One word prompt: redemptive
Feel better soon!
His touch redeems her. Her body has suffered: indignity, loss, violation, irradiation. She doesn't understand, even now, the full extent of what has happened to her. Only some of was done to her appears on scans. Some of the rest of it has been revealed through therapy. Some of it she understands only in rare moments on dark nights, or when she hears a specific noise she can't remember later.
But when Mulder touches her, the scars don't matter. Her body is a wonder next to his. Together, they coax pleasure from her body and his, a miracle so profound that she weeps, sometimes. When it takes longer than expected, or goes a different direction than she anticipated, that's almost nicer. It means sex is never mindless or formulaic. They listen to each other in bed, always, and she doesn't take that for granted after all the years of missed communication. Yes, some of it was intentional, on either of their parts, but not when they're together like this. This time is sacred.
They are magic together. It was hard-won. It's well-deserved. She shivers in his arms, mouth open. Her pleasure is a prayer and it's a blessing and she gives thanks for all of it.
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I say this with the utmost sincerity, but I hope you have the courage and space and freedom in the upcoming year to be the nasty little freak that you are. I hope you can find a place to realize that the things you think make you unlovable and disgusting are in fact very lovable and not disgusting in any way. I hope you find sincerity beyond your ability to even comprehend.
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If you're still taking prompts: bower.
(Hope you're feeling a bit better, or will soon!)
They're in a nameless hotel in the middle of the country. They've changed cars again - it's a little pickup this time, with a camper shell. Innocuous, among the backpackers and backcountry aficionados. Scully sits on the motel bed. It's not a bed for lounging. She flips through the channels on the tv and settles on a nature documentary.
"The bowerbird is unique among passerines," says a cultured voice. On the screen, a blue-black bird bobs up and down among stalks of dry grass. "The male crafts a structure to house his mate and decorates it, using found objects to accessorize it in a way that will please his potential mate."
"Well, he can't go to Hobby Lobby," Scully murmurs back to the screen. There's a tapping at the door. She gets up to flip back the privacy latch.
"Who can't?" Mulder asks, coming in.
"The bowerbird," Scully tells him. "He reminds me of you."
"I can't go to Hobby Lobby?"
"Can you?" He shrugs and hands her a greasy paper bag. "I don't know how you heard that."
"I've had you bugged for years," Mulder says easily. "I thought you knew."
"That would explain things." She opens the bag. Inside is a sandwich wrapped in plastic, a brownie likewise swaddled, and a heap of loose potato chips. Everything looks homemade. Mulder has his own bag. There's already a chip crunching between his teeth. His lips are glossy with oil.
"So why do I remind you of the bowerbird? My glossy plumage? My dance moves?" He bobs his dark head.
"The way you used to put things up around the office to entice me." Scully eats a chip. They're very good. "Fewer pebbles, more articles clipped from unedited magazines, but the theory is the same. You lured me in with your slideshows."
"That might be the only crime I've ever been accused of that I'm actually guilty," he says thoughtfully, unwrapping his sandwich.
"Breaking and entering," she says. "Criminal trespass. Tampering with and/or destroying government property. Assaulting a witness."
"I wasn't accused of that last one," he corrects her.
"You did do it." Did Roche deserve it? That's not for her to say.
"I didn't say I didn't." He takes a bite out of his sandwich. "You're one to talk, Miss Contempt of Congress."
"I'd do it again," she says vehemently.
"I know you would," he tells her, and for a moment, she feels like they're back in the basement office, making a stand, instead of on the run.
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