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before the knock at the door

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Unsure how long she had lain awake, but confident that he was asleep, she slipped herself out of his grip. And it was a grip he had on her; literally, figuratively… desperately.

Stirring, he did not wake so she wiggled to the edge of his bed, tried not to dip the mattress too much before rising. Standing in his dim room, mottled moonlight raking through the blinds, she took a moment to steel herself.

It had been a crazy day. And the fact that autopsying Mulder’s mother had not been the oddest thing was the strangest thing of all. 

Looking down at him, the furrow of worry had eased from his brow. Long lazy breathes, telling of sleep, or that he had passed out from emotional exhaustion. He looked peaceful, belying the night he had had. The night they had had. Reaching over him, Scully pulled the covers up, drawing them over his semi-naked form.

Surveying the dark room, his clothes were in a heap on the floor by the bed, hers neatly draped over a chair. Biting her lip, she gathered her things—her clothes and underwear, her shoes, her self. One more glance at him, and she disappeared into his bathroom, closed the door.

Studying her reflection, she wondered briefly how they had gotten there. Shaking her head, she tried to loosen the memories that rushed across her prefrontal cortex like a strobe. What had they done? What had she let happen? Taking a steadying breath, she located and damped a washcloth, and began to wipe his cum off her abdomen.


He had shattered apart, earlier. Crumpled beneath great waves of helpless sobbing. And Scully had caught him; as she did. Caught him and tended to him. Allowed him to take comfort in her breast. He had burrowed into her, nipped and sucked at her, over her shirt, in desperation. And she let him. Offered herself to him. Cherished that she could. Relaxed too, when he had begun to calm with her nipple in his mouth. Eventually, he fell into sleep like that, the two of them stretched down his couch, him nestled into her bosom. She had followed him into slumber, for a brief spell. Until—

—Loud footfall woke her, Mulder’s heavy pacing. 

“I’m a terrible son,” he had said, raw and forlorn. Newly orphaned, if in fact a grown man could be classified as such. Indeed, the last of the forsaken four. There was no one left, but him. Scully knew what it was to lose loved ones, and the painful ghosts of regret, that gathered in wait. Her heart ached for him. Broke with his.

“She must’ve had the most awful life,” he choked, through tears. “I’m the worst son in the world…” he gulped a breath and looked like he was trying to speak some more, but no further discernable word emerged. 

“You’re not, Mulder,” she had told him, before correcting herself, changing the tense, “you weren’t. You were a wonderful son. You are… wonderful,” she implored, grabbing at his hand and pulling him to her.

“Scully, you should go,” he said, all at once, standing and beginning to pace the room again. “I told you so before, go, save yourself. I’m no good for you or anyone. I’m poisonous. My fucking crusade, Scully—” his voice ceased, caught there, around her name.

Collapsing in on himself, Scully was suddenly there, holding him on his way down.

“—what they did to you,” he lamented. Painfully.

“I won't leave Mulder. I’m not going anywhere, okay? I promise,” she assured him, fiercely. Standing, pulling him with her, she led him to his bedroom, her small frame holding him. Holding so much.

Once by his bed, still holding one of his hands in hers, she stood before him. “You need to get some rest,” she implored, though he didn’t move, just blinked down at her, despondent. Stepping closer into him, she held his cheek. “Get undressed, hop into bed, okay.” Blinked again. Scully began unbuttoning his jeans, looked up at him and nodded encouragement. Leaving him to finish the task, she pulled back the bedspread and smoothed the sheets.

He undressed the rest of the way, and she watched him, leaving him in his boxer briefs. Guided him then, to lie down, she sat by him on the edge of the bed. Stroked his hairline and gently swiped his cheeks dry. Pressing her lips to his forehead, she left them there and urged, “please get some sleep.”

Giving him a melancholic smile, she stood, turned to leave, but he caught her hand. Brow crinkled, she glanced down at the grasp he had on her, then focused on his features, painted in desperation.

“Stay,” he pleaded, swallowing hard, biting his lip.

He was not okay.

He was not okay, and she was pleased that she could be there for him; a dichotomy of notions that unsettled her.


Closing her eyes, she took a breath.

He had had a rough few days, and she was wildly concerned, worried what the next few days might bring. The case of the missing girl was ongoing and Scully knew advising Mulder to walk away and let other the agents take over would be in vain. 

Okay. And she exhaled.

“T-shirts?” she questioned, and Mulder nodded to a drawer. Striping to change, Scully was acutely aware that he was looking, perhaps her subconscious attempting to make him feel at ease. Exposing herself too. 

Stretching down beside him, he immediately moved lower down the mattress, resting his head her bicep, pressed his face against her chest. Scully exhaled, let thought and reason seep from her mind and her love and care for him overtake her. She drew up the covers, and wrapped her arms around him, pulled him close as he cuddled to her breast. His body began to let go, slacken, relax, breath long and deep, and she found herself slip away after him. Until—

—Awoken again, this time by touch. Tender hands running up and down her back, under the T-shirt of his she wore. Caressing her arse, his fingertips venturing inside her briefs. Finding herself responding to him, her pelvis tilted into him; muscles loosening, body lubricating. Opening her eyes, she met his—seeking. Blinking at him, she cupped his cheek, swiped the pad of her thumb over his lips. He took his invitation, traced the lines of her; the violin curve of her waist, the bumped ridged of her ribs, the gentle swell of her breasts, the sweep of her shoulder to her neck. Coaxing him, she ran her fingers through his hair.

He tugged at his oversized shirt, that she was wearing, and she let him take it off her, then settled back down, supine. And then ... he ravaged her. Hovered over her, hands pinning her shoulders to the bed, and he kissed her all over. Her neck, her chest, her breasts, taking her nipples, one and then the other, into his mouth. Sucking and nipping. Continuing over her stomach, her hips. Pulling at her briefs, he dragged them from her roughly, throwing them to the floor. Then he shoved her legs apart, settled between them. Held his lips to her inner thigh, licking her there. She had no time to contemplate what was happening, overcome with arousal. Letting her knees drop further opened, his hands enveloped her waist, and he hauled her down the bed to him, pulled himself to her and his tongue was there, invading her slit. Licking and flicking. Lips wrapped around her clit, he sucked it and rolled his tongue over her. Swiping over her, darting inside her, over and again. Lapping and tasting and moaning. In a fever. Relentless. She could feel herself clutching, pulsing, building to peak. 

“Oh, my…” she panted, seizing his hair, “oh my God.”

Jerking her head back, an orgasm tore her apart, shuddered and shook her, as he continued to urge her through her frenzy with his tongue. 

In an instant, he was next to her, laying on his side. Holding her, he rolled her into him, and his face was at her breast, again—as aftershocks pulsed through her. Opening his jaw, and he took her into his mouth. His hot tongue circling, teeth biting down, and then his lips surround her as he suckled. Licked her, played with her nipple in his teeth.

Scully was still riding her pleasure when she saw him shove his hand down his pants, his waistband pushed down, his hand emerging with his glistening erection in his fist. Releasing her, he licked his palm and returned his hand to his cock. Frantically began to pump, his mouth returning to her other breast.

Scully reached down. Brushed the back of his hand, moved to help. Wanted to touch him. He shook his head, tugging on her nipple as he did so. Pushed her hand away—ceasing her, before continuing to pull, furiously.

A million things ran through her mind, coursed through her body as Mulder jacked himself off with her tit in his mouth, eyes clamped shut. Scully thought, perhaps crying.

He came hard and fast, spurted hot cum over her, sobbed and keened.

When he was done, he wrapped his arms around her and cried, Scully, cooing and stroking his hair, helping into slumber.  


Tiptoeing out of the bathroom, dressed in yesterday’s clothes, she took one final look at him before closing his bedroom door. She sat out in his living room in the cool blue of first light. Exhausted, she curled up on her side, allowed herself some rest. Until—

—Rapping on the door woke her. 

Heart beating, she stepped into her shoes and hastened to the door. It was Skinner, with news about the case. Scully wondered vaguely if he would know. Would see something in her face, in the scent of sex and desperation in the air. She didn’t invite him in, stood protectively in the doorway, wanting Mulder to have more sleep. Wanting Mulder to stay cocooned in his apartment with her. Wanting him to forget the case, the missing girl. Forget the missing girl. But she knew Skinner had come to fetch him—the Bureau’s Whipping Boy, to Golden Boy, when they needed him.

Mulder spoke even before she knew he was there behind her. Dressed, also in yesterday’s clothes. She knew they must have been a sight for Skinner. That he must suspect. She didn’t care and told him to book her a flight too. She wasn’t going to let Mulder out of her sight.