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amplifyme · 1 year

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Gimme Shelter

The X-Files. MSR, Angst, UST to RST, Paper Clip. Rating: Mature. WC: 3114. Read on AO3.

Tagging @today-in-fic

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They hide out in the woods behind the Strughold mine until the hit squad finally gives up and leaves in a great cloud of dust and skidding tires. A brief conversation follows, and they both agree that going back for the car would be a mistake. Mulder hadn’t stopped moving long enough to count their number when they’d piled out of their black vehicles with rifles in hand, and he figures they might have left one or two assassins behind. They aren’t willing to risk becoming easy pickings just for the convenience of four wheels and a quicker escape. Instead, they hike east until they come to the rural two-lane blacktop that’d brought them to the mine hours earlier.

Luck is on their side, and not long after he sticks his thumb out, an older man in an even more antiquated pickup truck pulls over and waves them into the cab. Mulder takes the middle seat, a lanky, odorous, high-strung wall between Scully and whatever danger the driver might pose. He makes small talk with the guy and surreptitiously hands over his wallet to her. Scully twists and gives the two men her back long enough to hide what she’s doing and soon after whispers the results to him as a tinny Your Cheating Heart floats from the radio speakers, providing more cover for her words.

Between them they have seventy-four dollars and five credit cards they can’t risk using. They are fugitives with one useless badge, no authority, a couple cellphones short of a pair, two guns, and a bad case of shellshock. They’re both out of their minds, albeit temporarily, and neither of them are truly aware of it. At least not on any level that might make a difference.

The old man drops them off in front of a broken down ten-room motel on Route 320A just outside Craiger, Maryland. There’s an open diner a short jog down the road and Mulder heads that way with a twenty in hand while Scully secures a room. He returns with sandwiches and sodas and finds her standing in front of the door of #7, illuminated by a bare bulb above her head, swatting at the moths that flitter around her, drawn there by the light.

“We good?” he asks as she wheels and opens the door. Mulder follows her across the threshold, and she locks and chains them in before flipping the light switch.

“I’m not sure. Let’s see what thirty-five bucks gets us first.”

They stand side by side and inspect the cramped room and its contents, decorated in varying shades of shit-brown: a double bed and single nightstand, the tiny round table and lone chair. A small older model TV sits on a narrow dresser across from the bed.

“You think they have the History Channel?”

Scully chuffs under her breath. “I’m surprised there’s even a TV. Although…” She crosses in front of him and pushes open the door of what is hopefully a usable bathroom. She toggles the wall switch and light bounces off the mirror over the sink and illuminates a swatch of brown carpeting, bisected by wood molding marking the transition between it and the tile of the bathroom floor.

Mulder does a slow inspection of the small perimeter of the room, toeing at the baseboards and checking the corners where the walls meet the ceiling. “No sign of roaches that I can see,” he reports.

“The bathroom is clean,” she announces with relief. “Needs a serious update, but it’s clean.”

Their eyes meet, brows lifting in mirrored expressions. It’s no worse than some of the places they’ve stayed. He’ll take the floor and let Scully have the bed. “Ham and cheese,” he says, lifting the bag in his hand. “I got you wheat bread.”

She crosses in front of him again, this time carelessly swiping her hand down his arm before she settles on the edge of the lonely chair at the table. He empties the bag and divvies up the contents as she studies the toes of her boots.

“What are we going to do, Mulder?”

“I dunno,” he admits. He reaches across the table and yanks the curtains closed. “Eat. Try to get some sleep, maybe. We have to call Skinner at some point.”

“Yes. I need to know about Missy.” The sandwich she’s unwrapping is pushed away. Instead, she picks at the corners of the paper enclosing their straws, gets them free, and then decisively jams them into the lids of the soda cups.

“I’m sorry about your sister, Scully.” He drops on the foot of the bed and scrapes at a smear of drying mud on his jeans with the edge of a thumbnail. When he raises his eyes, hers are already there waiting for him.

“She’s going to be okay, Mulder. She has to be.”

He agrees with a sharp nod, even though he isn’t sure she’s right. He’d done all he could and had made the call as they’d left the Gunman’s. If Albert Hosteen could bring him back from the brink of death, maybe he could do something for Melissa, too.

He takes to his feet and tries to gather his thoughts as he paces the small room. It doesn’t do him any good, and he squeezes his eyes shut as the image of his father, bloody and still on the bathroom floor, comes into focus and he rapidly blinks it away.

“Why was my name on that file first?” he asks the heavy silence. “What did we find in that mine, Scully? And my father… what part did he play in all this?”

“I don’t know, Mulder, and right now I can’t even process the information rationally enough to make any sense of it. I just can’t.”

This is a rare confession from her, and it knocks him even more off-kilter. “Let me call Skinner,” he abruptly offers, moving toward the nightstand and the old-fashioned black dial phone. But she stops him before he gets there.

“No! No, just… In the morning, Mulder. We’ll call him in the morning. We need to… I need to sleep. I’m no good right now. Neither of us are. Let’s just regroup and start over tomorrow.”

He doesn’t know why the pendulum’s swung from the urgent need to know about her sister to firmly declaring she’ll think about it tomorrow, like some modern-day Scarlett O’Hara. But it’s easier to just go with it than question it. Easy is good right now. Easier than thought.

“Okay. We’ll call him in the morning.” He takes another look around the room, his hands spasmodically fisting at his sides and notes their uneaten sandwiches, raises an arm and sniffs himself, glancing at the narrow band of light from the bathroom. He wheels back to her. “What’s the date?”

“What?” She peers up at him, confused.

“The date, Scully. What’s today’s date?” He’s already working open the buttons on his shirt.

“Um, the twenty-fourth.” She glances at her watch. “Very soon to be the twenty-fifth. Why?”

“Almost five days then. I’m good,” he mutters and looks over to find her staring at him. He pulls off the shirt and tosses it to the floor. “I gotta wash off this stink. It’s safe to do it now.”

“Safe?” she echoes. And then her eyes settle on his torso. “Mulder, your shoulder.”

He tucks his chin, trying to see what’s alarmed her. Oh. Of course: the puckered and pink place where she shot him. He’s conscious now of the dull ache and his shoulder lifts in sympathy of her awareness, tucking his arm closer to his body. “It’s okay,” he tells her, but she’s on her feet and standing in front of him before he knows it.

“Let me see,” she urges, laying her hands on him and probing the skin around the healing entry wound. He winces and she whispers a terse apology but keeps poking at him anyway. He’s about to tell her to knock it off when she steps behind him to check the corresponding exit wound high on his back, taking her time doing this, too.

He’s used to it, to Scully doing her doctor thing on him when it’s necessary. Most of the time he doesn’t even think about it. But this time it feels different. The sensation of her hands against him is weightier somehow. Charged, he realizes; like tiny little lightning bolts where she touches him. The words leave him sluggishly: “You do good work, Scully.”

She’s still behind him, lingering there. He wonders what the hell is going on with her but can’t bring himself to ask. And then one palm deliberately smooths down his spine and he can’t help but flex against it. He’s like a cat arching its back in pleasure when it meets a human with an especially adept hand at petting. She is his human, and he’s certain he’s going to come right out of his skin if she keeps this up. He can almost hear the crackling of the sparks arcing between them.

“Scully,” he murmurs when the tips of her fingers briefly slide beneath the waistband of his jeans and her knuckles brush the small of his back. He isn’t certain if her name is a question or a plea. But she’s so close and she’s quivering just the same as him. And then, as if suddenly coming to her senses, the gossamer thread between them snaps as she steps away and shows him her back, crossing her arms protectively over her chest.

“You’re right, Mulder,” she eventually offers. Her words are ragged and breathy. “You definitely need a shower.”

He nods at the back of her head and pushes out the air he’s held too long in his lungs. “Say no more. I’ll get right on it.”

He toes off his boots and makes for the bathroom. He’s soon naked and standing before the showerhead, waiting for the water to get hot enough to do some good. He idly takes himself in hand; he’s half-hard from what’s just happened. It’s not like he’s never thought about fucking her before, because he has. But he’s a pro at gulping down his feelings; adroit at deflecting his desires onto the safer celluloid women who live in his VCR and won’t judge him and find him lacking in some essential way. He doesn’t want to disappoint Scully or chance scaring her off with the depth of his feelings. Because if he does, she might leave him. He knows now that he won’t survive that, not a second time, and especially not if it’s a choice she makes. It’s not worth the risk just to indulge whatever this attraction is that thrums between them.

And yet… And yet he isn’t at all surprised when she steps into the shower behind him as he’s rinsing off a thick lather of soap. She wraps her arms around his waist and presses close, as naked as he is. She turns her face into his back, and he almost doesn’t hear her over the sound of the shower.

“Just this once,” she tells him. “It doesn’t mean anything more than this. It’s just –“

He turns in her arms and shuts her up the only way he knows how. He doesn’t need her rationalizations or excuses. He needs her. And for once, she seems to need him right back.

They’re not long in the shower. They won’t hazard the possibility of damage from a slip or fall, and neither seem to possess the brain power necessary to navigate sex in such a setting. Soon he’s backing her out of the bathroom soaking wet, tongues busy in each other’s mouths, and onto the mattress he quickly strips of its suspect bedspread.

She is a revelation nearly too enormous to comprehend, once he stops long enough to take in full sight of her naked beneath him, grasping at him with a hunger he never expected but which is so very welcome. She’s much smaller out of her clothes, compact and lithe with her marvelous breasts capped by taut strawberry nipples, and her lean, almost boyish hips.

He’s thought about this, too. About the specifics, if they were ever to do this thing. He’s promised himself that he’ll pay attention to everything, he won’t forget a second of it. He’s also imagined moments when time will slow down, and they’ll move through this occasion languidly and with great tenderness. Because he loves her and wants her to know it.

In reality he can’t seem to focus on anything long enough to make it indelible. Scully won’t let him. This is frantic and messy, and she clearly wants to be in charge. He feels like she’s dragging him through a fun house of utter decadence, her heels dug-in against his resistance to rush things. He wants to stop and look around. She wants to do everything all at once. But her everything feels spectacular, and it’s fitting somehow that this is how they come together. So he finally, and with great pleasure, lets her drag him where she may.

There are two things he is certain he will remember for all time, even if the rest of it fades into murky recollection. The first is looking down his body in disbelief as she takes him in her mouth, those juicy wet coral lips wrapped around him and the lascivious sparkle in her eyes as she peers up at him, triumphant. The second is the instant when she lowers that last inch atop him and sheaths him completely inside of her. He’s never felt anything quite like it. And now is when she decides to slow down. Now she studies his face intently as she leisurely rides him, rocking slow and deep. And now is when he decides he can’t abide this tenderness he’d thought he wanted. Now he has to drive things forward. It’s his turn to drag her through the fun house. Because if he doesn’t do it right now, he will surely come apart at the seams. He’s seconds away from losing his fucking mind.

Using his size and strength he effortlessly flips her over and presses her into the mattress. He reaches back and grabs her ankles, bends her nearly in half, and pounds into her as he grips her behind the knees, her heels digging into his collarbones. He doesn’t care that the bullet hole in his left shoulder screams in protest; it only adds another layer of vivid awareness to this extraordinary thing they’re doing. Scully is alive and electric beneath him, scrabbling with sharp nails, her head tossing against the threadbare sheet, grunts of pleasure forced from that perfect, perfect mouth of hers with every thrust of his hips. She drops a hand to her belly and slides it down to where they’re joined and comes not long after, her body drawing tight for endless moments, and he’s there now too, just behind her. He squeezes his eyes tight and relinquishes everything he is right back to her. Eventually he lowers her legs and drops down onto his forearms, burying his face in her neck and gasping for breath.

They’re both sticky with sweat and other assorted bodily fluids and he knows he should move off of her, give them both some air. But when he shifts, her legs come up and wrap high around his thighs, anchoring him to her. He sinks back down, brushing the tangled hair from her face and peppering it with tentative kisses. He’s not sure how much longer his arms can hold him; he’s shaky in the aftermath of their frenzied union. But he’s not going to leave her. This next move will have to be hers.

Mulder lifts his forehead from the curve of her shoulder a few minutes later to check on her, hoping to find her looking as joyous as he feels. In what doesn’t come as a huge surprise, he instead discovers that she’s fallen asleep. He smiles down at her relaxed features and gently eases her legs straight. He rolls away from her and stares up at the water-stained ceiling until his eyelids grow heavy and he lets them slip shut. Maybe if he’s stealthy enough, he can sneak up on sleep and let it have its way with him. But it seems that not even transformative sex with his beloved partner and friend can stave off insomnia, and he’s on his feet less than an hour later. After its short vacation, his mind is spinning again, tumultuous with unanswered questions both recent and very, very new. He manages to ease the sheet and blanket from under Scully’s legs and covers her to the neck. She whimpers softly in her sleep and rolls over on her side. He heads back to the bathroom for a second and far less remarkable shower.

Getting back into his smelly clothes is out of the question tonight. So after Mulder dries off, he wraps himself in the discarded bedspread and switches on the TV, turning the volume dial all the way down. Out goes the overhead light and he settles in the chair, cocooned in scratchy polyester that smells of cheap detergent and cigarette smoke. He watches Scully sleep and wonders what will happen now. If they’re acting at all true to form, they won’t talk about what’s happened here, no matter how monumental it may be. He is too afraid. And Scully… well, he suspects she has her own fears. Not for the first time, he acknowledges that they’re both deeply damaged. But they’re also so very good together. He has a hard time remembering what his life was like before she came into it. He can’t begin to imagine what it would be like without her.

He finishes the job she started earlier and unwraps his sandwich, finally eating his simple dinner. He mindlessly chews bites of ham and cheese and rubs at his gums and the roof of his mouth with a finger, cleaning the places where the sticky white bread latches on, washing it all down with contemplative sips of watered-down Coke.

It’s up to her, he decides. Whatever happens next lies in her hands. He’ll follow her lead in this, as difficult as that might prove to be. He won’t risk losing her. There are very few moments of tonight’s events that he recalls in any real detail, but the ones he does will be neatly tucked away, something secret and unspeakable. And maybe they’ll be enough to sustain him. Maybe.

“Just this once,” he repeats her edict quietly. And he desperately hopes he can learn to live with that.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Notes:

I’ve wanted to write this little tale for a very long time, as a sort of companion piece to Apocalyptic Poet, where I posited that Mulder and Scully were occasional lovers and their first time had taken place during the episode Paper Clip. I’m not completely happy with how this turned out, but it is what it is. They can’t all be homeruns.

This fic has no connection to the Rollings Stones song of the same name other than the muse saying, “Yes, this shall be the title. No, I don’t care what you think. Do you want this written or not?” Yeah, she’s still being an uncooperative bitch.

Things the muse tolerated this time: ~ Whatever is in the blend of tea my brother put together for me. It smells lovely and tastes just as good, especially on these chilly afternoons. ~ Homemade split pea soup. No, don’t tell me you don’t like it; you’ve never tasted mine. I am the Soup Queen of the Midwest™ and this stuff will change your life. ~ The playlist my good friend SmallestGrackle compiled for their unfinished ASOIAF fanfic, Kindred. It still transports me to a whole ‘nother level of sensory perception. Congrats on marrying the love of your life earlier this fall! Blessings to you both. ❤️ ~ All my fellow Tumblr dwellers. Thanks for keeping my dash so interesting. ~ Mindy’s edible gummies. The Honey Melon flavor is *chef’s kiss* perfection. ~ David Duchovny’s appearance on the Drew Barrymore Show not long ago. Sometimes I wonder if my decades-long obsession with this man is misguided. But it’s not. He continues to enchant me every single time he opens his mouth. ~ The Holy Trinity: water, wine, coffee.

Till next time…

#x-files fanfic #msr #gimme shelter #mine

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