Classification: MSR/Angst

Rating: NC-17

Spoilers: Up to "Requiem"

Summary: Sometimes a memory can be triggered by
the strangest of things.

Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully are not mine.
They belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions
and Fox Broadcasting.
 

"Bedroom Walls"

 
            Why is color so important to a woman?
Some of my favorites have been violet,
lavender, orchid, plum. This particular shade,
however, tells both its color and its scent:
lilac. Similar to many different shades, but
exactly like none other. It is soft, subtle,
yet unmistakable. It is a hundred springtimes,
thirty six new beginnings.

         Pinks, whites and now gold rise before
me as I light the wick of the lilac pillar
candle before me. Like a wife bringing in the
beginning of Shabbas, I practically bless the
light that springs up. May this light fill a
room of comfort for us.

         My "Amen" is interrupted by the
turning of the door handle. My partner enters
the room with a less than reverent, "Oh, shit,"
as he surveys the decor. Words such as
"brothel," "over done" and "tacky" might come
to mind.

         "Hello to you, too," I reply to his
greeting.

         "C'mon, Scully. Grab your stuff. We're
outta here."

         "Gee, why? I sort of like it here," I
say with a smile.

          "Let's go. This isn't quite what
their website promised," he says with
disappointment. He reaches for my hand while
saying, "I wanted this weekend to be special,
you know that."
 

         And I do. Today, marks the sixth month
in this the greatest of paradigm shifts from
friends to lovers. We have had our ups and
downs, our stops and starts, but we are still
here. He tried to find a place that would cater
to my most forbidden of tastes: a bed and
breakfast out of a romance novel. Where we are
actually standing, though, seems closer to one
of his fantasies.

         Taking me in his arms, he speaks close
to my ear, "I really tried to find a lacey
Martha Stewart place. I guess they decided to
go more with a Rod Stewart theme. I'm sorry."

         "Let's stay," I say with a surprising
amount of certainty.

         "What?" he says, pulling back, away
from me.

          "It would be a shame to drive all the
way back home."  Lifting my finger up to trace
his bottom lip, I look him square in the eye
and say slowly, "After all, we have everything
we need: you, me-." I speak the last item on my
list of necessities by glancing over at the
platform bed with the red, satin sheets.

         Taking my idea under consideration for
all of a moment, he concedes, "Ok, but that
better not be a water bed. You know how I get
on a rolling sea."

         Grinning at his joke, I pull myself up
to give him a quick kiss. Against his lips I
say, "Don't worry Mulder. Remember, I'm a
sailor's daughter. I'll protect you."

         I turn away from him and walk across
the gold, shag carpet to the bath. He does not
follow, so I figure he will want to shower
after me. I finish my ritual shedding of
clothes and cares quickly, and wrap just a
towel around me when I am done. The room is
warm and I know it will soon grow warmer.
 

         He's sitting on the left side of the
bed, dressed only in his bathrobe when I enter
the room. Instead of meeting my gaze, he's just
looking at the wall. To be exact, he's staring
at the wallpaper.

         Now to be honest, the wallpaper is the
one of the most "charming" features of the
room. On a shiny. gold background, there are
red flocking swirls and curves. It caused me to
stop dead in my tracks when I first entered the
room. I sense, however, that there's something
more going on here for Mulder. I try to break
the chill that has suddenly descended upon the
room by saying lightly, "Getting decorating
ideas, Mulder?"

         He doesn't say anything at first. He
leans forward, elbows on his knees, his fingers
lacing at the bridge of his nose. "My parents
had wallpaper like this."
 

          I walk toward the bed and choose to
sit behind rather than next to him. I
instinctively know from years in a Catholic
confessional box that sharing secrets is a lot
easier when one doesn't have to look another in
the eye. As the side of my thigh makes contact
with his lower back, he begins:
 

         "It was the summer before Samantha was
taken. My mother always loved the color peach.
She liked the way she looked when she wore it.
She even went through a phase of dyeing her
hair red because she thought it became her. My
father thought so, too. It was time to re-do
their bedroom and my mom wanted a Victorian
theme. She ordered the wallpaper with an
emphasis on her favorite color. Since it was a
special order, she knew she couldn't return it.
It finally arrived and when they un-rolled it,
my parents were horrified. It had bright,
orange flocked designs on a gold lame'
background. I can still see my mother's hand
flying up to her mouth. For a moment, the
tension of a wrong choice hung in the air. Then
my father leaned in close to my mother and
tried to keep his voice low so we wouldn't
hear. Whatever he said, made her laugh and then
we all were laughing, from relief, I guess.
After we settled down, we all helped put up the
brothel wallpaper.
 

         My bedroom was right next to my
parents' room. To be honest, I used to hear and
listen to them make love sometimes. I know, I
was strange, even then. It used to give me an
odd sort of security. I knew it made them happy
and if they were happy, then the whole family
was happy. The night after the wallpaper went
up was one for the record books."

 
         Here, he begins to chuckle softly. I
know, though, that things did not stay this
way. There would soon be no happy, loving
couple or contented, young boy.
 

          "After Samantha was taken, I tried to
keep some sense of normalcy. I tried to do the
same things in the same way to insure that
something would stay the same. I ate crunchy
peanut butter sandwiches everyday for a month.
Yet despite my creative efforts, everything
changed. I really don't recall hearing my
parents too often afterward. I remember one
dreary afternoon, I walked into their bedroom
and took a good look at the wallpaper. I had
never really noticed its intricate patterns
before but I swear, that day, I could see
hideous, grotesque faces in the swirls. It was
as if even the walls had eyes that mocked our
once secure family."

         I reach out to him, to encircle him
with my arms. As my hands connect around the
front of him, I rise up on my knees to whisper
in his ear, "It's OK. Why don't you take a
shower?"

         He pauses. "No, no, not now." He turns
swiftly in my arms and facing me says, "No,
right now, I just want you, Scully."

         He lowers his head near me, his
forehead brushing my cheek. His lips first
touch my chin, not even really kissing. Softly,
he swipes his lower lip against mine, just
grazing the tender flesh there. Over and over
his lips move with mine, until his kiss grows
harder. Before I can take a breath, he has
pulled me tightly to him and has taken me down,
under him, as he lays down on the bed.

          His once slow, languid kisses have
been replaced by a devouring, working of his
mouth against mine. I am confused by the sudden
change.

         His hands have moved up to my hair,
tangling in it, pulling my head up closer to
him. He is hungrier than I ever known him to
be. He is. . . desperate. His hands drop just
long enough to rip away the towel that has been
shielding the rest of my body from his
onslaught of need. I am naked before him.
Pausing just a moment, he lifts his lips away
from me and opens his eyes. I see my own
confusion mirrored back. Yet, he cannot stop.

      His mouth finds my neck next. There, he
sucks, nibbles and trails frantic kisses down
to my shoulder. I long to slow him. I try to
give back a kiss, a delicate whisper near his
ear. I can't reach him and his hands are on my
shoulders virtually holding me down.
 

         I would entertain some panicked
thoughts if it weren't Mulder. And then I get
it. It's precisely because we are whom we are
to each other. We can be tender. We can be raw.
We can take. Selfishly. We can give.
Selflessly.
 

         So I do. I give of myself, my body as
he roughly enters me. He needs to reclaim a
part of who he was that was lost so long ago.
Somehow, he can find that in me. I may not be
able to give him a life from my body, but I can
let him again hold onto a physical joy that a
young boy once heard through thin bedroom
walls.
 

         He is so close now. I silently beg him
to let go, to let it happen. He pounds into me
relentlessly and then he finds release. He
cries out and the sound fills the once quiet
room around us. His forehead drops to my
shoulder and it is then that I feel his tears
against my skin.

         "I'm sorry, " he chokes out.

         My hands stroke his back and find
their way to his hair. "Shh, shh," I soothe as
one would a child.

         He withdraws from me, but does not
leave my body. "I'm sorry about that, Scully. I
want to make it better for you," he whispers as
his mouth once again moves down my body.

         Lower and lower he moves. His lips
caress the tenderest of skin below my navel. As
his cheek brushes against the wiry curls that
crown the mons, he raises his eyes to meet
mine. I am gifted with a tender smile as he
once again lowers his head, intent on his goal.
His lips, tongue and fingers circle and tease,
pressure and soothe. Moments flutter by as he
again and again brings me close and then
retreats. I feel my climax so near. My hands
seek his shoulders, and as I press myself once
more to his sweet mouth, I am there. It is the
one place where there is only one being- us.
 

         As my breathing slows and he gathers
me in his arms, I feel the most content of
smiles spread across my face.

         "Are we alright, Scully?" he asks.

         "Oh, we are more than alright," I
reply. "How exactly do you do that so well?" I
wonder aloud, referring to his skills that go
beyond hulling sunflower seeds.

          "I just think 'Roadmap of Alabama.'
You know, all those winding, twisty roads," he
deadpans.
 

         My shoulders shake with a quiet laugh
in response to his explanation. It's good to
hear his sense of humor returning. It means he
is here, present, now.

         "So, is it safe to assume that my 158
game winning streak is still intact?" he says
leeringly.

          "Tell me you keep track," I say with
a hint of wariness in my voice.

          "Sometimes an obsessive memory can be
a good thing, " he offers.

         "Yes, yes it can," I agree.
 

          "I hope you'll allow me to use the
rest of the weekend to make up for this place,
for everything, for before," his voice lowers
in shame.

           "Mulder, it is alright. I
understand."

           And I do. I always will.
 
 

END
 
 

Feedback: Tell me about your
wallpaper!joemimi@prodigy.net
 

Thank You's as always to the dear and creative
Georgia. If you're wondering about the lilac
pillar candle, the brothel-like wallpaper, the
crunchy peanut butter, a roadmap of Alabama,
and the phrase "158 Game winning streak" take
it up with her- she provided the elements for
this improv fic.

Also to The XScenes group- your kindness and
comfort knows no bounds! You rock!