Satellites
This was originally supposed to be written for the XF Porn Battle. It became the prompt that refused to be written and I wrote three other ficlets instead. The original prompt was The X-Files/Firefly, Mulder/River, rain. But, really, like I am capable of writing anything that’s not MSR.
Rating: PG-13 (I know, I know, wimpy for porn)
Timeline: S9 for XF; pre-movie for Firefly
Thanks to a. for saying this is “like a very sophisticated metaphorical psychic threesome.” I called it oddness and melancholy fluff.
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River likes the cargo bay. It’s Serenity’s womb, the place where the old River once curled like an embryo and then spilled out into Simon’s hands too soon, too soon. This is where she comes when the dark horses chase her out of sleep, when she is just a wound inside the shape of a girl and the girl is screaming. There are cracks where the light falls through.
The catwalk is cool against the backs of her legs and she reaches out into the black, into the when and the where, to find a story. “Tell me a story,” she whispers to the ‘verse. She finds rain.
He’s naked and letting the cool air dry the sweat on his skin. He’d asked Scully about it once, the scent of rain, just so he could listen to her explain the chemical complexities of petrichor. Some of his best memories are of her and the rain, like the first time he heard her laugh, or the first time they made love. Laughter, rain, Scully. He falls into the memories, grateful for the sweetness.
It was a Sunday, early, and he woke to the tap of rain against the windows, running quick and silvery down the glass. Scully was sprawled on her stomach next to him, her face mashed into the pillow under the tangle of her hair. He was stupid over her and the twin gifts of her skin, her sleep. He loved it when she drooled or snored, anything that set her apart from her workday persona. When she was just his, his Scully.
He’s trying to pretend that his wandering hands are hers, to preserve this fragile web he’s shaping, spun between weather and memory. The woman in his dreams is so beautiful, with hair as red as Inara’s lips, and so small. Smaller than River, smaller than Kaylee. Yet in his dreams she is so large, she is everything. She is hands and cheeks and a quick step and the colour black and always, always. River closes her eyes and it’s
the first time. When she came to him and she was so sweet he almost couldn’t bear it. The sound of the rain fills his head and she’s kissing him, pressing him back against the sheets. Her tongue is darting out, licking him, driving him mad. He rolls them so he’s pushing her down into the bed, so she can’t possibly get away. And he’s touching her, everywhere, and he knows he’s rushing but he’s so afraid this isn’t real and she’s so small and warm and soft beneath him he wants to cry. Mulder knows it’s his own hands touching him but he can pretend that it’s really
Scully. Her name makes River’s head echo. She’s never been with him before when he’s been awake. His thoughts are darker now, slower; they make her feel heavy and aching. She feels him stroking himself and underneath that the cramping of her own belly. He’s thinking about Scully’s breasts now, taking them in his mouth, the hard little nipples, licking and sucking at them. And Scully’s small body writhing under him, pale and smooth against his darker skin. She’s so beautiful, River thinks, Mulder thinks, and he wants more. He wants to put his mouth on her where she’s hot and wet and find out exactly how she tastes. He’s stroking faster now, his breathing laboured, the images flashing like
lightning illuminating the pale skin of her wrist where it’s flung above her head and her wet, red, open mouth making those little noises he almost can’t hear over the rain but they’re going straight to his groin until he can’t even think and it’s so good that he never wants to stop. He wants to die with Scully under him, slick with sweat, her legs wrapped around him, and him driving in and out of her body while she whispers oh and please and Mulder. And then suddenly she’s coming around him, her eyes wide and blind, gripping him and gripping him until he can’t hold back anymore and he’s spilling inside her and
all over his hand. River shakes with the force of their orgasm, gasping. For a moment they are awash in pure animal satisfaction. Then the reality of her absence reminds them and the weight of their grief turns them foetal. Legs pulled towards chests, arms wrapped around legs, they weep with the terrible ache of loss until they fall, exhausted, into sleep.
Simon finds her on her back with her skirt hiked up on her thighs and tears spattered against her cheeks. He pulls her into his arms and she clutches at his reassuring Simon-shape, his solidity. “What is it, mei-mei?” he asks. “Are you hurt?”
She rubs the top of her head against his collar in a movement that could be interpreted as yes or no. She wants to say yes, that it is her heart that hurts. She is a broken doll whom no one will ever love like that. She wants to say no, that it is not her own hurt she still feels like a dull ache, the way she can still feel the dull throb of pleasure inside her and the wetness on her thighs.
Instead, she says nothing and lets Simon’s sedative swirl its way through her molecules.
“Goodnight, Scully,” she whispers into the black.