#txf ice

Opening her door, Scully runs from the feeling of dread, chastising her irrationality. She turns on the light and washes away the darkness, banishing those thoughts to the back of her mind. The room is as she expects from a group of men living alone in the arctic: clustered and disorganised, dubious posters and the singular smell of sweat and deodorant. Familiar yet of no comfort. Further in the details of the former occupant’s life are the very human idiosyncrasies that remind her why they are really out here. The unopened birthday present, the photos of family: these men had full lives with people missing them, so easy to forget in the cold all alone. She picks up a frame casing a boy and his parents. It radiates warmth and intimacy, almost tangible in her hands, but where are they now? God had sent that boy here and delivered him into the arms of disaster. Now she stands here in his place, in his room, watching over his things: a stranger. She wonders about her own mother, how she would react if it was her God had delivered and not some poor other soul–wonders what might yet happen. The spots on the dog went away. 

Unable to look into their faces any longer, she turns all the pictures upside down and hauls the draws in front of the door. The loud scraping of the wood against the floor grates against her nerves. Sinking to the floor, she cradles her legs against her chest. This isn’t like her; she decides, curled up in a corner, cowering from terrors. She looks to the door as if she could see through it, anticipating the danger lurking outside, preparing to jump at any moment. Taking a deep breath, she turns away to look anywhere but there. Her eyes land on the ceiling and she licks her lips. It’s hopeless. Something beyond draws her attention back, luring her in with the bait of curiosity like a fish on a hook. She knows what it is before she can recognise the feeling: the thought of Mulder has wormed its way back into her mind. Part of him has implanted himself in her prefrontal cortex, steering her subconscious, in a way she cannot shake. His casual charm and boyish annoyance have always caught her attention but out here, isolated… 

He is the only one she can trust – not even herself. 

Resolutely, Scully swallows down the fear brewing within her. She is a scientist and a detective: observation is her prerogative, and paper and pen, her equipment. Slowly, she moves away from the door to where she left her bag on the bed. Withdrawing her notepad, she outlines a list:

I don’t feel like myself

Fear or Parasite?

Fear = high adrenaline situation, isolation, distrust, arguments w/ mulder

Parasite = exposed to infected blood, the spots on the dog went away

When did I start to feel this way?

… After Bear got infected - infected blood?

She knows she’s going to do it before she even gets up from the bed. She thinks as she pulls the draws back again that they were there to stop her getting out as much as to stop anything getting in. All the while, a niggling feeling is telling her this is pivotal. Beyond the door is a choice she cannot return from, but if she stops now it will never happen. She knows it like a cold ache in her bones, the consequences of both action and inaction haunting her future. The only remaining question is, which ghost is she less afraid of?

His door is cold and stinging beneath the soft rapp of her knuckles. Scully waits with bated breath, stranded in the corridor, floating further away from her conviction with each passing silence marked by her thumping heart. She is about to accept the fate of path of inaction when the door creaks open a jar, revealing a squinting, bare-chested Mulder. 

The flick her eyes make to his torso is involuntary, barely a millisecond in length, but it feels obvious like a large clumsy mistake, as grand as tripping over her own feet. In this close proximity, she can hear his breathing stop, see his gaze catch, feel his notice. She keeps her eyes fixed to his, untrusting of herself to not make a second observation. She is a scientist after all.

He swallows thickly. “Hey.”

With his simple greeting she relaxes, distracted from the tension tightening between them. “Hey,” is all she can think to say back, but with that single word he seems to understand her completely. 

A wry smile forms on his lips and he opens the door wider, gesturing for her to come in. “Couldn’t sleep either, huh?”

She ducks under his arm. By the dim light of the hallway, she surveys his room, much similar to hers, with the exception of his clothes joining the clutter on the floor: it pulls a smirk from her. She hears the soft click of the door closing behind her, swaddling them in privacy. “I feel like I'm going out of my mind, Mulder.”

“I know–” his hand briefly rests at the small of her back as he passes her to turn the night lamp on. Suddenly, a warm glow floods the space and lights up Mulder’s sober, empathetic expression. It catches her off-guard: how deeply his eyes seem to burrow into her soul, seeing right through her, as if he’s known her for more than a lifetime. Carefully, he sits down on the bed, always his attention remaining on her. “I’m scared too, Scully.”

She remains standing in front of him, her hands clasped awkwardly. She shakes her head. “No, Mulder… I think, I’m not sure, I don’t feel like myself.” And then in a whisper, she adds, “I think I might be infected.”

His face falls with a crashing wave of sickly pallor. He blinks slowly. Reaching out for her hand he pulls her closer, down next to him on the bed. She follows his lead in a motion so smooth and natural she doesn’t question why she lets him move her like this until she is sat too close to him. Close enough she can feel herself leaning towards the warmth he radiates. 

Measuredly, he says, “Da Silva checked you.”

Scully looks down, feeling Mulder's thumb gently stroke the back of her hand. While the contact is comforting she is still unsure, somehow detached from the sensation. 

“Like you said–" she lifts her head, yet her eyes trail behind on the spot where he is touching her– "the spots on the dog went away.”

He stares at her in uncertainty; she can see his mind working, searching for an argument to the contrary–but that's her job. She shouldn't need him to explain all the rationalised possibilities, she is capable of that herself; it's her forte, field of expertise, reason of current employment and yet… 

“You are still acting rationally though– seeking out advice.”

“We don’t know how it affects different sexes; our only confirmed infections are all male. We have been looking for symptoms as they present in men–”

“And dogs,” he interjects: a failed attempt to lighten the mood. 

“But behavioural effects are doubtless going to present themselves in different ways, especially if it does subsist on the production of hormones, as those are in different balance across the sexes.” Scully shakes her head, scoffs hopelessly. She looks into his eyes properly for the first time since she knocked on his door. “Mulder, I could be infected and we may never know.”

He nods pursing his lips. “Regardless, Scully, I know you're not infected.”

“How can you be so sure?”

He bites back a smile and shrugs as though that were the only explanation he need give. “I’d know.” She remains unconvinced, needing more evidence than a hunch to ease her worry. His tongue peaks out to wet his lip and he sighs, seeing her expression. “If it would make you feel better, I can check you again.”

She considers and nods slowly, turning her back to him. It occurs to her, in this position, how vulnerable she is, yet she isn't scared of the feeling. Instead she chases after it, pulling her shirt over her head, the cold touch of air to her skin a sharp reminder of her position. The mattress dips behind her as he moves closer and she holds her breath. 

Suddenly, she feels his breath brush the shell of her ear as he murmurs, "I promise I will be every bit the gentleman.” 

Scully blushes and chastises herself for her disappointment, bowing her head to hide her face, concealing her embarrassment as much from herself as from him. 

The heat of his hands prickle and burn her senses as they approach her skin, brushing away the baby hairs at her neck. His fingertips brush so softly down her back, charting every bump of her spine, searching for any imperfection that could belie the truth. He skims over the goose flesh of her arms, gently clasping her wrists, returning to guide her arms above her head one at a time. 

Scully swallows. The trace of his fingertips down her ribs makes her shiver and swell with an undeniable gasp, so close to the side of breast. Casting an uncertain glance over her shoulder, she is met with his small, apologetic smile. He mouths 'sorry' and abruptly she is aware of how still the room is; all she can hear is her own short breath and blood rushing between her ears, playing the same beat that pulses between her legs. 

Cutting the taught thread of his gaze, she turns around and leans further into him, trusting him. Taking his hand that is resting at her waist she holds it to her neck. "You need to apply more pressure, Mulder." She covers his hand with her own, guiding him. "Like this." 

He manipulates and massages the flesh of her neck and all the way down her spine. She allows the fantasy in the deep waters of her mind to play between the shores of her conscious and unconscious thought: how good it would feel if he were as possessive and caring of her pleasure as this. She closes her eyes against the force of the tide that storms her, washing her in arousal. She licks her lips in desperate agony. 

"Scully?" 

Her voice cracks, "Y-es?" She turns around to see him smirking gleefully; I told you so written all over his face. "No worms?" 

"No worms."

She's about to ask him if she can stay, not ready to be alone just yet, when Mulder moves away, turning his back on her. It's a moment before she realises he's looking for reciprocation. His back is bare before her and she reminds herself that this is just a routine examination – if she doesn't employ medical detachment, she doesn't know if she will have the confidence to do this. Yet as she raises a hand to smooth over his skin, she trembles, unable to ignore the heat that emanates from him, the heat he is making her feel. Clenching a fist, she steadies herself and allows herself to touch him. 

The first thing she notes is how soft his skin is. The second is the tone of his muscles across his shoulders. The third is how easily her mind has wandered from the task at hand. She is sure to do a more than thorough job, mapping every inch from his broad shoulders to down the sides of his torso. She finds by accident that he is ticklish there, jerking away from her touch with a sharp breath through his nose. It is odd to think of her partner as having such a simple weak spot. Usually he is so strong, stoic and solemn, even his humour is dry. She knows by reason that he is not weak, the little of his past she has the privilege of knowing only makes her think that more not less. As far as she is aware, he never cares for the derogatory opinions of others, brushing them off as easily as old, dried mud. She wonders if that has always been the case, or a skill he has had to learn. 

"What's the diagnosis doc?" 

"Hmm?" She looks up, seeing him too looking over his shoulder as if to catch sight of the creature crawling beneath his skin. Her smile is small and shy. "I think we're good." 

He turns back around to fully face her again, the warm light of the lamp casts soft shadows against his skin, highlighting the gentle definition of his muscles, and catches against the hair dappling his chest and down from his belly button disappearing beneath the waistband of his pyjamas. She bites her lip. He is the one only half dressed before her and yet she is the one feeling naked.

“See something you like?” he taunts playfully, without an air of seriousness. 

Flushed with embarrassment, Scully reaches for her shirt. “Sorry, um I sh– I should go.” She begins to put her arms through the sleeves. “Thank you–”

"Dana…” he interrupts her, a reassuring hand resting on her knee. “Stay a while; I'll feel better knowing you're here with me." 

Though she hesitates, she knows she's already made the decision before she answers. Finding herself swimming in the green sea of his eyes, she agrees with a whisper, "Okay." His pupils are dilated, darkening like a wild electrical storm. No matter how ardently she tries, she can’t tear herself away from him. She's quickly catching fire like dry grass in summer. He swallows, his jaw clenching. Scully reaches out, unthinking, to touch his stubbled cheek and cups his jaw "Mulder…" 

Unless she is mistaken, his voice is deeper than before, his breathing quicker too. "Yeah?" 

Despite telling herself this is improper, all arguments of protest fall short before her lips. His are just centimetres away, perfect and inviting. She leans in slowly, allowing him to put an end to this before it’s too late. Instead his hand travels from her knee to her waist, squeezing. Scully finds herself falling the rest of the way, meeting his lips unhurriedly without caution. 

Quickly, she learns that Mulder is like no-one she has kissed before: he likes to take his time, teasing her with almost polite brushes of his tongue across her lips. She shucks her arm the rest of the way out of her shirt and shuffles closer, relaxing into him. His hand at her waist pulls her closer and she straddles his lap, rocking forward to satisfy the excruciating ache building at her centre. His other hand tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, and weaves through the roots of her ponytail at the base of her scalp. 

Breaking away, a small “Fuck” falls from his lips, now glistening. She has the urge to taste the word, catch it and him before it can escape, yet she waits on him. Mulder looks up at her in a hazed reverie that makes her heart pound. “Dana…” The sound of her given name marked in his voice reaches its claws into her and holds steadfast. The feeling scares her but she wants him to say it again. “I need to hear that you are sure.”

Yet Scully isn’t sure. Not truly. She doesn’t think she could ever be sure. Instead she opts for a different truth. “It’s okay, I want this… unless you–”

“No! God, no, Dana,” he jumps to assuage her fears and lets loose a laugh, burying his face into her shoulder to hide his amusement. 

She lifts his chin to catch his gaze and places the palm of her hand to his chest. Beneath, she can feel the hammering of his heart and it reassures her to know that he is as nervous and excited about this as she. Grinning a little too, Scully kisses him this time, finding that pleasure he hinted at earlier. His tongue is hot against hers, pulling as she pushes, pushing as she pulls. His hands begin to wander, roaming her skin. His fingers tease at the top of her bra. 

"Take it off," she breathes. 

In one swift move, she finds her back landing on the mattress, her head shielded from the impact by his supportive hand. At once, he is over her and she flushes with heat seeing him bare down on her, his eyes devouring her body in awe. His gaze lingers on her breasts where her nipples harden under his intense attention, and with an intoxicating hit of confidence, she arches her chest, inviting him in. Resting his weight on one hand, he brings the other up to gently cup her left breast, testing the waters. His eyes flick to hers, dark but crystal clear, asking for her permission. Just the soft touch of his hand against her skin is sparking pleasure throughout her body but just the tingle of it isn't enough to satiate her need. Caution, somewhere her higher ego warns, but deep at her core she knows that this is going to happen, that she wants it to happen, and she trusts Mulder. 

"Mulder," she whispers his name, holding back the whine caught in her throat.

Her hand atop of his, she guides him to hold her breast firmer, massage her, find and pinch her nipple. When he gets the idea, her head rests back on the pillow and a sigh rolls through her. She scratches across his back and through his hair, smiling as he moans his contentment, but quickly he steals the breath from her lungs as he licks at a hardened nipple, letting the cool air play over it before taking it into his mouth. 

He doesn't stay there long, sitting up to pull her trousers and panties down, revealing her swollen sex to him. Her slips a finger through her folds and–

"God, Dana." He plunges his finger in and drags it out slowly, swirling her arousal around up to her clit. Repeating the action, he asks, "Do you always get this wet?" 

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she reels through the science of lubricant production depending on a number of different factors that isn't necessarily an indication of arousal, but she would be lying if she said her state right now had nothing to do with him and the agonising ministrations he is performing. Sitting up on her elbows, Scully looks at him, her eyes wandering south to where his fingers touch her. Even in the dim light, she can see the extent of her wetness and she bites her lip to hold back a moan at the knowledge that he is doing this to her. Mulder notices her line of sight, and fucks her with another finger, curling to meet her g-spot and passing his thumb over her sensitive clit. Her hips jump and her eyes scrunch shut as she gasps. 

An ache starts building through her body, her muscles tightening around the feeling like string winding around a bobbin. Her hips roll as she can't help but chase after her release but she doesn't want this over yet. 

"Mulderrr." She grasps at his shoulder, imploring, all the while her body betrays her. "Oh my god." She moves her hand to frame his face, seeing a glint of pride in his eyes and the corner of his smile. She gasps, "You're gonna make me come." 

He hums and leans in to take the words straight from her lips. Moaning, she lifts her knee up to where his hips are still clothed in the soft flannel of his pyjamas. A thrill runs through her to think that he is still as clothed as when she knocked on his door yet here she is squirming under her partner as he brings her to the precipice. Summoning all the strength he is quickly stealing from her body, she pushes him onto his back, breaking their kiss, panting. With a furrowed brow he cocks his head in a silent question but she can only smile and kiss the stupid look off his face. 

Scully allows herself now to fully appreciate the sight of him before her. With permission and no more self conscious glances, she runs her hands up his abs, soft yet defined clenching under her touch. Rocking into him, she kisses under his jaw, the lingering smell of aftershave mingling with his sweat. She licks at it. He moans, his hands weighted on her hips, encouraging her to move again. Kissing and nipping down his chest, she sights herself finally with the bulge in his pants. Curiously, she cups him over the cotton squeezes. She looks up when she hears the sound of his head hitting the pillow, a hiss emitted through his clenched teeth. 

"Please say you won't kill me," he mumbles. Her fingers make light work of the drawstring eager to remove the final barrier between them. 

His pyjamas off, his cock bobs between them, grandly parading its size. 

"Jesus," she whispers. "Please say you won't kill me." She wraps her fingers around his shaft, thinking back to his comment earlier about passing judgement in the Arctic. He had to know he was above average. Swiping her thumb over the head, she marvels at him. "Were you hiding this the whole time?" 

"Why, thank you." He smirks, entertained by her reaction. 

A flush of embarrassment drenches her from head to toe, coursing hot through her mingling with the molten heat of her aroused state. Oh, he knows. She dips her head to hide the colouring of her cheeks. 

Humming, Mulder tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and she quickly flicks her eyes up to him; the intimacy and familiarity of the gesture suddenly cutting her to the bone. His gaze is strong upon her, his lust addled eyes harbouring more than simple attraction. A strong potion of admiration, care and pride swirled in those dark eyes and something else. Truly observing his dishevelled state, something in her gut clenches. It was a thought she discarded with haste before it had chance to unfold and bloom into something larger–unavoidable. 

Taking back control of her emotions, she licks up the underside of his cock and swirls around the head. She takes a moment to suck him into her mouth. But before she can give him the satisfaction of her full talents, she lifts up and crawls up the bed to him, enjoying the slightly pained and disappointed look befalling his features. "Condom?"

"Yeah–" He nods towards the nightstand– "In my wallet."

She reaches out to pick it up and fumbles through his wallet to find the foil packet. Tearing it open eagerly, she wastes no time rolling it on and lining herself up above him. As she does so, her mind wanders back to how they ended up here: the stress of the case? Their loneliness and isolation? The chaos of the unknown and her need to feel in control? 

The first time she had laid eyes on him in the dingy light of the basement, she was struck by his boyish good looks and then in the light of the projector, his charm had shone and she had made the decision to follow him. Now his charm is in his smile and caress. This could feel like a mistake. But it doesn't. 

His hands are everywhere: her sides, caressing her curves, her breast, her hips, steadying her as she slowly sinks down. He fills her gloriously, stretching her with every inch. She would feel greedy, indulging so lavishly in his size, but sensibility had vaporised with his first searing touches to her body. Now Scully knows them, she craves them, finding it is more than want driving her forward but need. The need to be touched and held and reassured. It had been so long since someone had cared for her like this; she'd built tall walls to protect herself in its absence. She thought she was strong, but oh how quickly he is undoing her. Why does she like that? 

Clenching around him, she smirks as his eyes roll back into his head, his breathing long and deep through his nose to control himself. A hand to his chest, she rocks forward and rolls her hips experimentally: his groan of pleasure encourages her, a replying spark in her clit making her shiver. Seeking more, she speeds up her pace and begins to rise and sink in a pleasing rhythm, feeling him move inside her. For the moment she can let go, free of worry and fear, instead feel good.

"God, Dana," he moans, sweat rolling from his brow. Mulder grabs her ass and moves to meet each of her thrusts, pounding into her from below. She bites her lip to catch whimper before it escapes, her brows pinching together, concentrating on the new sensations: his fingers digging in and the pleasant sting as he moves. She tips her head back, her panting turning from soft to harsh as the flood of her orgasm rises within her.

Suddenly, her back hits the mattress once again. Her eyes wide with shock, Mulder brushes the hair from her face, taking time to ask her if she is okay. Licking her lips, she manages a nod, caught up in the warmth of his eyes. He kisses her once more, long and deep, gentle yet purposeful, flooring her with his care. Distracted, she relaxes, sinking into the bed and allowing herself to feel the press of Mulder above her; his body, his smell, his heat is everywhere all over her. Soon she learns, she likes him surrounding her.

She moans as he teases the slick head of his dick over her clit. "Mulderrr," his name is a breathy sigh, an encouragement, a plea, an echo for more. Kissing her in reply, he surges into her and she gasps against his mouth, hips bucking, giving into him. He waits for her to squeeze her legs around him before he continues, starting slowly, but building speed with each thrust. He withdraws slowly and returns with a snap of his hips, watching her as she watches him, this strong catch between them. His fingers curl around the back of her thigh and brings her leg around over his shoulder, stretching her impossibly more. The reality of it unfolds around her, and with it she is keenly aware of every sense, ratcheting with intensity. Mulder is with her and inside her and around her. The same Mulder she has grown to respect and trust. This is more than the lust she felt on their first case. 

Yet instead of being overwhelmed, she gleefully smirks, tilting her head up to capture his lips. 

He stills for a moment before she rocks her hips. His head drops to her shoulder, his forehead resting there, as he buries his face. "Dana…" he pants. "Can you… come? I'm so… close." 

Pushing a hand down between their bodies, she draws tight circles around her clit. Again, she feels a hot rush flooding her body, but more intense than before. Her toes curl and her muscles tense as she gasps and whines, finally overcome by release. Drowning in satiated bliss, she hears Mulder shout muffled by her shoulder as he follows her. 

Briefly, the air feels chill against her sweat-slick skin as Mulder moves over to the other side of the room, where the bin is. Although he is still with her, in that moment she misses the comfort of his presence beside her. Rolling her head to the side on the pillow, she watches him, a loose smile playing on her lips. When he turns around, she can see him mirroring her expression, growing into a casual smirk. 

"Hey," he greets her just as easily, for the second time that night. 

She stretches her arm out, inviting him back. "Hey, yourself." 

He crawls onto the bed beside her without much grace, lying close to her in the single bed, pulling a blanket up over them. With the limited space, Scully allows herself to snuggle into his side, her head not quite resting on his shoulder, but not fully on the pillow either. It’s an indulgence she allows herself that is easily excused and she doesn’t feel like denying herself the small touch of his skin against hers, not when she is as warm and cosy as she is. Not when it pales in comparison to what they have just done. To her own surprise, she doesn't care. Perhaps it is the hazy bliss that clouds her mind, but there is nowhere else she can imagine herself: up in the far reaches of the arctic circle, isolated from the rest of the world and herself, only snow storms and fear for company. Listening to his soft, steady breathing, in and out, underneath the palm of her hand, her eyes slowly drift close.

"You okay?" he murmurs to her ear, and she can't help but chuckle. 

"Very." 

He hums, satisfied with her response. And then he holds a breath, as if trying to lock away his nerves. She feels this, being so close to him, yet she knows it’s more than their physicality that informs her intuition. 

He hesitates, "We should probably talk about this."

Lifting her head up to look at him, she considers the wariness in his eyes, but also how it conceals the happiness beneath. "Mhmm.” She rests her head back on the pillow, closing her eyes. “But later, I'm comfy at the moment."