Remember that little mid-Pusher fic I wrote a few days ago?
It's still haunting me. So bad.
All I can think about his Mulder's thumb lingering on the corner of her mouth and I feel like I will suffocate if I don't get it out, so have a taste of what I am now compelled to write.
She doesn't want to kiss him like this is the last time she will ever get to see his face, but her lips part, her body arches into his, and he leans against her more and more. Even when Mulder moves his thumb from the corner of her mouth to stroke her cheek, a gesture as familiar as it is calming, she cannot forget about the dawning reality that he might be about to die.
His mouth tastes like the spearmint chewing gum she keeps in her purse with a faint trace of salted sunflower seeds, and she runs her tongue over his teeth in an effort to map it out—just in case, just in case.
Just in case he walks into that hospital and leaves strapped to a gurney, cold and lifeless. Right now, he is warmer than the blood running through her veins and the blush spreading across her cheeks; his grasp on her is both gentle and desperate, willingly taking and swallowing the silent pleas streaming from her mouth.
It's a breathless whisper lost in the panic blooming in her chest, a fear so cold it burns away any rational thought, reducing her to screaming instincts and pure, unfiltered want.
"Scully," Mulder tries again, her name pressed against her own lips so she feels it more than she hears it, but she can't listen to him, not yet. When he creates a tiny pocket of space between their bodies, one of her hands leaves his hair and fists his shirt with white knuckles and scratching nails. Mulder's mouth wanders, and so does hers, still refusing to part.
It's stupid, it's childish, it's borderline immature—it's everything she hates being, a completely new kind of vulnerability leaving her confused and off-balance. Tethering her to the ground beneath their feet is not the force of gravity but Mulder, who never leaves her orbit. No matter how many miles might separate them, she can always sense his presence: in the air, the lights blanketing the city, in the black ink pressed into the paper of their files, deep within her body buried in the marrow.
"Dana, please," he says softly, an exhale ghosting over her skin, and she finally breaks away with a gasp.
