TITLE: Thank You (1/1)
NAME: Cyra
E-MAIL: ccontryman@ups.edu
CATEGORY: SRA, MSR
RATING: NC-17
SUMMARY: When lines of communication break down, Mulder's frustration
reaches the breaking point and he does something drastic.
ARCHIVE: Please, anywhere, just let me know.
FEEDBACK: Do you have to ask?  This is the first fic I've posted to this
list, so it would be doubly appreciated.
SPOILERS: None that I can think of.
DISCLAIMER: Yeah, I don't own them.  Whatever.
NOTES: Okay, so I'm getting better at this submission thing.  I sent my
first stories to Gossamer five months ago and have seen neither hide nor
hair of them since.  So I'm going to try this and see whether I get any
results.  That's not a slam to the Gossamer people; I know how busy they
must be with all this crap.  At any rate, for all intents and purposes
this is my first web-published fic.  Please be gentle.
I realize that M and S aren't really in character in this piece.  I was
in a particularly sentimental mood last night, however, and that is
reflected on this screen.  Ah, well.

***

THANK YOU

Only the sound of their deep breathing and the shift of limbs between
sheets broke the stillness of the early morning darkness, and that
knowledge was driving Mulder insane.  Not a sound.  Not even a little
gasp escaped her lips as he worshipped her with his body.  He used his
mouth on her neck like he was trying to draw her soul out of her.  His
hands roved over her rosy skin, desperately working to elicit a
response.  And he thrust into her with a kind of a crazed methodology,
using this angle and that, holding back his release with determined fury
until he could satisfy her.

Scully's eyes were closed, her mouth open, her head thrown back to
accommodate his mouth on her throat.  Her hands rested lightly against
his waist, occasionally brushing up and down his flanks.  It was always
thus with her.  She never said a word to him, not a single word or sound
except for the light rasp of her breathing, only slightly faster than
usual.

The only indication he had that she was close was the subtle tightening
of her internal muscles.  Instinctively, Mulder redoubled his efforts.
He opened his eyes, wanting to look into her face as she came, looking
for something, anything to encourage him.

But there was nothing.  She clenched around him; her hands stilled their
light stroking, her neck arched a little...and then she relaxed, her
eyes coming open and her head lifting to look at him.

Her eyes were soft, loving, and he couldn't stop staring at her as he
gave into the incredible pressure in his body and allowed himself to
explode.  Her mouth curved into a beautiful smile and she put her hands
in his hair.

"Thank you," she whispered after a few moments, when he'd caught his
breath.

He said nothing, rolling over onto his side and wrapping his arms around
her.  What she did to him...it was incredible.  When he made love to
her, it was like coming home every time.  It was like...

"Thank you, Mulder," she murmured again as she drifted off to sleep,
tucking her chin into his chest.

He closed his eyes.  *Thank you?*

What she did to him was obviously ten thousand times what he did to
her.  In all the months that they had been lovers, he had never brought
her to that place that he visited nightly, that place where she was the
universe and he was drowning in it.  It hurt his pride, certainly; no
man liked the knowledge that the woman of his dreams didn't respond to
him.  But there was something more.  He wanted to give her pleasure.  He
wanted to show her what was in his heart every time he looked at her.
He wanted to make her feel what he felt, if only to atone for all the
things he'd taken from her.

He held her against his side as he drifted off, sated physically but
emotionally aching for more.

***

She wasn't there when the alarm woke him the next morning.  She never
was.  A naturally early riser, she was always in the kitchen making him
eggs or pancakes, often wearing the shirt that he'd worn the night
before.  She would kiss him sweetly and ask him how he'd slept, feed him
food with her fingers, and sometimes they would make love again.  And
when they did, it was the same as the night before.

Mulder sighed and hit the alarm, rising out of bed reluctantly to
another session of enduring Scully's altruistic love.  Seeing her
affection for him, reveling in it, and yet unable to reciprocate what
she did for him.

"Good morning," she said, coming into the bedroom as he started getting
dressed.  "You dreamed last night.  Do you remember what about?"

He shook his head.  "Did I wake you?"

"Of course not," she said, stripping out of his shirt.  He nearly
swallowed his tongue as she walked, naked, to the bureau and started to
dress in jeans and a t-shirt.

"I'm going to the store for milk and a paper," she said.  "Is there
anything you'd like?"

"Just you," he said, and she winked at him before she kissed him and
left the apartment before he'd fully awakened.

"Scully, Scully, Scully," he said to himself, flopping back down on the
bed.  He took the shirt that she had discarded and pressed it to his
nose.

There was a pen in the breast pocket.  Frowning slightly, he shook it
out and looked at it.  It was a good pen, a fountain pen.  Not his.
Scully must have put it there and forgotten about it.  He wondered what
she'd been writing so early in the morning.

He went out into the living room, seeing that she'd made coffee and set
out bagels and cream cheese for him.  He had just hunkered down on the
couch when he noticed the book on the coffee table.

It was her journal, he thought absently as he demolished his bagel.  She
must have been writing in her journal.  Usually she kept it tucked away
in her bookcase.

He eyed the journal.

It was preposterous, of course.  He would never invade her privacy so.
She used her journal as an outlet, for things that she couldn't tell
anyone.  To even peek inside it would be a terrible breach of her trust.

But what if she had written about him?  About what he was doing wrong?
Maybe she'd woken and gone to pour her heart out to her little book,
bemoaning his inability to satisfy her sexually.

Amazing how the mind works to get what it wants.  If he read her
journal, maybe he could make her happier.  God forbid he simply asked
her, he thought with a scowl as he flipped to the last entry, dated that
day.

*I lay awake until about three a.m., watching him sleep.  He dreamed all
night long.  I think he had nightmares.  I wanted to wake him, kiss him
and comfort him, but I didn't know what I would say.

*When he sleeps, I can tell him how I really feel.  I can wait until his
breathing is deep and regular and hold him to me and tell him what is in
my heart, how much I love and adore him.  Sometimes my voice soothes him
in his sleep and his dreams abate; last night, it just seemed to make it
worse.  I stopped talking, but the nightmares didn't stop.

*God, I love him so.  I woke at six feeling like I'd gotten a full eight
hours of sleep.  That's what he does for me.  He makes me feel young and
invigorated and fresh.  I got out of bed, wishing I could wake him and
make love to him but knowing that he didn't sleep well.  There was his
shirt, folded on the chair where he'd placed it last night, and I put it
on.  I love his clothes.  They smell like him.  I set the alarm for nine
and came into the living room.  And here I am, telling this book the
things that I don't have the courage to tell the man I love.

*He seemed defeated after we had sex last night.  He always seems
vaguely heavy afterwards.  Like we've failed.  I guess he doesn't have
that depth of feeling, that wealth of passion and desperation that I
do.  He climaxes, every time, but I can't shake the feeling that he's
never quite happy with me sexually.

*I know I should touch him more.  I know that my inability to express
myself extends into the act of lovemaking.  I suppose I'm afraid - if he
knew what he does to me, I would be vulnerable.  If I allowed myself to
let go during sex, to kiss him and touch him as I want to, he would
know.  He would see that I need him so, that I don't feel like I'm whole
without him anymore.  That I haven't for a long time.

*And then there's the fear of disgusting him.  If I told him exactly
what I felt, I would probably die of mortification.  I mean, he's used
to women in porn videos screaming profanities all the time, but I'm not
exactly the kind of woman who could pull that off.  I would end up
looking like a fool or a strumpet.  Or both.

*I remember the first time we made love.  I nearly screamed.  I wanted
to wrap myself around him like a whore and cry in his ear.  I wanted to
tell him that I love the way he touches me.  I don't know what he'd do
if I did something like that.  Afterwards, he kissed me and held me and
we lay together, awake, for hours.  I still wonder whether he realized I
was crying.  He didn't seem to.

*I couldn't help it.  I felt like he'd taken everything that was good
and right in me and turned it into something beautiful that the world
could see.  I felt blessed.

*When he turned to me again that first night, I tried to look at him.  I
tried to open my mouth and tell him that I loved him, that I'd never
felt like that before.  But I couldn't.

*He took me again, gently, like I was something precious.  I remember
how his eyes looked as he came inside me, and how it felt.  I thought I
would die.  I thought that I would never feel that way again.

*But I do.  Almost every time.  I have never been with someone that can
do to me what he does.  Which is why I feel so incredibly guilty.  How
can I bring him to that place?  That wonderful place where his body and
mine are the only things in the world and all that matters are his eyes
and his heart.

*Maybe this morning, after he wakes, I'll tell him.  I'll tell him I'm
sorry for what I can't do for him, and ask him what he needs.  That
would be the logical thing to do.  There's nothing to do today; we could
stay inside and talk, and I could make love to him like he does to me.

*Who am I kidding?*

Mulder stared at the floor for what seemed like hours after he read that
last line.  He jumped when he heard her key in the lock, and threw the
book back down onto the table.

"Good morning," she said warmly when she came in.

"Good morning," he said uncertainly, watching her.  Wondering what was
going on in her head.

"What are you thinking, Scully?" He asked.

She looked up at him in surprise, placing the groceries gently on the
table.  "What?"

"What are you thinking about?  What were you thinking about when you
were at the store?"

She smiled faintly, a blush creeping up on her cheeks, and started
putting things away.  "I was thinking that it would be nice if we could
do something fun today.  Go to the Smithsonian, or a drive somewhere."

Mulder's eyebrows rose.  That was in direct contradiction to what she'd
written in her journal.  "Any particular reason?"

"No."  There was a definite flush on her throat.  "I just thought it
might be nice to get out of the apartment."

"Would you mind staying in today?"  He asked gently.  "I'd like to
talk."

He couldn't miss the instant look of panic on her face.  She covered it
quickly, but it was there.  She swallowed and took a breath.  "Is
everything okay?"  She asked softly.

"Yes, Scully, everything's fine," he assured her.  "It's just that I
don't know what's going on in your little head lately.  I think maybe
we're missing each other somehow."

She stared down at the table for a few moments, then slowly made her way
over to the couch.

"I'm sorry," she said softly as she sank down next to him.  Her hands
were knotted in her lap and her gaze was averted.  "I know
that...that...."

"Shh," he said tenderly, taking her in his arms and laying back with her
head on his chest.  "You haven't done anything wrong, Scully.  Please
don't worry."

"Then what's the matter?"  She asked, and in his hypersensitive state he
heard the tiny catch in her voice.  It hit him, suddenly, that the night
they'd first made love - the night she'd cried - he had thought he'd
hurt her. He'd heard her cry.  He had lain with her for hours,
tormenting himself for being too rough, for not considering her needs.
And finally, when he couldn't take it anymore, he had tried to make up
for it with as much gentleness as he could muster in his need for her.

And she had been happy.  Just happy.

"I love you so much," he whispered into her hair, and heard her breath
catch again.  "When I see you, I feel like the luckiest guy on earth
because I get to hold you like this.  To see you every day.  You are a
remarkable woman, Scully."

"Thank you," she whispered.

Feeling slightly guilty for what he was about to do, yet knowing that it
was the best way to reach her, he started slowly stroking his hands over
her hips.  "When I hold you like this, I feel more passion and love than
I ever have for anyone.  And I wonder what it is that you want."

She made a move to lift her head, but he forestalled her.  "I want to
know how I can please you, Scully.  What you like."  He kissed her ear.
"What you need."  He moved his lips down to her neck.  "What turns you
on."

Slowly, her hands crept up and lightly grasped his shirt.  "You do,
Mulder," she said in her perfectly normal, modulated voice.

"Do I?  You shouldn't have such low standards, Scully.  If I can, I want
to make you scream.  I want to hear you say my name as you come."  He
slowly eased his hands over her buttocks, squeezing gently.

She swallowed, pressing her face into his neck.  "Mulder," she said
plaintively.

"Are you embarrassed, love?"

"No," She said.  "I feel...so much, Mulder.  I don't know how to say
it."

"Try, please," he pleaded.  "I want to know how to please you, Scully."

"You do," she repeated, curling her head closer to him when one of his
hands curved gently around her thigh and started kneading.

"Okay," he said, changing tacks.  "Okay.  Let's try this.  A simple
trial and error.  When you feel something, will you tell me?  You don't
have to speak.  Just let me know somehow.  Okay?"

"I'll try," she said.

He slowly maneuvered their bodies until he was on top, and finally got a
look at her face.  She looked as she always did when they made love, her
head back and her eyes closed, breathing softly out of her mouth.  He
realized now that she wasn't unexcited.  She was trying not to show her
response.

*Maybe it's a Catholic thing,* he thought ruefully.  *God forbid she
show her lover what he makes her feel.  That would just be sinful.*

His mouth on her neck, he began unbuttoning her shirt.  "You have
beautiful breasts, Scully," he whispered between kisses.  "Perfect.
Soft.  And your taste...God, Scully," he said just before he eased one
beautiful breast out of its confinement and took her nipple in his
mouth.

Slowly, tentatively, she raised her hands to his head and threaded her
fingers in his hair.

"What does that mean, Scully?" He asked, his cheek against her.  "Do you
like that?"

"Yes," she murmured.  Her face was flushed hotly, and not just with
arousal.  She was embarrassed.  Laughing softly, he began suckling her
again.

Her hands gently pressed his head to her.  Feeling more aroused than he
ever had before at this stage of foreplay and not a little triumphant in
his progress, he somehow got her out of her shirt and bra with his mouth
still on her breast.

He couldn't count the times he'd done this to her.  And she'd never
pressed him against her as she was now.

"What do you want me to do?"  He asked for what seemed like the
thousandth time.

She said something under her breath.

"What, sweetheart?"

"More," she whispered. "Please, Mulder, more.  Harder."

He obeyed her immediately, drawing deep on her, biting her nipple gently
as he palmed the other roughly.

She swallowed, and he made an ingenious deduction.  "You swallow an
awful lot when we're making love, Scully.  Why do you do that?"

She shook her head, still pressing his head to her breast.

"Are you trying not to make any sound, Scully?  Is that why you do
that?"  He transferred his mouth to her other breast and laved it
roughly.

"I...suppose so," she whispered in a high, strained voice.

"Why don't you let it go, Scully?"  He kissed her jaw and then her
mouth.  "Open up your throat.  Let your larynx relax.  Don't suppress
anything that wants to come out of your beautiful mouth."

"Mulder," she moaned.  "I don't think I can.  Please...touch me..."

"Try," he said, taking one breast in each hand and sharply,
unexpectedly, pinching her nipples.

She cried out.  It was the most beautiful noise he had ever heard.  "Ah,
Scully, that's right.  I want to hear your voice.  Let yourself speak to
me without words."

She laughed, a little hysterically.  "Words?  What are they?"

"Have you ever felt like this before, Scully?  Tell me the truth."

"Yes," she whispered.  "Yes.  With you."

"Why don't you show me?  Please, Scully, let me see how you feel."

Slowly, she opened her eyes, awkwardly removed her hands from his hair.

"Mu-" Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat.  "Mulder," she
said.  "I see now that...you feel unsatisfied with my...response to
you.  I didn't know that this was the case.  I'm sorry.  I'll try,
Mulder, I truly will, but it's hard..."

"Scully," he said firmly, hiking himself up on his elbows and staring
down at her intently, "I could never be unsatisfied with you.  Never.
You are my dream, Scully.  My best and last lover."

She blinked up at him.

"I woke up this morning and immediately remembered that I had failed you
again," he said.  Her eyes widened, and she shook her head.

"Shhh, sweetheart.  That's what I thought.  I never know, afterwards,
how well I've done for you.  I've always felt that you don't feel
excited by me."

"No, Mulder..."

"But," he said, cutting her off, "I came in here this morning and saw
your journal."

Her eyes darted to the coffee table.  "Oh," she said quietly.

"I'm sorry, Scully, for invading your privacy.  But I felt that I had to
know what you had written this morning.  To see whether there was
something I could do, something that I've been missing."

He slowly pressed himself into her, his head in the crook of her neck.
"When I read your last entry, I was floored.  I never knew, Scully.

"Last night, I dreamed about you.  I dreamed that you were there, in
that bed, and I was trying to make love to you but you just lay there
and tried to ignore me.  Then you said, 'It's no use, Mulder.  Don't
even try.'"

She made a sniffling sound, and Mulder knew she was crying.  She wrapped
her arms around him and hugged him to her tightly.

"This morning has been my way of trying to draw you out, Scully.  I want
to know what you feel when we make love.  I want you to feel free to
talk to me.  And you should never, never feel like a whore or a strumpet
or a fool with me.  Because to me, you are the most beautiful, sexy,
incredible woman I have ever known, and the absolute love of my life."

"When it rains, it pours," she whispered.

"What?"

"Make love to me, Mulder, and I'll try."

He did.  And she did.  He coached her softly, telling her how she felt
against him and what he was thinking.  She responded, hesitantly at
first, telling him of her love and how his body felt to her.

It was the most incredible sexual experience of his life.  By the time
he pushed inside her, he had made her come twice already with his hands
and his mouth, and each time she had made strangled, inarticulate sounds
that ran over his nerves and hardened him almost beyond endurance.

But none of that compared to this.

"When you're inside me," she gasped, her legs wrapped tightly around
him, "I feel full to overflowing.  Oh, God, Mulder, yes, do that... God,
I love you..." And she was off and running, her words becoming
increasingly graphic.

He listened, his hands on her hips, trying to control her desperate
writhings and keep his own orgasm at bay.  He was sure he was going to
die.  When she started in on his cock, how it felt inside her, he
realized that he wasn't going to be able to wait.  And so he gave in,
pumping relentlessly, oblivious to everything but her voice and her
body.

Miraculously, she started to convulse soon after he did, and they
exploded together, their arms wrapped tightly around each other, sobbing
breathlessly in each other's ears.

Later, when their sweat had cooled and her legs had slid down his
flanks, she lifted her head and smiled at him.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"You always say that."

"Yes."

She said it, he realized, because she meant it.  And she didn't know
what else to say.

"This is usually about the time that you fall asleep," she whispered.
"And then I start in on my little monologue."

"Fire away," he whispered back.  "I can't wait to hear it."

"I already said it."

"That's the kind of thing you say to me when I'm sleeping?"

She laughed quietly.  "Yes."

"I may never sleep again.  I never want to miss it again."

finis