by Livia Balaban
Rated NC-17 (sexual content) = V, SA, MSR.
Spoilers: Requiem
Summary: Details are fading. She wants to remember.
She wants to remember, but it only happened once.
Once, obviously, was all it took. One fortnight with that healing ship in Africa, one night in Mulder's bed. One mumbled confession of need, one simple act of physical union.
And this.
She wishes she could remember it more clearly.
They rushed. So intent upon bursting the dam of repressed want, they tore at clothing, pressed against each other, slid together and apart and together with urgency.
There would be time to get it right. Next time.
She wishes she could remember the feel of his skin under her fingertips. But it was only once. Her tactile memory is not keen enough.
She remembers the sound of his half-sob, half-gasp, the wet smack of flesh against flesh. She remembers the sounds of it.
She wishes she could remember the feel of it.
She wanted him so badly her instincts instructed her to rip away all obstacles to her goal. She slashed his chest with her nails in the awkward, frantic rush to remove his shirt. He didn't seem to notice. She didn't care.
She'd thought about it, having him inside her, but when it happened, it wasn't what she'd expected. He wasn't inside her. He was above her, crushing her with his fierce weight, hammering at her relentlessly, slamming her into a fortress of pillows with the force of his thrusts. The only thing inside her was his thick penis, driving and withdrawing and driving again, stimulating her to near madness.
She remembers the shivering thrill of his groans. She remembers the twinge of exhilaration from the notion that he would feel free enough to release his restraints and reveal this wild need to her.
But she cannot remember how her body felt. No matter how hard she tries, even in her dreams, she cannot recapture the taste of him on her tongue, the feel of his tendoned neck between her lips, the shocking, violent force of her orgasm.
It was only once.
Only once with his powerful arms around her back. Only once with his insistent tongue stroking frenziedly alongside hers. Only once that his roaming fingers stippled her skin and only once that he asked her to let go, to moan aloud, to want him. Only once that he wrenched from her a crude scream.
She remembers the awkward silence in the office as they acclimated to what they had done, and how. And why.
She remembers the chill of the air, and the emptiness of her bed as she lay alone the subsequent night, tormenting herself about what to do next.
She remembers negotiating with herself. She would call Mulder only when the laundry was done. She would see him when she finished her case report. She would spend the night with him again once this next case was solved. She would go to him when she was certain that he could be all she wanted.
There was always another case, always another reason to stay away.
In only a matter of weeks - she was stunned at how quickly they raced past - she was ready again.
But her body was not.
Shivering, afraid for her health and what they would find in the forest and of her need for him, she went to him. He held her, trying to push her away.
Ironic, she thinks to herself, that his most vehement plea for her to go away and find a life - a life free of conspiracy and fear - took place only inches from their own growing child. He lay behind her, agonizing over his responsibility for her infertility, six weeks into her pregnancy.
At the time, she was hurt. "Don't you understand?" she wanted to scream at him between frail sniffles. "I'm here for you! I've decided what I want!" He was too busy pushing her away to know. Too busy blaming himself to see what she was offering.
She snorts angrily and tries to sleep.
She wishes she could remember the warmth of his arms around her, but it only happened a handful of times. And only once with his hot, damp skin against hers.
Only once. She wishes she could remember the feel of it. She wishes she could remember the smell of him. Her sensory memory isn't as good as she wishes it was, and there are no new memories to make.
She only wants to know that she traded away something worthwhile.
She only wants to remember.
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End.
Thanks to: M. Sebasky, Alicia, and Nikki. Cofax for using the "e" word. BC for continuing to inspire ambiguity.
