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sisterspooky1013 · 2 years

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More Than A Feeling, Chapter 12

Rated X | Read it here on AO3

Mulder wakes to the patter of rain and the heat of her bare back nestled against his chest. A smile breaks out over his face before he even opens his eyes, and he sighs contentedly as he pulls her closer. She murmurs a little half-whine, half-groan, unhappy to be disturbed, so he doesn’t wake her. He just revels in the feel of her rib cage rising and falling against him, and the soft, sleep-worn smell of her.

He cranes his neck around, looking for a clock, but Scully’s watch is sitting on the counter and he’d have to unfurl himself from their cozy little nest to check it, so he stays put. Carefully, he reaches over her and catches the cord for the blinds between his thumb and forefinger, then slowly draws them up until he can see outside. It’s dreary and dim in a way that makes it hard to pinpoint the hour—it could be 4:00 am or 9:00 am, or even 3:00 in the afternoon.

He spots a slip of paper tucked between the pane and frame of the window, and again he carefully reaches over her in an attempt to retrieve it. It’s just barely out of reach until he rolls Scully forward slightly and flicks at the edge of it with his fingernail, and it falls onto the bed. It’s a small slip of cardstock, about the size of a business card, and when he flips it over he recognizes it as the fortune he got from Summer’s machine.

True happiness lies on the other side of a leap of faith—if you are willing to risk the fall.

“What are you doing?” Scully grumbles, her eyes still closed.

“Where did you get this?” he asks, his immediate thought being that she must have taken it the other night in the bunkhouse—but why?

She rolls onto her back, tugging the blanket up under her arms to cover her breasts as he sees a flash of embarrassment cross her face. She takes the card and considers it for a moment, then looks at him.

“From Doraldina,” she says, and he’s surprised to hear her call the machine by name. “Summer made me do it on our first day here.”

His eyebrows furrow and he takes the card back.

“This is yours?”

“Mhmm,” she answers, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Huh,” he says flatly. “They must all say the same thing.”

“No,” she replies. “I’ve seen others. They’re all different.”

He feels a little tug in his belly, a familiar sensation he gets when he witnesses something extraordinary, something inexplicable that confirms his belief that there are influences greater than man, or even God, at work in his life.

“What?” she asks, sensing his unrest.

He looks down at her, all cinnamon freckles and ocean eyes, and that mouth that he’s only just beginning to truly appreciate. He could tell her, but she’d just say he’s crazy, or explain the mechanics of collating and the statistical probability that the same card was dropped into the stack twice. She doesn’t believe in fate or miracles, but he hopes that she believes in him. He’s ready to spend as long as it takes showing her that the fortune is true, that he won’t let her fall. That it’s worth the risk.

He leans over her and sticks the card back where he found it, then grabs the blanket and yanks it up and over both of their heads, making Scully shriek with surprise. The light under the covers is muted and hazy—enough to see the outline of her features, but not enough to allow her to be self-conscious about her nudity.

“Hi,” he says smoothly, running his hand over her bare waist.

“Hi,” she replies, a smile in her voice.

“How’d you sleep?”

She puffs a little laugh through her nose and worms her leg between his.

“I don’t recall a lot of sleeping,” she quips shyly.

He hums in agreement, brushing his lips over hers. They share a series of soft, sleepy kisses, keeping their sleep-sour tongues in their mouths. She’s so warm and so incredibly soft, and he considers claiming a sudden onset of illness that will get him out of slough and keep him here in this bed with her for eternity. He’s not sure that’s what she wants, though. Last he checked, she isn’t even sure what she wants.

“How do you feel?” he asks, hoping that his tone makes clear that he’s not fishing for compliments regarding his performance.

She’s quiet for an achingly long time, and he’s glad he can’t see her face very well. Despite his tendency towards self-flagellation, he would prefer not to watch her tell him that they’ll leave this all behind like a wild weekend in Vegas, never to be discussed nor repeated.

“I lied to you,” she says quietly, her voice tight, “when I said that I don’t know what I want. That’s not entirely true.”

His belly drops out, dread burrowing under his rib cage. He doesn’t say anything, just brushes his fingers softly over the skin of her back and waits. She pulls in a deep breath and lets it out slowly, and he can practically hear her thoughts racing.

“I do want this,” she finally rasps out. “But—what if it all goes to hell?”

He chuckles a little and relaxes.

“I don’t know,” he says plainly, and he knows even without seeing it that her eyebrows shoot to her hairline.

“You don’t know?” she repeats incredulously.

“I can’t predict the future—that’s Doraldina’s territory. Maybe it’ll go to hell, I don’t know. But maybe it won’t.”

“That doesn’t freak you out?” she asks, and it reads as a genuine question.

“A little,” he admits, running his hand down her back until he’s cupping her bottom. “But I think the juice is worth the squeeze, so to speak.”

He gently squeezes her ass cheek and she snorts, then burrows her face into the crook of his neck.

“Okay,” she says so quietly he almost doesn’t hear her.

He pushes her away a little, encouraging her to look at him. She tilts her face up, the tip of her nose brushing against his.

“Okay…?” he says, in request that she elaborate.

“Okay…let’s give it a shot,” she replies, and he snaps the blankets down to expose them both to the light. “Mulder!” she admonishes him, crossing one arm over her chest, though she’s smiling.

He pushes her onto her back and covers her body with his, providing modesty by way of her breasts smashed against his chest.

“Okay,” he repeats, peppering kisses all over her face as she giggles.

He feels so buoyant he might float right up and out of this trailer, carrying her with him up into the atmosphere. He leapt, and he landed, and she’s right here next to him on the other side.

A series of insistent bangs on the trailer door startles them both, and they look at each other sharply.

“What time is it?” she whispers, and he grimaces and shrugs.

“Lucas William Michaelson, you better get that sweet ass up and in the kitchen before the crew hangs you from the chump churner,” Madge hollers from the other side in her most prolific mom voice.

Mulder’s eyes go wide and he scrambles off of Scully, scanning the floor for his boxers and jeans as she wraps the blanket around herself and watches him with a teasing smile. He hops around as he threads his legs through one garment and then the other, nearly toppling over when he’s met with the inside-out leg of his pants. Scully covers her mouth with her hand to conceal her laughter at his expense, and he pounces back onto the bed and kisses her sloppily.

“Okay,” he says again, and she puts her hand on his chest and shoves him away.

“You’re late, go,” she says playfully.

He pulls his shirt on and crosses to the trailer door, opening it to find Madge on the other side with her arms crossed over her chest and a thin yellow rain poncho covering everything from the waist up. Her grouchy expression softens when she sees him, and she shakes her head knowingly.

“Sorry mom, one second,” he says, rushing back to the bed.

Scully’s eyes go wide as he tackles her, pushing her onto her back and kissing her fully. He brings his mouth to her ear and whispers one more time, “Okay,” before backing away reluctantly, keeping his eyes on her until he pulls the trailer door closed behind him.

The air outside is consumed by a miserable misting rain, but he couldn’t possibly care less. He sets off toward the cook trailer with Madge trailing behind him, feeling invincible.

“Fools rush in, Buddy Boy,” he hears her mutter with a chuckle, but he doesn’t bother correcting her.

A day, a week, a month, a year, six years, seven, eight, a hundred. He would have waited forever for her, but he’s glad he didn’t have to.

“Damn, he must have fucked you right up into heaven,” Summer says, chucking a rain-soaked toolbox onto the workbench in the maintenance trailer. “I think I’ve seen you smile more in the last two hours than the last three weeks!” Scully feels her cheeks warm and she arranges her face into a neutral expression. “So,” Summer continues, shucking off her coat and shaking droplets of rain from the rubber exterior. “Was I right, or was I right?”

Scully’s mind flashes on the top of Mulder’s head between her legs, his fingers digging into the tops of her thighs. She doesn’t intend on dignifying the question with an answer, but the corners of her mouth just won’t stay down, and Summer beams at her.

“I fuckin’ knew it!” Summer declares victoriously, and Scully shakes her head.

“Anyway,” Scully says emphatically, changing the subject, “I see now why Tami is so afraid of rain. It’s a ghost town out there.”

“Yup,” Summer agrees. “And slough will be torture. I hope you got plenty of sleep.”

Scully doesn’t even realize that her lips have betrayed her again until Summer slams her hand down on the surface of the workbench and yells, “Fuck, I hate you! You lucky bitch!”

Scully shrugs and finds herself apologizing, but truthfully she is not even the slightest bit sorry.

Time drags by slowly with nearly nothing to do. A handful of brave customers come out in full rain slickers and boots, but a ride on the Viking with rain whipping in your face isn’t really anyone’s idea of a good time. The agents pull down their plush to keep it dry, and the concessions turn off their deep fryers to save on power.

Picker’s suggestion at breakfast that maybe they should start slough early considering the rain was met with stern refusal from Tami.

“It’s the last day!” she’d exclaimed with clear offense. “People wait all week to make it out one last time, we can’t cut ‘em off at the knees!”

By the time Mulder and Madge serve beef stew for dinner in hopes of warming up the wet and weary crew, Tami begins to reconsider.

“Fine, start packing up the plush and breaking down the punk rides,” she relents. “But leave the chump churner up, and the Gravitron. Those ones are Dadeville favorites.”

Relieved, the crew begins a slow, unenergetic slough. Summer and Scully pull down the Yo Yo and the Beetle Bounce, then take a break to warm up and dry out a little. Scully cuts behind the joints on her way to the donnikers, and startles when someone grabs her by the wrist.

“Hi,” Mulder croons, walking her backwards until she bumps up against the plywood backing of a booth.

“What are you doing?” she asks, though she makes no attempt to stop him as he lifts her by the hips and pins her to the wall with his pelvis.

“Quality control,” he murmurs against her mouth.

His skin is wet and chilled, but she can feel the heat of his groin through his jeans. Her body responds, becoming warm and pliant, though her eyes dart around at regular intervals to ensure they aren’t being watched. Beads of water drip off his nose as he laps at her mouth, grinding against her until she hums.

“Hey,” she says, pushing him away a little. “This is a family friendly establishment.”

“I don’t see any kids around, do you?”

“Uh-uh,” she agrees, her willpower draining rapidly.

“Get a fuckin’ room, for chrissakes!” Mulder drops her to the ground but stays close, and they both turn to see Lenny with an umbrella perched over his head and a smile on his face. “This is a goddamn carnival, not the back row of a movie thee-ay-ter.”

“Sorry,” Scully mumbles, averting her eyes in embarrassment.

“Don’t need to apologize to me,” Lenny says, pointing first to himself and then to the midway. “But you might be apologizing to some poor mother who catches sight of that tent in your man’s pants and has to get herself to church straight away.”

“Fuck off, Lenny,” Mulder spits at him, though in jest, and Lenny chuckles.

“Crazy ass kids,” he says as he turns and walks away.

Typically, the final night in any given town ends with a flourish. Tami plays “More Than a Feeling” one more time as the crew walks around and ushers customers toward the exit, and there are promises to come back the following year as teary-eyed children clutch their plush.

The final night in Dadeville is anything but typical. Rain comes down in sheets as the rides and booths are disassembled with wet, trembling hands, rivulets forming on the midway and turning the ground to mush.

Mulder makes quick work of packing up the cook trailer and picnic tables, then does what he can to help take down the rest of the show so they can get on the road to Branson. It’s slow-going, interrupted by regular breaks to try and warm up or dry off, and by 1:00 am he’s starting to feel dizzy from lack of sleep and overexertion.

He and Scully are huddled beneath a canopy, sipping cups of coffee and bouncing their knees to keep warm. Her eyes are bloodshot and drooping, and he feels just a twinge of guilt about keeping her up for the better part of the night.

“How long do you think it’ll take for the rest?” he asks her, given that she is more well- acquainted with the time it takes to put up and take down the rides.

She sighs, pushing her bottom lip out into a disappointed pout.

“A couple hours, probably,” she says, and he genuinely isn’t sure if she’ll make it that long.

Picker ducks under the canopy and pushes his hood back, shaking droplets of water off his bald head. He smiles at them and reaches for a cup of coffee.

“You two look like shit,” he says good-naturedly, and they both give him thin, irritated smiles. “You know, I’ve got enough beanies to keep you zoomin’ all the way to Timbuktu,” he adds, eyeing them as he pours an obscene amount of sugar into his cup.

Mulder shakes his head, and is surprised when Scully asks, “What are they, exactly?”

“Amphetamines,” Picker answers, resting his cup on his rounded belly. “Ritalin, to be specific. Clinical grade, not crank or any bullshit like that.”

“How many milligrams?”

Mulder turns and looks at her incredulously. Picker flashes his eyes between the two of them, sensing Mulder’s unease.

“Ten each, but I’d recommend two if you want anything more than a baby buzz,” he says.

“Okay,” Scully says, holding out her hand.

Mulder places his hand on top of hers and pushes it into her lap.

“What are you doing?” he asks quietly, though Picker can certainly hear him.

“I’m exhausted,” Scully says pleadingly. “I won’t make it through slough, much less to Branson. I’ve taken amphetamines before, I know what I can handle.”

His eyes widen, and hers roll. She holds out her hand again and Picker reaches inside his jacket, pulling out a baggie and placing four small white pills in her palm. He glances back and forth between them again, aware that he may have inserted himself into the middle of a lovers’ quarrel, then pulls his hood back up and walks away.

“You wanna fill me in on your history of popping pills?” he asks, watching her place two of the tablets on her tongue and wash them down with a gulp of coffee.

“I’d like to see you make it through med school without them,” she whispers in response, holding out the other two pills for him.

He sighs, then plucks them out of her palm and swallows them dry. He’s no stranger to amphetamines either, but he falsely assumed that Scully had better sense than that. They sit for a few more minutes, then Scully slowly stands and stretches.

“Let’s get this over with,” she grumbles, and they prepare to head back out into the drenching rain.

Scully’s hands tremble as she attempts to loosen a nut on the Music Fest. Her heart is racing, and she feels overly alert and reactive. Maybe she should have started with just five milligrams.

Mulder, on the other hand, has acquired Herculean strength and laser focus. He carries ride cars like they’re made of air, handing them off to Picker who loads them into an eighteen wheeler. His hair is plastered to his forehead, his T-shirt soaked beneath his poncho, and despite her own sour mood and unregulated nervous system, she can’t stop sneaking glances at him. Though it’s been less than twelve hours since he was naked in her bed, she already feels the pull of wanting him again.

A flash of lightning illuminates the sky, and they all look up and then at each other. One, two, three, four, five seconds later, thunder rumbles so loudly that she feels it vibrate in her chest. The already dumping rain morphs into a deluge, cutting visibility down to a few feet and making it both dangerous and impossible to continue.

“Take cover!” Someone yells from beyond the wall of water, and they all dart off in different directions in search of somewhere to wait out the storm. Mulder grabs her hand and runs, and another flash of lightning blinds her as he drags her along. She keeps her head down, rain dripping off her brow as she watches the ground beneath her feet for any tripping hazards. They go up a ramp and across a platform, and suddenly she is indoors.

Mulder drops her hand and she pushes her hood back, sweeping water off her forehead and wringing out her hair. To her left she catches her reflection, which is stretched at the top and bottom but scrunched up in the middle. They’re in the funhouse.

Another flash lights up the interior of the small building and she sees that he’s smiling at her, his chest heaving. Something about his expression makes her belly tumble and her heart pick up again as the hazy outline of him moves closer to her. Thunder vibrates the walls, and he draws the zipper down on her raincoat, wrapping his hands around her waist and tugging her close.

Flash.

His lips are wet and cold, but the inside of his mouth is hot and tinged with the earthy bite of coffee beans. He leans into her and her feet move, shuffling slowly back and back and back, further into darkness.

Boom.

She hits a wall and he pushes her coat off her shoulders before she hears the plasticky peel of him removing his poncho. Cold fingers fumble at the fly of her jeans, fingernails raking down her hips as he helps her work just one leg out of them.

Flash.

He hoists her up, cold glass pressing into her bare ass cheeks and the heat of his groin against the apex of her thighs. He’s hard, and she knows she’s wet beyond the rainwater soaking her clothes and hair. It feels like a dream or a memory, not quite real, not quite here or now.

Boom.

She sucks in a sharp breath as he pushes into her, then wraps her arms around his shoulders for leverage. They kiss clumsily as he fucks her in long, languid strokes, the heels of her boots digging into his ass.

Flash.

Her eyes are open, and she sees a hundred versions of them reflected back at her. His pants around his ankles, her one bare leg and one jeans-clad leg wrapped around his hips, the flex of his glutes as he pumps into her.

Boom.

Her heart throbs erratically in time with the throbbing between her legs. He pauses and hikes her up a little, changing the angle of his shaft slipping into her just perfectly. She whimpers against his ear and he groans as she flutters around him, increasing his pace. She watches the darkened wall in front of her, waiting for the next flash of light to show her what they’re doing. The thrill of how wrong it is, the risk of being discovered, only excites her more.

Flash.

She unravels, the quake of the thunder and her orgasm melding into one shaking force. Mulder mutters obscene things in her ear that make her blush even as she’s still coming, and as they slowly come down she realizes that the rain stopped. He pulls away slightly, finding her mouth in the inky dark and kissing her gently as they catch their breath.

There is a sharp crack that makes them both pause. They wait, straining to hear through the rush of rainwater dripping off of every surface, and a few seconds later there is a loud crash. Mulder withdraws from her and sets her down on the ground so he can pull up his pants. Scully struggles to turn her pant leg right side out and then shove her booted foot back through it, nearly falling to the floor more than once. They step back out onto the platform at the front of the funhouse and give each other a once over to be sure all their clothing is back in place. Mulder catches her eye and smirks, then reaches out to grab her hand. She takes a step toward him, but the boom of Picker’s raised voice reminds her why they left the funhouse in such a hurry, and they take off towards the boneyard.

They arrive to see a semi-circle of bedraggled carnies holding makeshift weapons, and Picker with a rifle in his hands. At the center of the circle is Mitch, his face swollen and purple and his hands balled into fists at his sides. Mulder and Scully slow down as they approach, hovering at the outskirts of the crowd as they try to understand what’s happening.

“I’m not givin’ you shit, now get the fuck out of here before I call the cops,” Tami says from her spot in the middle of the group. Jean is right by her side, one hand resting on Tami’s shoulder and her jaw set with anger.

“Good, call ‘em,” Mitch spits angrily. “I think they’ll be interested to hear that you’re refusing to pay me for hours worked.”

“I’d rather deal with an L&I claim than give your sorry, rapist ass one red cent,” Tami says levelly, and Mitch lunges toward her.

Picker moves toward Mitch, Jean positions herself in front of Tami, and Summer lifts a rubber mallet high over her head. It quickly devolves into an indecipherable melee, fists and profanity flying and the foreboding clack of the bolt on Picker’s gun as he prepares to fire. Mulder and Scully try to intervene, but it’s over as soon as it starts when the crowd clears out and Mitch is left on the ground, his hands tied behind his back with an extension cord. Picker hands off the rifle to Summer and hauls Mitch to his feet.

“Time to say goodbye, fucker,” Picker says in a mocking tone, then begins to drag Mitch away with Summer trailing behind him.

The rest of the group disperses, nursing bumps sustained in the dog pile and refilling their coffee. Mulder and Scully exchange a look, and then wordlessly set off in the direction they watched Picker and Summer leave with Mitch. When they have eyes on the trio, they duck behind a booth and wait until they see them disappear into the maintenance trailer. Their boots suck against the muddy ground as they jog over to the side door, which is closed. Scully motions him over to a window at the back that affords them a partial view inside, though a tall tool chest obscures one half of the interior of the trailer.

They can see Summer, rifle still in hand, watching as Picker unties Mitch’s hands and shoves him out of view. The trio exchange words that Mulder and Scully can’t hear, and Summer digs around in her pocket before handing something to Picker. Picker steps forward and disappears, then moves back into view with an ugly sneer on his mouth. They’re both speaking to Mitch, gesturing to something, and eventually Summer raises the rifle and trains it in his direction. They’re still and quiet for a moment, and then a flash of light bursts in the trailer, so bright that Mulder and Scully both turn away and shield their eyes.

Scully blinks rapidly, trying to regain her vision as white spots obscure the world around her. She stands and looks back through the window, but she can’t quite make out the forms she sees. A dog begins to bark and snarl, and one of the forms moves toward the door of the trailer.

Mulder grabs her hand and tugs her around the corner just as the door pops open and a tall, mangy dog bursts through, its jaws snapping and its teeth bared. The dog lunges toward Scully, raising up to its hind legs and slamming its front paws into her chest, knocking her down. It moves to bite her arm and Mulder kicks it hard in the side of the head, throwing it several feet away. The dog is barely fazed, turning back and lunging for her again. She raises her arms to protect her head and her ears are hit with the blast of the rifle. She hears only a high, muted ring as she moves her hands away from her face and sees Picker take the gun from Summer and press it right up to the side of the dog’s head. The dog is whimpering in pain, blood rushing from its belly, until Picker pulls the trigger again and it goes still.

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#the x files #x files fanfic #txf #dana scully #fox mulder #xf fanfic #x files #the x-files #xfiles #case fic #case file

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