Worth Remembering

by Lynn Saunders

Title: Worth Remembering
Author: Lynn Saunders
Website: http://www.angelfire.com/scifi2/lynnsaundersfanfic Email: lynnsaundersfanfic@hotmail.com
Distribution: Knock yourself out, but let me know so I can check on you.
Rating: R
Classification: MSR
Spoilers: season seven
Summary: a love story
Date Completed: 06-17-03

Carol is the most awesome person ever! Oh, and she also beta'd this piece in record time. This story is for her.

Feedback is fed plump, juicy grapes and fanned with palm frons at lynnsaundersfanfic@hotmail.com

Disclaimer: The characters of Mulder and Scully are the property of Chris Carter and 1013. A break from work is the only thing I am gaining from writing fan fiction.

Worth Remembering
by Lynn Saunders

She knocks at the door. She's not sure why. Usually, she lets herself in. Tonight, knocking feels right, so she does. A muffled "It's open," and she gives a practiced kick to the bottom corner of the door, turns the knob.

Mulder's apartment smells of coffee and shoe polish, of fish food and well-worn books. She is reminded of her college English professor, of meetings in his office. He would smile, his sharp green eyes flashing behind their wire-rimmed frames, discussing the book of the moment over a pot of hot, strong coffee. She was secretly in love with him for two years, before she graduated and moved on to medical school. She suspects he is the cause of the instant and overwhelming attraction she felt to Mulder in the first year of their partnership. The wire-rims get her every time.

She is toeing off her heels by the table when Mulder appears in the kitchen doorway. He looks her over, taking his time as if he hasn't seen her almost every day for the past seven years, as if they haven't spent the past three days crimefighting together in California. A slow smile transforms his face, reaching his sleepy hazel eyes. Even the spiky ends of his shower-damp hair seem happy to see her.

He doesn't approach, though. He doesn't move to kiss her. They have discovered that they often need down-time between working together and sleeping together. She stopped at her apartment only long enough to take the suits out of her bag and replace them with weekend-appropriate clothing. Now, Mulder's shower is calling out to her. She returns his smile and makes her way to the bathroom.

Ladies and gentleman, Special Agent Dana Scully, M.D. has left the building. The pleasantly sharp stream of water spurting from Mulder's shower has melted her, leaving behind a happier, more playful version. She stretches luxuriously in the steam, arching her back like a cat and humming low in her throat as the hot water loosens her sore muscles.

Using Mulder's shower is a devastatingly erotic experience. The olive-green soap contains sandalwood oil. Its scent is raw, elemental, like she imagines he would smell after making love in the forest in the rain. The suds cascade over her bare shoulders and breasts, tracing the exact path Mulder's hands took the first time they made love.

She remembers waking on the sofa, disoriented, snuggling the wool Indian blanket, wishing Mulder was wrapped around her instead. She wasn't sure how much time had passed. Not very long, maybe ten minutes, maybe half an hour. It didn't matter. What mattered was Mulder. He was awake. She could hear him bustling about in the kitchen. She rose, following the sound of clinking coffee mugs. Mulder was at the sink, rinsing dishes. She stood in the doorway for a moment, wondering if he knew she was there. He did. "Stay," he said, chancing a glance in her direction and turning off the tap.

She smiles. Not too long ago, she would have spent this Friday night alone in her apartment, perhaps looking over autopsy results or watching an old movie. Maybe Mulder would call or show up, as he was prone to do. Maybe he'd want to go chase monsters, or maybe he'd want pizza and company. Maybe he'd want to hit baseballs in the park. No matter what, she would go to bed alone.

Now, she laughs, looking at her shampoo and razor mingled with Mulder's shower paraphernalia on the convenient waisthigh shelf. That little ledge has more than one use. It has supported a much more powerful display of the new aspect of their relationship than their mixed toiletries. She runs a hand over the wall above the shelf and shivers.

The cold tile stung the skin of her back as Mulder hoisted her onto the ledge, the contrast to the heat of his body and the water falling around them making the fine hairs at the base of her neck stand on end. Tiny water droplets sparkled on his eyelashes, beautiful. She wondered if she looked the same way, to him. It was their fourth time together, or fifth, depending on the way one counts this sort of thing. She gasped as he pushed into her, burying her face in his neck and hanging on for dear life. "Love you." Who said it? Perhaps both, probably both. He turned her inside out and set her soul afire at 6 AM on a Wednesday morning. They were extremely late for the quarterly meeting.

The water cools, and she rinses one last time. A large, fluffy towel awaits her, draped over the rack next to the shower. She dries and tousles her hair, staring wide-eyed at the mirror. Flushed skin, clear blue eyes, a sprinkling of freckles, rose-tipped nipples at attention, the hint of a smile. This is the woman Mulder sees. This is Scully.

Mulder's dress shirt is spread neatly at the end of his bed, the crisp french blue in sharp relief against the cream of the comforter. She loves to wear his shirts. He loves it, too. She pulls it on, leaving the top two buttons undone. The sleeves extend past her fingertips, so she rolls them twice.

She selects the black silk panties that ride low on her hips, Mulder's favorite. She knows because he bought them for her, at an up-scale boutique whose associates didn't raise an eyebrow when he chose several garments and ushered her into the extravagantly decorated dressing area.

Mulder is on his couch flipping channels. He smiles up at her. His hair is dry now, sticking up all over his head. He looks like a cat with its fur ruffled the wrong way, but his eyes are warm and inviting. Two beer bottles, one open and half-empty, the other closed, rest on the coffee table beside his crossed feet. A box of Chinese take-out completes the dinner spread. A pair of chopsticks is poised in his fingers.

"Hey, Scully."

She smiles in reply and settles herself next to him on the cool leather, sliding in close. She has smiled an inordinate number of times tonight. His left arm falls around her shoulders and pulls her closer still. She licks her lips, watching as a drop of condensation makes its way slowly down the unopened bottle. She reaches for it, twists the cap, and takes a long, slow drink. The alcohol tingles on the way down.

He plucks a piece of chicken from the white container with the chopsticks and holds it up to her lips. As she takes it, he nuzzles her neck and breathes into her ear, "You look amazing."

She swallows the chicken and turns to look at him, his lips inches from hers. She can't resist, doesn't have to. She closes the distance between them and kisses him gently, her tongue sneaking out to tease his lower lip. He tastes like kung pao.

The chopsticks drop to the floor, forgotten. Eventually, the blue dress shirt is discarded as well. As various articles of clothing drift to the carpet, their owners giggle on the couch nearby.

Deep in the night, they will awaken, tangled together under the soft wool of Mulder's blanket. The drinks will be warm, the food will be cold, but they won't mind. They will crawl into bed, bodies bare beneath the cool cotton sheets. Perhaps they will make love again.

Later, as she snuggles against her mate and drifts to sleep, Scully will hold onto every detail, lock them safe within her heart. And it will be these moments she will cherish, months down the road when his child grows in her belly, but he is no longer by her side.


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