TITLE: The Blanket
AUTHOR: Jenna Tooms
EMAIL: jenna@exeter.simplenet.com
SUMMARY: Scully comes over for comfort, and boy, does she get it.
RATING: NC-17
KEYWORDS: MSR
SPOILERS: No
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. More's the pity.
HOMEPAGE: http://exeter.simplenet.com

The sequel to this story is called "Hell or High Water."

"Late Fragment"

And did you get what

you wanted from this life, even so?

I did.

And what did you want?

To call myself beloved, to feel myself

beloved on the earth.

--Raymond Carver



A knock on Fox Mulder's door at a late hour was nothing unusual, and
Mulder muted his TV and went to the door, holding his gun against his
leg. "Who's there?" he said softly.

"Mulder, it's me."

At once he smiled and unlocked the door. There was only one person
who could get away with that greeting, and he was always glad to see
her. "Scully," he said, and took her into his arms at once, for there
were tearstains on her face and her eyes were red. She had not even
dressed but had only put her trenchcoat on over her pajamas. "What is
it? What happened?"

Scully shook her head. She tucked her head beneath his chin and her
arms went around his neck, her fingers twining into his hair. He
reached over and closed the door to his apartment, and gently led her
to the sofa. He lifted her up and sat down, holding her on his lap.
She curled up against him, tiny and fragile as a newborn. She was not
crying or even shaking, but he knew there was nothing he could say to
help, at least not yet.

Finally she lifted her face from his chest, and smiled a little
shyly. "I'm sorry," she said.

"Well, I had to get up to answer the door anyway. Just tell me what
happened."

She took a deep breath and said, "Every night for the past week I've
been having this dream about someone breaking into my house. I know
someone's there, I can sense them, but I never see them. It's just
someone . . . lurking. And I wake up terrified, and not always sure
it's a dream."

"Oh, sweetheart," Mulder said, stroking the side of her face. He'd
noticed the past week that she seemed weary, although of course she
would give him no more answer than a testy, "I'm fine." Something
more must have happened to bring her here tonight.

She nuzzled her face against his hand for a moment, her eyes closed,
then went on, "Tonight the dream started as usual, in my apartment in
the dark, and I heard a noise and got up to follow it, and I could
see someone in the shadows from the streetlights. And I heard a
crash, and in my dream my kitchen window was smashed."

"But just in the dream, right?"

"Right, just in the dream. But the trouble is, Mulder, when I woke
up, I wasn't in my bed. I was in the kitchen. There was glass on the
floor, but none of the windows were broken. What's going on, Mulder?"
she said, and her voice broke as she said it. "What's going wrong
with me?"

For a moment Mulder could only stroke her hair, trying to think of a
good explanation. "Okay," he said. "You were walking in your sleep
and broke a glass or a vase. You incorporated the sound into your
dream."

"Listen to you," she said, smiling fondly. "Trying to be the logical
one."

"I know, it's a new role for me. So? What do you think?"

"I don't know. I just don't understand why I keep having the same
dream every night. What does it mean, Mulder?"

"Well . . . the house is a symbol of the personality. Maybe you feel
someone's invading your personal space. Maybe the last case hit you
too close to home."

"You invade my personal space all the time and I don't mind," Scully
said with just a note of teasing in her voice, which assured Mulder
she was feeling better.

"Your mental personal space, I mean." He waited but she said
nothing. He said, rubbing her back gently, "So tell Dr. Mulder why
the last case is under your skin."

"I--I don't know." It was such a blatant lie that Mulder almost
laughed. Their last case had involved not just kidnapping and
mutilation but rape as well, and although they'd managed to save the
life of the last victim her body had not come through entirely
intact. The worst of it was how much she was like Scully--pretty,
intelligent, educated, self-assured. The kidnapper had left messages
on Scully's phone, the last given just before they captured him, and
the meaning of every one had been the same: no one was safe.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. We'll talk about it some other time."

"Mulder," Scully said. "I just had to see you. I didn't even want to
wait to call you. I just came."

"I know. I don't mind at all. If you want to stay tonight, that's
okay." She nodded and pulled away from him, taking off her
trenchcoat. "You can have the bed."

"No, I'll have the sofa, I don't want to deprive you of your own
bed," Scully began.

"I wasn't sleeping anyway. Just watching a movie."

"Oh?" That teasing look he loved came over her face. "What movie?"

"'The Color Purple.'"

"Unusual choice."

"It's a good movie. And 'True Grit' is on afterwards."

"Mulder." Now her voice was tender, and she traced the circles under
his eyes with her thumbs. "Why don't you sleep?"

"Because," he said, putting her off his lap and standing up, "I'm
afraid of what I might dream." He went into his bedroom and brought
out a spare blanket and pillow. "Should I make popcorn?"

"No, thanks, though. Just . . . stay close, please."

"Anything the lady wishes," Mulder said, giving her the pillow. he
spread the blanket over her and sat down, pulling her close to him
again. She fell asleep before the big reunion scene at the end, and
Mulder watched her sleep throughout the John Wayne movie that
followed. She moved her head from side to side, she licked her lips,
she murmured unintelligably--Mulder thought it was marvelous. It was
more entertaining than the movie, which he'd already seen three times.

Finally Mulder lifted her up and carried her to the bedroom, and lay
her gently on his bed, still wrapped up in the blanket. He meant to
leave her to sleep, to go back to his place on the sofa--but she was
so peaceful, so unguarded, so completely unlike how he usually saw
her, that he had to stay and watch her sleep for a little while
longer. She was beautiful in the moonlight. It turned her skin creamy
with flecks of gold, and her hair the color of burnished copper. He
stretched himself out full-length beside her and propped his head up
on his elbow, and watched her sleep for he didn't know how long.

It may have been an hour, it may have been just a few minutes, but
at some point she stirred and stretched, and opened her eyes.
"Mulder?" she said softly. "I must have fallen asleep."

"Yes, you did."

"Thanks for staying with me."

"Well, you asked me to stay close."

"And this must be your bed," she observed, rolling onto her stomach.
The blanket was so tangled around her that she didn't do more than
untangle her feet. "Nicer than I expected. Since you use it so
little, I mean."

"Well, you know, what's a palace if there's no queen."

She actually laughed. "I like that," she said. "Look at this. Cotton
sheets, flannel quilt, and four big, fluffy pillows. And a headboard
just right for hanging onto. This is paradise."

Images of Scully hanging onto the headboard, writhing beneath him,
suddenly filled Mulder's head--he said quickly, "It's okay, as beds
go. Really hasn't been broken in yet." *Down, boy,* he thought, and
moved away from her, to a safer distance. *Now is not the time and
she is not the person for flirtation.* "You need to sleep," he said,
and started to get up.

"Mulder." Mulder froze. There was something in her voice like warm
honey, like soft and trailing fingers, like a question, like an
answer. He knew what he'd see if he turned around. He was afraid to
turn around. He was afraid not to.

"Mulder," she said again, and moved close enough to him so that he
could feel her heat, feel her breath on the back of his neck. She
slipped an arm around his neck. "Mulder, you promised you'd stay
close. Stay with me."

"I need to turn off the T.V." He got up and went into his front
room, without looking at her. The T.V. was now playing an
infomercial. He snapped it off impatiently and ran his hands through
his hair.

*My best friend,* he thought. *My partner. I love her, I do, but if
we ever do--now's not the right time, she's scared, she's vulnerable--
hell, *I'm* vulnerable--*

He looked up and there she was, standing in the doorway to his
bedroom. She'd been crying again, and she said, not looking at him
for more than a glance as she folded the blanket and put on her
trenchcoat, "I'm sorry--I assumed too much--I embarrassed you--I'll
go now--"

"Scully," he said, and that stopped her. She bit her lower lip and
waited. He went to her and cradled her face in his hand. "I'd be
lying if I said I never thought about you and I as lovers. The truth
is, I kind of look at it as a reward--you know, defeat the bad guys,
get the girl. I'm not sure if now's the time, is all."

"I love you," she said, putting her hand over his on her cheek.

"Oh, Scully, don't."

"Why not? It's true. I love you."

"You know, a person who hasn't slept for 24 hours is as inebriated
as someone who's legally drunk."

"You're the one who hasn't slept. I love you. I think about you all
the time. I used to be afraid of loving you, but I'm not anymore. The
case made me realize something--maybe no one is safe, but there is
one safe place that I know of. And it's right here." She wrapped her
arms around him, enfolding him to her as best she could. "I love you,
Mulder, I love you."

Mulder drew a deep, jagged breath. "I love you too," he said in a
low voice, and embraced her so tightly she gasped. For a moment he
just touched her face, stroked her cheeks, traced her lips, with his
fingertips, then finally kissed her. It was a dream come true. It was
better than a dream. Her lips were soft and she tasted of something
cool and fresh, like a peach.

"There's a poem," Mulder gasped when they finally parted.

"What?"

"A poem. A poem I once heard. 'If I kiss her and her eyes are open,
I am. . .' I forget that part, but it ends, 'If I kiss her and her
lips are open, I am drunk even without beer.'"

"That's beautiful." She had been kissing his face while he talked,
and now kissed his mouth tenderly. "I heard a poem once--something
like, 'Where does this tenderness come from? Your lashes are longer
than anyone's.'"

"Is that part of the poem? 'Your lashes are longer than anyone's'?"

"That's part of the poem."

"I like it." *If I hold her any closer I'll be on the other side,*
he thought, and sighed with contentment, leaning his face aginst the
side of her neck. She stroked his hair, traced his ears, rubbed his
back and shoulders, and he simply held her.

Finally she stepped away from him and said softly, "Either we stand
here and cuddle, or we go into your bedroom and . . . find something
else to do."

"I'm torn," he said.

"You're kidding."

"No, I am not kidding. Part of me wants to take things slow. Part of
me wants to take you on the floor right now."

"I think I like that part better." She shrugged out of the
trenchcoat and let it fall to the floor. He'd tried not to think
about her pajamas but of course he couldn't help it now--royal blue,
satiny, buttoning chastely down the front and coming to a stop just
above her knees. *She was brave to leave the house in something that
small,* he thought. And when she lifted it over and head and cast it
away he realized just how brave she was, for she was wearing nothing
else beneath it but a pair of panties no bigger than a scrap of lace.
In one smooth movement she discarded those as well.

"Still torn?" she said quietly, watching him, and all he could do
was shake his head. She stepped into his arms and kissed him, holding
his head in her hands. He ran his hands down her back, cupped them
around her ass, pulled her up so that she had to wrap her legs around
his waist. He carried her like that into his bedroom and lay her down
on the bed.

"I seem to remember doing this before," he said.

"Something you forgot to tell me?" she teased, and stopped his hands
as he started to unbutton his shirt. "Let me," she said, so he let
her unbutton his shirt, kissing him down his chest as she did so. He
closed his eyes, focusing on the feeling of her mouth on his skin.
She helped him take off his shirt and then slid her hands into the
waistband of his jeans.

He put his hands on top of hers. "Scully, there's something I need
to tell you."

"If you're gay I'm going to smack you."

"I'm not gay. It's not that. I just. . ." He took a deep breath. "I
don't have any condoms."

Her eyes widened. "I don't either. I've never had sex without them."

"Neither have I."

It took a moment for the implications of this to hit them, and they
grinned at each other. "I want whatever you give me," Scully said,
and kissed him, hard.

He laughed beneath her mouth, and said, "If *that* happens we're
both retiring and moving to Tahiti."

Scully just grinned at him again and unbuttoned his jeans, tugging
them down his hips. "Oh my," she breathed when she saw him, and
Mulder couldn't hide his own smile.

"Glad you like."

"Definitely looks. . .friendly." She closed her fingers around him,
stroked the length of him. Mulder's breath was ragged and fast, and
suddenly he pushed her hand away.

"I don't want a handjob from you," he said hoarsely. "We're making
love, not seeing how many different ways we can fuck."

"Well, if you put it that way," Scully said, and as he kissed her
she began to make low, demanding sounds that seemed to come from the
most private part of her. He kissed down her throat, between her
breasts, down her belly to between her thighs. At that point he
stopped and looked up at her. Her eyes were dark and barely focused
on him, but she caressed his jaw tenderly and said, "You do what you
want, sweetheart."

"All in good time," he replied, and kissed her left leg down to her
toes. He sucked each one in turn and kissed the bottom of her foot,
and then did the same to her right foot, and slowly kissed his way
back up. By the time he reached her belly she was moaning and moving
restlessly, waiting for him to touch her more thoroughly. He used his
tongue and his lips on her belly up to her breasts, and then paused.

"What is it?" she said thickly.

"I just want to look at you. You're so beautiful."

She smiled in appreciation but said, "Plenty of time later for
looking, Mulder, I need you to *do* something."

He grinned wickedly and said, "I want to make you come. Not just
that, I want to make you scream."

"Do it, then," she said impatiently. He kissed her chin, her throat,
and finally took one hardened nipple into his mouth. She cried out at
the sensation, and as he suckled first one breast and then the other
her cries became faster and more demanding, until finally she said
raggedly, almost weeping from frustration, "Enter me, Mulder, please,
I need you."

"Are you sure you're ready?"

The groan he got in reply seemed enough of an answer. He stooped
over her, supporting himself on his knees and arms, and she wrapped
her legs around him so high they were almost over his shoulders. He
kissed her deeply, and as he did so, gently, slowly, entered her.
Took possession of her. Claimed her for his own.

He tried to keep it slow and gentle, but she was like a wild thing
beneath him, writhing, twisting, calling out to him, kissing him
sloppily as she barely had herself under control. And soon she didn't
have herself under control at all. The orgasm came over her like a
wave, shuddering its way through her body, and she clung to Mulder
and cried out inarticulately through this wave and the ones that
followed it, until Mulder thought she would shatter from the force of
them. And it was only then that he let himself go enough to allow his
own release, which seemed to him graceless and primitive, but when he
opened his eyes again and saw her smile he knew it didn't matter. She
was still at last, breathing deeply, her face flushed and her lips
swollen.

"Have I mentioned," Mulder said, his voice still hoarse, "that I
love you?"

"Frequently," she said, and Mulder supposed he had said a lot of
things he couldn't remember. All of them true.

"You feel all right?"

"I feel wonderful. Like I've never really been alive before."

He smiled at that and kissed around her mouth before finally
capturing her lips, which parted eagerly beneath his.

Eventually they stopped kissing again, and settled next to each
other beneath the blankets for the night. "Tomorrow," Mulder began,
but Scully shook her head.

"One day at a time," she said.

"Tell me one thing, though. Did you mean what you said? About, well,
our lack of birth control?"

"I meant it. I mean it now."

"It's a little scary."

"Do you think you're up to it?"

"Yes," he said seriously. "I do."

She nodded slowly, and tucked her head under his chin. "You make me
brave," she murmured, tracing patterns onto his chest with her
fingertip. "There's nobody else in the world I'd even consider. . ."

"Nobody else in the world I'd want," Mulder murmured in reply. He
heard her low chuckle and smiled, and soon he slept. And whatever his
dreams were, they were full not of shadows, but of hope.

End.