From: "Jenna" Date: Sat, 25 Dec 1999 23:29:16 -0700 Subject: Heat by Brownie Source: revision TITLE: Heat AUTHOR: Jenna Tooms EMAIL: jenna@exeter.simplenet.com RATING: NC-17 CATEGORY: story, romance, humor SPOILERS: Detour, Home, Christmas Carol, Emily KEYWORD: MSR SUMMARY: One hot night. One bucket of ice. Our intrepid duo. DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Not mine. Not mine. It's hot. Clothes sticking to my skin, sweat running in rivers down my sides, so hot it's giving me a headache hot. So hot all I want is a cold bath or a swim or to get locked in a nice icehouse. Mmm, ice sounds good. All I can hope is that once the sun goes down it will cool down some, but I'm not counting on it. They say dry heat is easier to bear then humid heat, but hot is hot, folks, and right now I'm hot. I've closed the blinds on my window and so have a little relief. The air conditioning is banging and rattling away, putting out musty, lukewarm air. I hope it will cool down eventually. For once our hotel has a pool, but I'm not allowing a toe in that green-tinged sludgy disease-breeding cesspool. Haven't they ever heard of chlorine? I'd sooner swim in a sewage tank. Mulder is in the next room. I can hear him through the thin walls. Our TVs also pick up FM radio, and he's singing along to the music: "Why are you alone wasting your time, when you could be with me wasting your time? Well I'm always like you, with nothing else to do, may I waste your time too?" I can imagine him playing air guitar, wearing only his jeans . . . ooh, best not to go there. We've spent the last two days in the canyons outside this little town, chasing a kidnapper who'd taken a six-year-old boy right from his front yard. The kidnapper is now in custody, and the boy is safe at home. Mulder and I got involved because the boy's four-year-old sister seemed to be, well, channeling the kidnapper somehow. It was right up Mulder's alley. It was one of our rare cases that ended well, and Mulder is in a good mood. I wish I could be too, but it's too hot. In the summer the sun doesn't set here until nearly ten o'clock, and though it's now only nine I've put on my summer pajamas in an effort to cool off. They're cotton shorts and top with spaghetti straps, simple and cool like pj's should be. They're pink. There's a tiny rosette in the point of the vee on the top. They're terribly girly and I know it, but they're so comfortable I don't care. If anybody comes around I'll put on a shirt. Then again, it's so hot, maybe I won't. I'm sitting cross-legged on the bed with my laptop, appropriately enough, on my lap, typing my report, when Mulder raps on the door that joins our rooms. "Hey, Scully, wanna go swiming?" "No, and I wouldn't recommend you go either. That pool is a health hazard." "What're you doing?" "Writing my report." I've put on so much sunblock in the last two days I reek of coconut oil. Maybe a bath will help, though the tub is questionably clean and the last time I used it, our first morning here, the water from the shower head was suspiciously rust-colored, and its flow is almost uneffecively weak. "Maybe we could go to the community pool. It's only a couple blocks away, I saw the sign this morning." "I'm sure it's closed by now." "Aww, you're no fun anymore," Mulder says, and I hear him retreat from the door. If he wants to swim he's welcome to swim, I am not in the mood. The fact that I didn't bring a swimsuit is not something I care to mention just now. Though if he makes a joke about skinny-dipping, I wonder what he would do if I actually took him up on it. Sometimes I think he jokes about sex because I don't take him seriously. I wonder how fast that would change if I did. I continue typing and I soon hear Mulder singing again. I like to hear him sing, he doesn't do it often, it means he's feeling relaxed and safe. I sang to him once, because he asked me to and I didn't want him to see how afraid I was. He hasn't asked me since, though I suspect if the situation arises--lost in the woods, him in shock and me shaking with worry and fear--he might ask me again. And I just might do it. All at once my air conditioner makes a sound like a car hitting a highway divider and dies. I swear--I can, I do it on occaision--and put my laptop aside to see what I can do about it. Repeated banging gets nothing but a weak gurgle. Opening the window brings in only noise from the highway and hot, stale air. Maybe if I soak the sheets in cold water . . . There is no way I can get through this night. I shut down my computer and sit in front of the window, fanning myself with my notebook and wondering why people live in places like this. My ancestors lived in bogs. I was meant to live in a land of perpetual rainfall. Who deliberately lives in the desert? My thoughts grow more and more rebellious as I fan myself, which does little more than stir my hair. I want to go home. It's a long drive, almost six hours, to the nearest airport, which is why we are staying an extra night, but all I want now is my peaceful, clean- smelling, air-conditioned apartment. And Mulder is still singing. He raps on my door again. "Scully? Are you decent?" "Sure," I say and he opens the door and stops, his hand still on the knob. Okay, I'm sweaty, I'm flushed, I smell like sour coconuts, and he still has the audacity to stare. "What's up?" I say, just to get him moving again. Plus he's still fully dressed, James Deanish in a white t-shirt and jeans. "Oh--I thought maybe ice cream would be a good idea, but if you're ready for bed--" "My air conditoner died," I tell him. His mouth moues in sympathy and he bangs on the unit, getting the same results I did. "Well. The only thing I can think of is leaving the door open and maybe some air from mine will come in here." "You don't mind?" "Not at all. What if I brought you some ice cream, too?" "It'll keep me up all night. Thanks, though." He stands there for a moment, looking at me, his eyes unreadable. His eyes make me think of autumn leaves, golden and brown and green at once. He sighs abruptly and goes back to his room, tossing me a "'Night, Scully," over his shoulder. He leaves the adjoining door open. I hear him leave in a few minutes, on the hunt for ice cream. I pull back the sheets on the bed and try to find a place to lie down where I get the draft of his air conditioner. The only place is the very edge, at the foot, and the air mostly just brushes the top of my head. But it's something, and soon I'm dozing, though I think more than once I should have taken Mulder up on his offer of ice cream. The slam of a door wakes me, startling me so much I fall off the bed with an "Oof!" "Scully?" He's there at once, the grocery bag in one hand and his gun in the other. I scramble to my feet. "I'm okay. I'm not getting much air." He shakes his head a little and put his gun into the holster. "Come and sleep in my room, Scully." "Don't be silly--" "I think you're the one being silly. It's hot, I've got air conditioning, and otherwise you'll be cranky all tomorrow." He holds up the grocery bag. "Rocky road," he croons, swaying it temptingly. Oh, hell. I make sure my room door is locked and follow him into his room. He turns on the TV and gets out the gallon carton of ice cream and a box of plastic spoons from the bag. We sit down on the bed--the table is covered with his notes, an open bag of sunflower seeds, and, inexplicably, some folded dress shirts. We settle back against the headboard, watching a rerun of The Andy Griffith Show--which reminds me, rather sadly, of poor, murdered Sheriff Taylor of Home, Pennsylvania--and eat the ice cream in companionable silence, straight from the carton. Soon his bites are farther and farther between. He puts the spoon down and leans his head against my arm. Unbelievably, soon he is asleep, his right hand resting lightly on the center of his chest, his left lightly brushing against my leg. I extricate myself from him carefully, trying not to wake him, and put the ice cream in the bathroom sink after filling it with cold water. I go back to the bed. He has chivalrously given me the side nearest the air conditioner, and when I lie down he moves closer to me, rolling onto his side. I watch him for a while, waiting for sleep to come again, and I think he looks like a child when he sleeps, like the troubles that plague him are erased or forgotten or nonexistent. I think of my nephew's favorite movie and the song Farmer Hoggett sings to the pig, and I wonder if Mulder would laugh if he knew I associate that song with him. "If I had words to build a day for you/I'd build you a morning shining and new . . ." Something like that. I lean my head against his and soon am sleeping . . . Only to be woken up by the same death rattle from his air conditioner that previously came from mine. "Did a plane crash?" Mulder says sleepily, turns on the light and gets up to see what he can do to repair it. The air conditioner is stubborn, however, and only gasps a few times before quitting entirely with a depressed thunk. Mulder kneels by the unit and says simply, "Son of a bitch." "Well, it was good while it lasted," I say with a sigh. "We're not beaten yet, Scully." He opens the window and just as quickly shuts it. It's as hot out there as it is in here, and the only wind seems be coming in from the desert. "Yes, we are." I sit on the edge of the bed for a moment, then stand. As nice as it would be to stay, it's better to go. "Good night, Mulder." "Are you going back to your room?" "We'll just make each other hotter if I stay." Good lord. Did I just say that? Obviously I did, because he gets that grin that says he's thinking things he'll only share if I ask really nicely. "No, stay, I've got an idea," he says, and quickly stands, grabs the ice bucket, and leaves the room. He's gone only for a few minutes, and when he returns the ice bucket is full. I'm intrigued. "Do you have a blender hidden in here somewhere?" "Not even remotely. Lie down." I do so gingerly. He puts the bucket on the table and takes out one cube. He kicks off his shoes and turns off the lamp. He kneels at the foot of the bed and slowly rubs the ice cube over the sole of my foot. After the initial shock of the cold, it feels good. Really good. He rubs the entire cube over my foot until it melts, then gets another and does the same to my other foot. Next are my hands, then my arms. I'm cooling down nicely. His movements are slow, circular, and he's humming something, I think it's the same song he sang earlier, soft "da da dum"s coming from him like it's part of a ritual as he rubs ice cubes over my legs, my shoulders, my belly. Finally he takes an ice cube to my face, rubbing one side of it slowly over my forehead, tracing my hairline, down my nose, over my eyes, around my cheeks and chin, and then he poises the cube over my lips and a drop of water falls from the cube into my mouth. I am incredibly turned on. And he knows it. He touches the ice cube to the corners of my mouth. His hand is cool and damp, and his fingers drip water which he spreads over my lips. It's too dark for me to see his expression, but his eyes are glinting, catlike, in the light from outside. He wants to kiss me, I can feel it, but he's waiting for permission--or afraid of rebuke. This being Mulder, either is possible. But instead of kissing me he pops the remainder of the ice cube into my mouth and says, "Feeling better now?" "Much." I crunch down on the ice, which I know is supposed to be terribly bad for tooth enamel, but you know what? Four out of five dentists can just bite me. "Good, 'cause it's my turn." A-ha. Everything makes sense. Get me languid and cooled down while he plots my seduction. I grin at my thoughts--probably all he wanted was to put me in a better mood so I'd cool him off. He may be a selfish bastard, but he has his moments. "Lie down," I tell him, "and take off your clothes." "Dana Scully!" he says, pretending to be shocked. "Jeans are heavy and they retain body heat. Off with 'em." His shirt, socks and jeans are off almost before I finish speaking, and he lies there in his grey boxers, and I know he's grinning. I don't know what he's thinking, and I don't want to ask. My own thoughts are entertaining enough. I do not get up from the bed. Instead I stay lying next to him, and I take an ice cube from the bucket and lick it so that it rubs easily. He chuckles at this, which stops soon enough when I circle his nipple with the edge. I follow the line of his muscles, the pectorals, the abdominals, and am rewarded when his stomach flutters away from my touch. He's nervous, poor darling. I rub the cube and the next one slowly over his chest and shoulders, his arms and hands, which clench a little and then relax. I do his feet and his legs, make him roll over and do his back. I get a fresh cube and roll him onto his back again. And the physical evidence is there, he's just as aroused as I am. He is watching me through partially closed eyes, waiting for me to react. For the moment I don't. Instead I take the ice cube to his face, and run it over his skin with my whole hand. He closes his eyes. He is humming again, tunelessly this time, just the soft sounds of a man who wants--needs--to be thoroughly loved. This thought gives me pause, and he opens his eyes when I remove my hand. "What is it?" he says with difficulty. "I think this has gone a little farther than it should have, Mulder." "Before or after you told me to strip?" he asks, and I can hear the humor he finds in this. "After. Before. During. This is unprofessional--it's dangerous--" "Unprofessional, yes. Dangerous, definately. But is it right, Scully?" He lays his hand on my side, neither too high nor too low. "Because if you think it's wrong I won't say another word about it. So tell me, Scully, is it right?" The ice cube in my hand is melting rapidly. I don't know what to say, or do, except the truth. "It's right," I say and put my arms around his neck. "It's right, it's right," I say as I kiss him, and he pulls me completely against him and kisses me back. He runs his hands through my hair, down my sides, as I wrap myself around him. I rub the remainder of the ice cube over his chest and around to his back until it melts away, and we kiss each other deeply, our tongues duelling each other back and forth between our mouths. He takes another ice cube and rubs it over my upper chest, just below my shoulders and over the tops of my breasts, but I become impatient and pull my top off over my head. He pauses for a moment, looking at me. "What?" I say, suddenly afraid he's changed his mind--or worse, I am not what he wants and he's only just realized it. He cups my face in his hand. "You amaze me, Scully," he says softly, and brings me down to kiss him again. I almost weep with relief as he murmurs, "You're so beautiful--even in my dreams you weren't this beautiful--" and I reward him with more kisses. I kiss all over his face, suck his lower lip, which has been tempting me like a ripe strawberry from the first day I saw him. "You're beautiful too," I tell him, which makes him laugh. "My generous Scully." "My beautiful, gorgeous, delicious--" "Delicious?" "Scrumptious, delectible, yummy--" I kiss him between each word even though he's still laughing, and I'm laughing too because he tastes as good as he looks. And meantime his hands are everywhere, touching me, stroking me, squeezing me. He rolls me beneath him, and his weight feels good. It feels right. Soon enough he stops laughing and is kissing me in earnest. His mouth moves from mine to my jaw to my throat to my breasts, and he gently takes one nipple between his lips. It's been a long, long time since someone has touched me, much less since someone has touched me this intimately, and I have to close my eyes and focus on the warmth of his mouth, the gentle tugging of his teeth, the suction from his throat. I run my hands through his hair and stroke his face and whisper to him softly. He kisses his way to my other breast and suckles me, moving up now and then to kiss my mouth. He takes another ice cube from the bucket and rubs it slowly over my stomach, following the water with his tongue. I get another cube and do the same to him, over his chest and stomach. We are twisting and turning over one another, kissing and tasting, and quite abruptly I start to giggle. "Uh. . .care to let me in on the joke?" he murmurs. "I finally understand why water is so important out here." "I don't. . .ah. Rain on the desert. I get it." "Like the song. 'I miss you like the deserts miss the rain.'" "Pretty song. It always made me think of you." "It made me think of you, too." For a moment we smile at each other, wondering at the connections we have and didn't even realize. And then we kiss some more. For a while I can only marvel at how good he feels, his heat, his weight, the texture of his skin, the smooth movement of his muscles and bones beneath his skin. He waits through my ministrations, watching me patiently. "I've dreamed of this," I tell him by way of explanation, and he nods. "Lonely nights in the apartment, only wanting to hear your voice," he says. "Listening to you sleep through hotel walls." "Watching you tear down some pompus asshole who thinks you're just another pretty face. God, that always makes me want you." "You like my authoritative side, huh?" "I like strong women. You're one of the strongest I've ever met." "Only one?" "Well, you and your mother." I laugh and hit him with a pillow. He hits me back and then we're pillowfighting and kissing and tickling, and then mostly just kissing. Butterfly kisses, French kisses, nibble kisses, kisses where you take in each other's breath, kisses soft and firm, kisses short and long--we give each other a catalogue of kisses, every kiss known to man and then some. At some point we finish undressing each other. We whisper to each other, "Kiss me here, ah, yes," and "Do that again, oh, that's good," and it seems like his hands and his mouth are everywhere on my body. He blows zerberts on my stomach and tickles my feet. I don't know how he's held on this long, we've been fooling around for what seems like hours. "I could get used to this," I tell him. "I didn't think you were the quickie type," he answers. "Not when I've got the choice, no." He pauses for a moment and looks at me. "Something you need to tell me, Scully?" "Very few of the men I've been with have always been . . . considerate." He nods, knowing that's all he's going to get out of me now, and whispers as his fingers seek me out, "So, Scully likes considerate. I'll remember that. Mmm, I'd say Scully likes considerate very much." He blows on my stomach again as his fingers slip into me, my body pulling them in, and I am caught halfway between a laugh and a gasp. "I don't think it's a good idea for you to know how ticklish I am," I say. "Oh, I would have figured it out eventually." His fingers leave me and I whimper at the loss. He clasps my hands, weaving my fingers between his, and hovers over me, holding my hands to the mattress by my head. "Are you sure about this, now?" "A little late to ask, don't you think?" "Your last chance," he whispers, and enters me. And it is right. *^*^*^*^*^ When morning comes it's a little cooler. I wake before Mulder does, and I lie for a while watching him sleep again. My thoughts are different than when I watched him sleep the night before, more tender and more protective. Suddenly we have a future to worry about, a future I could only dream about before. I do not think, however, that it will be anything like my dreams. Finally I rise and shower in my own room, though I leave the adjoining door open. No shows of false modesty now. He is awake when I come out of the shower, and I can hear him puttering around, singing again. He comes to the doorway while I am putting on my makeup, and he is dressed, jeans and t-shirt again. I know what my friends would say about him, and I say it out loud. "Damn, you're hot." "So are you, gorgeous. Hey, do you want to take a side trip on the way up? I understand there are some beautiful canyons north of here, and our flight doesn't leave until six." I understand what he's doing: putting off the real world for as long as we can. "That sounds lovely," I tell him. He continues watching me as I put on mascara and base, his head tilted a little to the side. He sighs abruptly and our eyes meet in the mirror's reflection. "What is it?" "Scully . . . I know we didn't get into this last night, but I just want you to know I'm--I'm clean." I smile. "I know. I am too." "You know? How?" "I'm practically your GP, Mulder." He sighs again, but he's smiling. "You know me inside and out, don't you." "I figured you out a long time ago, my love." "I bet I can tell you something about me you don't know, even so." "Surprise me." "There hasn't been anybody else for three years." This gives me pause, and I look at him directly this time. There are rumors, mainly pertaining to him and the secretarial pool, that I pay little attention to, but I still hear them. And they still hurt. I wasn't going to ask, but it's nice to know. "Three years," I say quietly. "Not since I realized I love you." I know this. I have known this for years, and yet I feel as if I'm just learning it now. He has loved me as long as I have loved him, and it exhilerates me. I put my makeup down and take his face in my hands and kiss him. His hands come down on my hips and he pulls me to him. "You love me, you love me," I whisper as I kiss him, knowing how absurd and childish it sounds, but I don't care. I am too happy to care. "One more surprise," he says. "Tell me." "I wish I could make you pregnant." That stills my kisses, and I lean my head against his shoulder. This is a surprise. And I wish he could, too. He lifts my face with his finger and kisses my eyes gently. "I'm sorry. I do nothing but hurt you." "No, you don't." "If you'd never met me you could have such a normal life, a husband and babies and--" "With who, Mulder? Who do you see me sharing this normal life with?" He is silent, ducking his head but looking up at me through his lashes. "If I'd never met you I wouldn't have had some the best experiences of my life, Mulder. And it's not all been sweetness and light, I'm not saying that it has been. But I've been with you and that's made it all right." I stroke his cheeks with my hands. "Mulder. It's not your fault." He nods, sighing. "I hate that we'll have to hide this." "I know." "I hate not knowing what they'd do if they found out." "I know, I know." "I hate living in fear." We hold each other in silence for a while, then he lets me go to finish getting ready. He goes back into his room, and I hear him packing up his notes and clothes. I hear him open the blinds to the window. "Hey, Scully. Look at this." I go into his room and stand beside him, putting my arms around his waist. His hand rests lightly in its familiar place, the center of my back. Outside it is raining, a wild desert storm that turns the sky purple and grey, with wind and lashing rain. The thirsty ground soaks it up eagerly. I remember what I said last night about rain in the desert and sigh in contentment. We both are nourished today, the desert and I. What Mulder says surprises me again. "Fuck 'em." "What?" "Fuck 'em. Let's do it. Let's get married." "What?" "Let's get married. Marry me, Scully. Fuck 'em. They can't control our lives forever. I love you, you love me, let's get married. Let's show them they don't scare us. I'm tired of living in fear, Scully, I'm tired of hiding how I feel about you. I want to wake up every morning with you in my bed, Scully, I want to show everyone you're the most important person in my life." "But--but--" The excuses I have been giving myself over the years seem false and petty compared to what he's saying. The most important person in his life. I stammer, "We won't be able to work together." "If they transfer you I'll quit, and if they transfer me I'll quit." "But your search--Samantha--" "Maybe if they think I've given up I'll have more freedom to move." "Do you really believe that?" "No, but a man can hope, can't he?" He's grinning. He can see a life for us, but I'm still afraid. "If they take you away from me . . ." I begin, and can't finish. "Then at least we'll have had some time together. Marry me, Scully. Say you will. Say you love me." "I love you," I say, and the words give me strength. "I love you," I say again, "and I will." It is raining hard outside, and as we kiss there is a crash of thunder that makes me jump. But Mulder holds me tight, and in his arms I am warm. End. * * * This is mentally set in St. George, Utah, which is lovely little town between November and March. The rest of the time it's just too darn hot. The songs are "Sassafrass Root" by Green Day, "If I Had Words" from "Babe", and "Missing" by Everything But The Girl, and are used without permission.