Make Me Forget
Make Me Forget
by icedteainthebag
rated R
Pairing: Scully/Reyes
Make Me Forget
by icedteainthebag
rated R
Pairing: Scully/Reyes
I'm a secret Screyes shipper. Yes, I made that term up, and it's fairly stupid. This is for dashakay.
________________________________________
She wakes up in the morning, her body stiff, her mind protesting its forced departure from a sequestered world of idyllic dreams. She's in a downy cocoon, warm and safe from the world, and she opens her heavy-lidded eyes to the dawn of morning announcing its rebirth through the slanted blinds of her bedroom.
make me forget, push it away
And in the hazy light, through the morning-afterglow she still feels tingling in her torso, she sees dark hair spread smoothly, perfect in its chaos, on the light blue cotton of the pillowcase on the other side of the bed, the side seldom slept on, hardly at all.
She breathes quietly as she accepts this reality, not wanting to disturb the peace of the body lying next to her. She doesn't know whether to touch her or to keep to herself.
And she'd cried when she'd realized what had to be done, her teardrops hot against her cheeks, wet on her hand, sobs silent. Her attempt at keeping it all in had finally failed. It always did. It was a good run, her denial of things inevitable, her imagining that the world could whir away around her and leave her alone, to let her have this one thing, untouched. Such simple perfection now balled up into a knot of painful acceptance.
The night before this grey dawn had been a dark one indeed, one of her darkest. She'd come home to a silent house for the first time in nearly a year. It was all shadows, shadows she walked through without reaching for the light. It was quiet, save the hiss of air pushing through the vents, the hum of the refrigerator containing milk he no longer needed. She'd thought of the cupboard stacked with little jars, of the guest bedroom filled with things that had been so necessary and now couldn't be more useless. That door was closed, and she then decided not to open it again, not for a very long time.
She'd opened up the cabinet beside the fridge, pulled out a bottle of vodka, and poured herself a shot into a tumbler. It was more than a shot that burned its way down her throat.
They're both gone now, she'd thought.
Pouring herself another drink, she'd willed the burn of the vodka to dull the ache.
The adoption agency had gently tried to get her input as to what kind of home she wanted for him and she'd steadfastly declined any involvement in the replacement of her son into another woman's arms. She went home that night and her mother hugged her, and she was numb and stood still, her hands limp at her sides. He was sleeping when she looked at him in his crib, and she touched the mobile over his head, the moon and the stars that Mulder had picked out so many months ago, before his arrival. She sat by him for a very long time, an arm across the side of the crib, her cheek resting on it as she gazed at him dreaming.
Monica had shown up after she'd reached her self-imposed limit on straight vodka intake. She always carefully consumed these things, knowing the precise calculations for her tolerance based on body weight and never pushing past that edge.
Monica had apologized for the disturbance, but said she was worried, and at first Scully argued in her head with Monica's concern--there's no reason to be worried, I'm fine, I can handle it, but thank you--until she realized that there was a reason, she wasn't fine, and she really wasn't sure if she could handle it at all.
She'd let Monica in and they'd sat on the couch. As the night had worn on, streetlight began its fight with what darkness it could reach. It still hid tears, red cheeks, tired eyes. Scully could taste the remnants of the vodka in the back of her throat, the essence of it still permeating her sinuses, her head light and dizzy, her pain temporarily alleviated.
She'd wanted to feel comforted yet it felt out of reach, it felt miles away from this place where they sat in silence. She'd stared at nothing, focused on nothing.
Monica's hand on her face had been smooth and didn't surprise her--Scully chalked it up to the delayed response of her better judgement due to her alcohol consumption, and she'd closed her eyes and pressed her cheek into Monica's palm, her brow furrowed, biting the inside of her lip.
She memorized the touch of his soft baby skin on her lips, the laughter in his eyes on their last morning together. She held him close to her chest, as tightly as she could, wanting only to hold him more tightly, wanting only to keep him in her arms, a part of her demanding that they wake up from this nightmare to find themselves in a world far away from all of this, the harrowing reality of one life about to be shattered, because she was convinced that he would continue on even if she couldn't.
She'd kept her eyes closed as she felt lips graze across hers, as soft as his touch, and she'd jumped a little and opened her eyes to see Monica looking at her, nothing but steady and sure, two things she'd not felt for a very long time. She wanted to feel it.
Monica's mouth had moved to her ear as she whispered a question of approval, if this was okay, and Scully had nearly laughed in bitter realization of how everything was so far from okay. But she'd wanted to feel something, anything, and unless she felt this, she was going to feel consumed by the hurt threatening to envelop her entirely.
And so she'd kissed back, welcoming the wave of warmth, the slight solace that washed over her at the feel of Monica's breath on her cheek, that for a moment, pushed away her pain. They'd existed, mouths joined, two on the couch in the night, in the quiet. She wasn't alone and she'd clung to that idea, that she wasn't alone, even if it only lasted a few fleeting moments. She wasn't alone.
Monica felt different from Mulder, and it had been so long since anyone had touched her like this, and she'd felt ashamed for wanting it so badly, for needing it so much. Their bodies were pressed together into the couch cushions, fingers tangling in hair, kisses turning deeper, more desperate, and Scully wrapped her legs around Monica's, just like she always did with him, and then she'd tried to push all thoughts of him out of her mind as Monica's lips moved down her neck, over her collarbone, and she'd arched her back against her, head spinning. She'd wanted more.
And all that time, Monica had breathed questions to her, whether it was okay, whether she should stop, and Scully had breathed her answers in simple syllables--yes, no, more--and hands met bare, heated skin, and fingers traveled on slow, indulgent paths along ridges and curves.
Her head was demanding--make me forget, push it away--and she'd reacted to Monica's touch and mouth as it sent tingles up her spine. Monica had felt so soft and warm, so forbidden and wrong, and somehow they ended up in the bedroom. She was fairly sure she'd led them there, her fuzzy intoxication hardening into the acceptance of her attempted escapism. It was rare, but it was a part of her she couldn't deny, nor would she this time.
They'd fallen to the bed only half-clothed and Scully had held Monica's face as she kissed her harder, legs tangling, panting when she could, attempting to catch her breath. The need pooling inside of her had plucked at her more urgently and she yanked at Monica's shirt and pushed at her pants and unsnapped her bra, and Monica moaned and squirmed against her. Scully's hands had moved roughly over Monica's body, wanting to take what she could, wanting it to overwhelm her senses. They'd moved together, as if anticipating each other's next move. Mouth meeting flesh, stolen gasps, fingernails pressing, prompting for more.
When Monica had pressed her forehead against hers was the only time Scully yanked her head to the side, instantly desperate to avoid her touch, because it seared her and pulled something tight in her chest, that one simple movement between lovers, because it wasn't to be shared between the two of them. It wasn't theirs to share.
make me forget, push it away
She'd wanted to cry when she felt Monica's mouth cover her, and it came out as a whimper with no tears. She squeezed her eyes shut and let her body react instinctually to the feeling of invited intrusion, of the hot slide of a tongue through her, of the light suck of lips over her most sensitive spots. Feel good, Scully had thought as she demanded her body to come. Let it go. She'd worked her hips against Monica's mouth, tangling her fingers in her hair, pulling hard as she grit her teeth.
Her mind had flashed to the feeling of Mulder's mouth on her and his eyes and his fingers, and something sparked under her skin, making her body rise. She'd come hard with a loud cry out at the dark ceiling, an echo of her pleasured anguish. Instantly, greedily, she wanted to come again, and again, and wanted to come until her pain was pushed so deeply back inside that she could forget it existed, again and again.
Her body had quivered as she came the last time, completely lost in a fantasy of what was really happening, of who was really lapping at her and making her jump at every tongue stroke. She'd opened her eyes and looked down to settle her reality.
Monica had traveled up Scully's body and pressed against her side. Scully felt goosebumps travel her cooling skin. Monica had kissed the side of her mouth and she'd turned her head to meet her lips, kissing slowly, pulling her near. Monica's body felt so different--long, delicate, smooth, not hard or muscular, though Scully knew there was a strength hidden below her pale, soft limbs.
And they'd kissed in the darkness as Scully closed her eyes. It was an artificial calm that she welcomly embraced. It had been so long since she'd felt calm, even if it was false, even if it hid the turmoil within.
For moments she felt warm, safe, free from the pain lurking in the dark corner of her heart.
make me forget, push it away
She pretends to be asleep when Monica stirs. She feels fingers brush across her cheek and keeps her eyes closed, even as it makes her shiver.
She feels Monica leave the bed and hears her enter the bathroom.
She's suspended in peace, wondering when she'll first expect the cry of a baby who isn't there. She wonders how it will feel. She doesn't want it to hurt. She decides not to let it hurt her at all.
She begins the day with this resolve, yet she feels it's the greatest challenge she's faced.
by icedteainthebag
rated R
Pairing: Scully/Reyes
Make Me Forget
by icedteainthebag
rated R
Pairing: Scully/Reyes
I'm a secret Screyes shipper. Yes, I made that term up, and it's fairly stupid. This is for dashakay.
________________________________________
She wakes up in the morning, her body stiff, her mind protesting its forced departure from a sequestered world of idyllic dreams. She's in a downy cocoon, warm and safe from the world, and she opens her heavy-lidded eyes to the dawn of morning announcing its rebirth through the slanted blinds of her bedroom.
make me forget, push it away
And in the hazy light, through the morning-afterglow she still feels tingling in her torso, she sees dark hair spread smoothly, perfect in its chaos, on the light blue cotton of the pillowcase on the other side of the bed, the side seldom slept on, hardly at all.
She breathes quietly as she accepts this reality, not wanting to disturb the peace of the body lying next to her. She doesn't know whether to touch her or to keep to herself.
And she'd cried when she'd realized what had to be done, her teardrops hot against her cheeks, wet on her hand, sobs silent. Her attempt at keeping it all in had finally failed. It always did. It was a good run, her denial of things inevitable, her imagining that the world could whir away around her and leave her alone, to let her have this one thing, untouched. Such simple perfection now balled up into a knot of painful acceptance.
The night before this grey dawn had been a dark one indeed, one of her darkest. She'd come home to a silent house for the first time in nearly a year. It was all shadows, shadows she walked through without reaching for the light. It was quiet, save the hiss of air pushing through the vents, the hum of the refrigerator containing milk he no longer needed. She'd thought of the cupboard stacked with little jars, of the guest bedroom filled with things that had been so necessary and now couldn't be more useless. That door was closed, and she then decided not to open it again, not for a very long time.
She'd opened up the cabinet beside the fridge, pulled out a bottle of vodka, and poured herself a shot into a tumbler. It was more than a shot that burned its way down her throat.
They're both gone now, she'd thought.
Pouring herself another drink, she'd willed the burn of the vodka to dull the ache.
The adoption agency had gently tried to get her input as to what kind of home she wanted for him and she'd steadfastly declined any involvement in the replacement of her son into another woman's arms. She went home that night and her mother hugged her, and she was numb and stood still, her hands limp at her sides. He was sleeping when she looked at him in his crib, and she touched the mobile over his head, the moon and the stars that Mulder had picked out so many months ago, before his arrival. She sat by him for a very long time, an arm across the side of the crib, her cheek resting on it as she gazed at him dreaming.
Monica had shown up after she'd reached her self-imposed limit on straight vodka intake. She always carefully consumed these things, knowing the precise calculations for her tolerance based on body weight and never pushing past that edge.
Monica had apologized for the disturbance, but said she was worried, and at first Scully argued in her head with Monica's concern--there's no reason to be worried, I'm fine, I can handle it, but thank you--until she realized that there was a reason, she wasn't fine, and she really wasn't sure if she could handle it at all.
She'd let Monica in and they'd sat on the couch. As the night had worn on, streetlight began its fight with what darkness it could reach. It still hid tears, red cheeks, tired eyes. Scully could taste the remnants of the vodka in the back of her throat, the essence of it still permeating her sinuses, her head light and dizzy, her pain temporarily alleviated.
She'd wanted to feel comforted yet it felt out of reach, it felt miles away from this place where they sat in silence. She'd stared at nothing, focused on nothing.
Monica's hand on her face had been smooth and didn't surprise her--Scully chalked it up to the delayed response of her better judgement due to her alcohol consumption, and she'd closed her eyes and pressed her cheek into Monica's palm, her brow furrowed, biting the inside of her lip.
She memorized the touch of his soft baby skin on her lips, the laughter in his eyes on their last morning together. She held him close to her chest, as tightly as she could, wanting only to hold him more tightly, wanting only to keep him in her arms, a part of her demanding that they wake up from this nightmare to find themselves in a world far away from all of this, the harrowing reality of one life about to be shattered, because she was convinced that he would continue on even if she couldn't.
She'd kept her eyes closed as she felt lips graze across hers, as soft as his touch, and she'd jumped a little and opened her eyes to see Monica looking at her, nothing but steady and sure, two things she'd not felt for a very long time. She wanted to feel it.
Monica's mouth had moved to her ear as she whispered a question of approval, if this was okay, and Scully had nearly laughed in bitter realization of how everything was so far from okay. But she'd wanted to feel something, anything, and unless she felt this, she was going to feel consumed by the hurt threatening to envelop her entirely.
And so she'd kissed back, welcoming the wave of warmth, the slight solace that washed over her at the feel of Monica's breath on her cheek, that for a moment, pushed away her pain. They'd existed, mouths joined, two on the couch in the night, in the quiet. She wasn't alone and she'd clung to that idea, that she wasn't alone, even if it only lasted a few fleeting moments. She wasn't alone.
Monica felt different from Mulder, and it had been so long since anyone had touched her like this, and she'd felt ashamed for wanting it so badly, for needing it so much. Their bodies were pressed together into the couch cushions, fingers tangling in hair, kisses turning deeper, more desperate, and Scully wrapped her legs around Monica's, just like she always did with him, and then she'd tried to push all thoughts of him out of her mind as Monica's lips moved down her neck, over her collarbone, and she'd arched her back against her, head spinning. She'd wanted more.
And all that time, Monica had breathed questions to her, whether it was okay, whether she should stop, and Scully had breathed her answers in simple syllables--yes, no, more--and hands met bare, heated skin, and fingers traveled on slow, indulgent paths along ridges and curves.
Her head was demanding--make me forget, push it away--and she'd reacted to Monica's touch and mouth as it sent tingles up her spine. Monica had felt so soft and warm, so forbidden and wrong, and somehow they ended up in the bedroom. She was fairly sure she'd led them there, her fuzzy intoxication hardening into the acceptance of her attempted escapism. It was rare, but it was a part of her she couldn't deny, nor would she this time.
They'd fallen to the bed only half-clothed and Scully had held Monica's face as she kissed her harder, legs tangling, panting when she could, attempting to catch her breath. The need pooling inside of her had plucked at her more urgently and she yanked at Monica's shirt and pushed at her pants and unsnapped her bra, and Monica moaned and squirmed against her. Scully's hands had moved roughly over Monica's body, wanting to take what she could, wanting it to overwhelm her senses. They'd moved together, as if anticipating each other's next move. Mouth meeting flesh, stolen gasps, fingernails pressing, prompting for more.
When Monica had pressed her forehead against hers was the only time Scully yanked her head to the side, instantly desperate to avoid her touch, because it seared her and pulled something tight in her chest, that one simple movement between lovers, because it wasn't to be shared between the two of them. It wasn't theirs to share.
make me forget, push it away
She'd wanted to cry when she felt Monica's mouth cover her, and it came out as a whimper with no tears. She squeezed her eyes shut and let her body react instinctually to the feeling of invited intrusion, of the hot slide of a tongue through her, of the light suck of lips over her most sensitive spots. Feel good, Scully had thought as she demanded her body to come. Let it go. She'd worked her hips against Monica's mouth, tangling her fingers in her hair, pulling hard as she grit her teeth.
Her mind had flashed to the feeling of Mulder's mouth on her and his eyes and his fingers, and something sparked under her skin, making her body rise. She'd come hard with a loud cry out at the dark ceiling, an echo of her pleasured anguish. Instantly, greedily, she wanted to come again, and again, and wanted to come until her pain was pushed so deeply back inside that she could forget it existed, again and again.
Her body had quivered as she came the last time, completely lost in a fantasy of what was really happening, of who was really lapping at her and making her jump at every tongue stroke. She'd opened her eyes and looked down to settle her reality.
Monica had traveled up Scully's body and pressed against her side. Scully felt goosebumps travel her cooling skin. Monica had kissed the side of her mouth and she'd turned her head to meet her lips, kissing slowly, pulling her near. Monica's body felt so different--long, delicate, smooth, not hard or muscular, though Scully knew there was a strength hidden below her pale, soft limbs.
And they'd kissed in the darkness as Scully closed her eyes. It was an artificial calm that she welcomly embraced. It had been so long since she'd felt calm, even if it was false, even if it hid the turmoil within.
For moments she felt warm, safe, free from the pain lurking in the dark corner of her heart.
make me forget, push it away
She pretends to be asleep when Monica stirs. She feels fingers brush across her cheek and keeps her eyes closed, even as it makes her shiver.
She feels Monica leave the bed and hears her enter the bathroom.
She's suspended in peace, wondering when she'll first expect the cry of a baby who isn't there. She wonders how it will feel. She doesn't want it to hurt. She decides not to let it hurt her at all.
She begins the day with this resolve, yet she feels it's the greatest challenge she's faced.