in his tone, the incredulity and endless wonder, makes me tear up again.
I smile as I cover his hands with mine, pressing them into me. "You certainly
helped."

He starts to say something, but the sudden flutter beneath our hands clearly
pre-empts any thoughts. His eyes widen noticeably. "Whoa," he breathes.

I can't help but giggle at his wide-eyed wonder. "Haven't you felt that before?"

He blinks once. "Never so strong," he replies reverently. "Never so  ." He doesn't
finish the thought, but his eyes return to mine, and I see a familiar ruddiness rising
in his neck. His heart is pounding; I can see the carotid fluttering in his throat.
"Scully, would you be offended if I told you what a complete turn-on this is for
me?" His eyes drop back to his hands. "I mean, ever since a kid's old enough to get
it up, he hears how terrible it would be to get a girl pregnant. Don't let your life be
ruined, my father used to say." A faint smile tugs at his mouth, at his eyes.
"Ruined? My life's just getting good."

I have to work at it to cover my disgust. What a callous, brutal thing to say to a
young person, I think with an inward sneer. Mulder is still looking at my body and
hasn't caught my momentary lapse. William Mulder may have been a powerful man
with powerful friends, but he never deserved a son like this man sitting before me.

At last I feel I have control of my emotions. "Offended?" I muse, gently rubbing
my palms along the backs of his hands. "No, not offended. I'd wonder about your
mental state, but then there's nothing new there."

For a second I wonder if the old joke will hold. If what he's been through in the
past year has made him overly-sensitive to cracks about his sanity. And for a
second I wish I hadn't said it. I cringe to think that I may have hurt him. Then his
eyes flick to mine, and instead of the tears from a moment ago, I see laughter in
them.

"You saying I'm crazy, Scully? Well, I am." He bends closer, bows his head, and
gently nuzzles my belly. I gasp when I feel his soft lips touch me in an
open-mouthed kiss. A jolt of something like electricity shimmers through me, and I
am suddenly aware of my heartbeat in every inch of my body. He isn't alone in
finding this touch-fest a little arousing.

And an image flashes in my head. Another night, another time when his head is just
there, his mouth lingering for a moment on its way south. A time when my hands
were not holding his, but were tangled in his hair, guiding and impelling. God bless
a man with an oral fixation. I remember my deep, full-throated moan as he drove
me over the edge. I remember the feel of him sliding back up over me, my own
body limp and still throbbing, panting for breath as if I'd just run a marathon. The
incredible feeling as he slid into me, my heretofore overloaded nerve endings
suddenly alive and eager again, hungry for him. My arms sliding around his torso,
my legs lifting to cage his hips. Binding me to him. His slow movements, his soft
groans, the expression of rapt concentration as his stared into my eyes.

My eyes. Can he see my thoughts in them?

He's looking at me again. His cheek is still pressed to my midriff, the scrape of his
beard barely perceptible. How long has he been there like that? Is he weighing my
silence, trying to divine my own thoughts and desires? Is he waiting for my
permission? For what? To continue making love to my round belly? Or to make
love to me? Was I afraid of this moment once? What I fear now is that he's going
to stop. That he's satisfied some inner drive and fears that pressing really will
offend or anger me. I try to assuage that fear with my eyes. *Don't stop*, I think
to myself. God help me, if I wasn't so rigid with my emotions, I'd cry those words
aloud.

Slowly he sits back, and I almost moan a protest. I bite it back. We're not ready.
Clearly he's not. Maybe he needs more time to become accustomed to the idea of
intimacy with this new body. Maybe he's afraid of hurting me. We've both read up
on this subject. He must know there are ways  .

He's holding out a hand. His eyes are steady, his mouth untouched by anything
resembling a smile. Resigned, I take the offered gesture, the proverbial friendly
handshake. It'll happen, I tell myself; just not now. A few minutes ago you were
afraid of this very situation. Now you're a little disappointed. Well, at least you
know *you're* ready.

He isn't shaking my hand. He isn't even holding it; he's pulling on it, drawing me
towards him. Puzzled, I follow the unspoken direction and sit up higher. My legs
have to spread a little to accommodate my reduced flexibility, my increased size.
He gently wedges another pillow behind me  . and then his hands grasp the
nightshirt that is bunched up under my breasts, and he silently draws it up over my
shoulders.

He must hear my gasp, because he stops. He looks at me, puzzled and just a little
concerned. "Are you sure?" My questions isn't even a whisper. I don't know how
he could have caught it, except that maybe he can read lips now. Without a word
he kisses me. His mouth envelopes mine, the contact sure and unequivocating. It
doesn't progress far; he evidently has something in mind, and he pulls away before
my tongue can get in on the act. Okay, he's sure. And so am I. I quash those last
few insecure butterflies.

God, this is really going to happen.

He starts at the top. If there's one thing to be said about Fox Mulder, it's that he's
thorough. He kisses my temple, my cheek, countering the pressure of his mouth
with a hand on the opposing side of my face. I'm suddenly starving. I want to feast
on his mouth. I want to feel that warm, wet connection, taste that indefinable
flavor I've craved for so many months. My own hands close around his head and
pin him to me. I kiss him. It's long and deep, not a duel of tongues but a dance.
One of us moans very softly I don't know who. My fingers caress his face as I
make love to his mouth. Prickly beard gives way to soft skin beneath his eyes.
What to do about his nose. I do what I've always done: I tip my head just a little
more, nestle my own beside his ample specimen. His breath is warm and fast on my
cheek, as I'm sure mine is on his. It's a good thing breathing requires no thought,
because at a time like this, my mind is definitely elsewhere.

My hands have made their way around his head, taking my arms with them, and
I'm distantly aware of crushing myself against his warm, bare skin. I can't get him
close enough. I can't get into him far enough. When I feel his hands on my breasts,
it galvanizes me. Funny thing about a pregnant woman's breasts: sensitive does not
begin to describe it. That must make up for the two months when they were so
sore I could barely stand to run water over them. This feels so good, his mouth
and his tongue caressing and loving me, and now his supple fingers playing about
my nipples; I think I could climax just from this.

I don't get a chance to test that theory, and I know I must protest when he breaks
off the kiss. Oh hell, what's to be disappointed about? Without preamble, he dips
his head and takes my left nipple into his mouth. A loud groan escapes me when he
starts to suckle. Thank God he put that extra pillow behind me; my head rolls back
as my eyes close, and my back arches into the gentle suction, not offering but
demanding he take more. He obliges me, and I give another throaty moan as the
suckling increases. God, I'm already so close, it's almost funny.

Without breaking off his work on my breast, he slides a hand down my arm and
gently clasps my hand, which is busy clutching at the bedcovers. Gently he uncurls
my fingers, then slowly guides that hand upward  . to my other breast. I need
little encouragement. We both groan as I caress it, gently kneading the turgid mass
before rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger. Oh God in Heaven, this is
good. I couldn't open my eyes if he asked me to. I'm helpless. It couldn't possibly
get better than this, not without his sprouting another mouth so he could talk to
me as he ministered to my starving flesh.

Oh Jesus, it just got better. I realize why he had me get in on the act as his free
hand glides down my waist to my crotch. My oh-so sexy maternity briefs are pretty
damned damp by now. It doesn't take much encouragement for me to hike my hips
just enough that he can slide them down and off. I swear, I almost come just at his
first tentative touch. Working carefully, never once leaving off his suckling, he
opens me. What he finds evidently makes him gasp a little; that busy tongue stops
its delicious work just long enough to allow him a hushed, "Jesus, Scully." No, it's
safe to say lubrication is not going to be a problem for us. It's a good thing his
penis doesn't have to breathe, because tonight it would probably drown.

I gasp as he slides a finger into me. He's using his left hand, which though he isn't
strictly ambidextrous, is pretty damned talented. In just a few minutes he has me
panting and trying to scream his name. Trying, because I can't get the breath for
volume. Lack of oxygen can be a sweet thing; my orgasm goes on, follows the
rhythm of that deftly-moving hand. When at last my body demands air and a
certain level of consciousness returns to me, I find him watching me. His cheek is
lying on my breast, his smoky eyes locked on my sweaty face. Suddenly I want to
cry. Not out of sorrow or shame or anything remotely negative. I want to cry
because I love him and I've missed him so very much.

He must see it in my expression, because he leans in and kisses me, very tenderly
and very thoroughly. His erection is tenting his boxers, and I see a small damp spot
where seepage has darkened the material. Jesus, he came close to climaxing just
from what he was doing to me. He follows my gaze and smiles. "I told you you're
beautiful," he murmurs.

I want to touch him there, but I'm fairly sure it would strain his already taxed
self-control. "It's the company I keep," I whisper, stroking his cheek. He closes his
eyes and presses himself into my hand. It only lasts for a minute. "How're we going
to do this?" I ask.

He looks at me again, and I see that sweet, familiar glimmer in his gray-green eyes.
"Do what?" he asks.

Shit, he's going to make me work for it. Well, that's fine by me. Gotta do
something about that smugness, though. Carefully I stroke him through that single
barrier of clothing and am rewarded with the tiny jerk in his body, the slightest
quaver in his expression, and the smirk disappears. Oo, his self-control really is
being maxed out. This probably isn't going to last long at all. I'm not worried; he's
rarely ever left me wanting. "Well, we've both studied the logistics. As much as I
want to, I can't take you on top right now." I trail a fingertip down his chest and
smile when he shivers. "How 'bout it, G-man? Wanna get inventive?"

He shakes his head as he kicks off his shorts. "No. I know just how I want to do
this." I start to protest when he takes up a position between my knees, but he holds
up a hand to stop me. "Scully. Trust me."

Gently he grasps my knees, and I readily make way for him. I can't see what he
sees, of course, not with the white balloon of my belly between us. I watch his
expression instead. His eyes are intent as his hands trail down my abdomen. A
slight frown draws his brows together, and he unconsciously licks his lower lip.
Then I feel him. A slight up-and-down movement to prepare me, and then the
slow-motion lunge of entry.

I can't move. I can't breathe. I can't think beyond how good it feels. This second
orgasm is fleeting, but no less satisfying than its predecessor. I become aware of
him, all but motionless above me. His expression is tortured, and he's biting on his
lip so hard, I'm surprised I don't see blood well up around his teeth. A low groan
escapes him as he snaps his head from side to side. "What is it?" I manage to ask.

He grimaces. "Gonna come," he rasps. "Ah, dammit, I'm coming  ."

I close my eyes and hold my breath, concentrate on what I feel. His pelvis gives the
slightest of thrusts, so slight I'm barely aware of it. His groan starts low in his chest
and echoes out of him, low and mournful. Then I feel the warm slickness as his
secretions join mine. I look at him again. His expression is breathtaking. Joyful.
Agonized. Sweat is beading on his forehead, and as I watch, two pearls meet, join,
and flow down his temple. He's still grimacing, but he's moving now, and before
I'm fully aware of his intention, he's driving into me, his body either still hard or
hard again. We're too lubricated to get much benefit from friction, but I don't care.
I certainly am not about to suggest we stop long enough to do anything about it.

His eyes burn into mine. He's panting now. He's gripping my knees, grinding them
into his belly. "Touch  . your  . breasts  ." he grunts in time to his strokes.

I eagerly comply. His size and cadence, and the knowledge that he's already come
once in me and is about to again, join with the sensations from my own
ministrations, and before I know it, *I'm* coming. Again. My back arches, lifting
me straight off the bed. Oh God .Oh God  . Oh God  . Am I chanting those
words aloud? I can't tell. Jesus God, he feels so good in me, so good so good so
good  . I hear a scream rip out of me, and then I'm falling. I can't move. He's still
pounding into me, his eyes locked with mine. His lips are working, framing words
I don't have to hear to comprehend. <Love you. Love you. Love you!> Then his
eyes cloud over again and his face screws up hard in a tormented grimace. "Ugh
Gaaauuud!" It's drawn out of him slowly, this sound that I love, encompassing the
length of his orgasm. His voice catches and then trails off. Testicles drained of
fluid, body stripped of energy and even the will to move, he somehow hangs there,
suspended. Then, so slowly it hurts to watch him, he withdraws from my body and
slumps to the side, catching his weight on his arm and collapsing beside me. His
chest is heaving, and I can see the artery in his throat dance with his throbbing
pulse. Sweat is running in rivulets into his hair and pooling in the notch between
his collarbones. His eyes are closed.

For a while he's motionless except for that panting, expressionless except for that
exhaustion. Then his face twists up again, and to my surprise, he begins to cry.
There are no loud, histrionic wails; just a few sniffling sobs as he gathers himself
around me and buries his face in my hair. My hair, where this night of passion
started. I make small, comforting sounds to him as my hands stroke up and down
his body. His tears don't shock me. I know how emotional my partner can be. I
understand the feelings that such intense sex can generate. Hell, I'm fighting the
urge to cry myself. It just isn't us to both weep together.

At last the catharsis is over. He draws a quivering sigh as he begins to rock me.
For a moment we're both silent as we absorb this old-new tenderness. I smile as I
kiss away the last of his tears.

After a moment I feel his body quiver again, but I know what it is now. How like
him, with his mercurial emotions, to go from tears to laughter in a handful of
seconds. The delicious sounds roll out of him, and before long they prove to be
infectious. Soon we're both laughing, and I haven't the faintest idea why.

He must see the questions in my eyes. Hell, maybe he really is psychic. Sometimes
I wonder. "I'm not sure," he murmured, dragging his thumb over my lower lip,
"but I think I might have just gotten you pregnant."

I kiss the pad of that thumb, then sigh as I settle my head on his shoulder. "Mmm,
that'll be one for the science journals."

We're quiet for a while, and I wonder if he's begun to doze already. And much as
I'd like to join him, the commotion of our lovemaking has awakened someone who
is currently and enthusiastically doing the rumba on my bladder. Damn. Carefully I
lift my head and prepare to roll away.

His eyes are open. He's staring at the ceiling. His arm tightens around me and
holds me against him when I try to move. "Scully," he whispers, pressing a kiss
into my hair.

I allow myself to melt back into him. "Yeah."

Another kiss, this one on my forehead. Then I hear him smile. "Don't tell anyone,"
he breathes, "but I'm back."


~~~~~
end