Rating: NC-17
Classification: MSR/vignette,
Spoilers:The Truth
Keywords: Chagall, dream, flying

Dedication: To the wonderful people on the IWTB list

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The pale gray light from the parking lot stipples
the motel room floor and the rain keeps coming---
sheeting down, down, down---washing away desert
dust, tire tracks, and the last vestiges of two people's
former lives. It's the middle of the night, hours
since he crawled in bed and pulled her to his side.

They're still lying face-to-face, Mulder's
leg draped across her hip. He's dreaming,
eyes moving back and forth beneath closed lids.
Scully's been awake for a while, watching him,
watching over him.

"You're mine," she whispers, and loosens the tie
of her robe, and starts to push it down and away.

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He's the only family she has now, and instead of grief
weighing her down, she's oddly elated. She thinks about
how there was no hesitation in leaving everything behind.

Coming back to her place to wait on the verdict, Doggett
had just floated the idea of an 'extraction,' with Skinner
and Reyes nodding their assent. Gibson never said a word.
They all looked at her when she mentioned she and
Mulder'd hidden extra weapons and fake ID's in what
used to be her hope chest. Buzzing about preparations,
the rest of them were oblivious to the presence of Scully's
mother, until the boy cut them off.

Sitting quietly in an easy chair on the far side of the
living room. Margaret Scully didn't flinch as she readied
herself to lose another daughter.

Dry-eyed, she showed hidden clairvoyance,
telling her she'd known for a long time that her daughter
was leaving, that she loved her, to not worry about
the rest of it. That she loved Fox, too, and that all that
mattered now was taking care of each other. She promised
to explain it all to Bill and Tara, to Charlie, to Matthew.
It was Scully who started to cry as her mother said her
goodbyes to the assembled gathering and let herself quietly
out the door. Skinner just shook his head as he followed
her into the hall, dreading his return to the base.

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Mulder can't believe how vivid this dream is, how real.
They're the man and the woman in a Chagall painting,
in a room drenched in color, and they're levitating off
the floor, kissing, he's hovering off the ground, and
she's right there with him. You make me fly, Scully,
you make me fly, he thinks, and the dream starts to
slip away. But now there are small, warm hands on
his chest, burrowed underneath his shirt.

'You're mine,' he hears and reality pulls him toward
waking reality of her robe slipping down from her shoulders
as she reaches for him. Part of him still thinks he must be
dreaming, too much has happened too soon, but her
mouth finds his, her moist, open mouth on his
convinces him otherwise.

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Her tongue plunders his, she's amazed at how hungry
she is for him. She strokes the ridges of his teeth,
drinks in his breath, grabs the sides of his face just like
he claimed her in that cell. Then she pulls away to tell
him again, to prove to it to herself.

"You're mine."

"'Fraid, so..."

He seems rueful, just a little, but a little is too much.
She will not allow it.

"No regrets, Mulder...I mean it."

"None?"

"Only that you haven't told me yet."

"Told you what, Scully?" He needs final permission
to say it, to make it real.

"Tell me."

"You. Are. Mine."

She moans softly as she feels his hands shove the robe
aside. Then his hands are cupping her breasts, his thumbs
sweeping her nipples. Somehow, she manages to yank off
his T-shirt, without him missing a beat. He keeps thumbing
her with one hand and then the other, as the offending
garment gets unceremoniously pulled off and tossed away.
Undoing his fly, she helps him scramble out of his jeans,
and then they are both naked in the faint and flickering light.

"What were you dreaming about?" she asks as she takes him
in her hand, feels him rise and swell within the curl of her
fingers.

"Flying...you and me." He smiles at her and she smiles back.

"Make me fly, Mulder."

He rolls on top of her and she guides his cock in between
her legs, rubs him against her aching clit. Easing him inside,
she pulls and tightens around him, and they move with a
purpose. Her legs wrap around the small of his back, and she
grips his shoulders as he finds the spot, levers against her and
strokes her beautifully hard bud. Her thighs start trembling,
she feels it, he can feel it. He starts slowly shuddering,
unspooling like a hot ribbon.

"Fly," he says.

"Fly," she says.

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And the temporary sky in this motel room breaks open,
and the two of them soar and up and away.

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