New fic!
Title: Evening
Author: Lynn Saunders
Rating: R
Classification: MSR
Summary: Endless evening.

Feedback: Adored, re-read, printed out, and immortalized
in a quality binder at lynnsaundersfanfic@hotmail.com.
Website: http://www.mindspring.com/~lynnsaunders
Distribution: Archive freely, but please drop me a line
to let me know.
Date Completed: 06.18.2007
Disclaimer: Oops, not mine. Sorry.

Special thanks to Carol for quick and speedy beta.
Sallie, I hope you feel better soon!
This is my first attempt since 2004, and it's a short
one. I'm easing back into things. I hope you enjoy it.
It is a mystery to me why I find it impossible to
write WinterFic at any time other than summer.

- - -

"It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing and it
was going to snow. The blackbird sat in the cedar
limbs." Wallace Stevens, Thirteen Ways of Looking
at a Blackbird

- - -


Ribbons of smoke curl through peppermint air. Mulder
shivers, the creak of winter seeping into his bones
at dusk in December, with Scully five steps ahead in
the flurrying snow.

The trees stand in perfect rows, branches bowed with
the afternoon's snow. This is new, this glimpse of
spontaneity in the midst of what he considers to
be Scully's very structured life. He cannot remember
her ever shopping for a Christmas tree before.

"Which one, Scully?"

She pauses, looking back at him as if he's crazy.
"I'm not taking one with me. I just wanted to look."

At the entrance to the farm, fires blaze in several large
barrels, keeping the workers warm. Scully approaches,
stretching her fingers out before the flames. She
has a flush about her that he can't resist, and he
takes her by the hand, tugging her away from the fire.
This thing between them is still new and wild, and he
can't control it. He's not sure he wants to.

Earlier, she looked him in the eye and used the word
"farinaceous" in a sentence, curling her perfect lips around
the last syllable. He was struck anew by the iridescence of
her spirit, the parts of her that bind him unawares,
and the parts of him he recognizes in her. Scully
in an elemental sense, beyond her creamy skin and ocean eyes,
down to the spark of her being, the subtle press of her
psyche against his, truly is the most beautiful thing.

There are candy canes for the ride home. He drives with
one hand, maneuvering easily through the moonless night
as Scully licks her lips in his peripheral vision.

Her apartment is dark and warm, and there is no question
that he'll stay. It's an endless evening, and he's
melting with his hands on her body and her thoughts
tangling in his mind. Euphoric, this rise and fall.
He doesn't want it to end, an addict already.

He's fingerprinting her spine, licking his thumb and
pressing it to the base of her neck. In the turmoil
of grief, a hazy darkness, his ramshackle life, she
is there. Equinoctial, she separates the dark from
the light.

She brings him to his knees in the best possible way.
This way, with his stubbled jaw scraping her temple,
hands steadying her hips, cock deep inside her. This
way. The best way.

They are rough with each other, frenzied, biting, her
nails digging into his thighs as Mulder growls into
her ear, marking her neck.

Three months and he still can't believe it. He dreams
of these moments when he's alone and restless against
scratchy motel sheets, when he's squinting behind dark
sunglasses, and in a hundred little moments every day.
In the light, there's a logical, responsible reason
to pretend they've never given in. He knows, but none
of it matters when she's moving this way, arching
against him, sweat carving the small of her back, and
all he can think is 'mine.'

All too soon the alarm sounds and they're running late
again. Mulder is taking his time, shaving carefully,
swishing his razor under the running tap. Scully regards
him closely, pausing in the bathroom doorway. She is
already buttoned into her suit jacket, completely put
together. Mulder is shirtless.

She spent years waking alone, flushed from dreams of him.
Now here's the real thing, and she is utterly satisfied
with herself. Sleeping with Mulder has proven to be every
bit as fulfilling as she imagined. He does have a nice ass.

He smiles at her reflection in the mirror above the sink.
"Coffee on the way?"

She looks at her watch briefly and fidgets, adjusting a
button on her jacket sleeve. "If we leave in five minutes."

"Five minutes." He dries his face and reaches for his
shirt and tie, watching her as he buttons and straightens,
flips his collar. He's looping his tie when she takes the ends
away from him, easing the silk into a knot.

Her fingers glide across his lips, and he remembers his
hand moving between her legs the night before, her neck warm
beneath his mouth, and the realization that being able to
make love with the person who understands you better than anyone
else in the world is a rare thing, the best thing, and something
to celebrate.

- - -

lynnsaundersfanfic@hotmail.com