Title: Tellus Mater (Sequel to Pater Familias) Author: OneMillionAndNine Feedback: kokotheuberchimp@hotmail.com http://www.geocities.com/onemillionandnine/ Rating: Old married NC17, new clumsy NC17, all kinds of NC17 Category: AU, MSR, L/O, Sequel, Angst (plus bonus Violence, Deflowering, Asthma, Vomit, Questionable Parenting, Confusion, Misunderstandings, Mistakes, Frohike Singing, Waffles, Disenchantment, Death and, you know, the stuff of life) Archive: if you want to- I mean - there's no accounting for taste Disclaimer: the characters in the story that follows were invented by Chris Carter, who never meant them to be used this way. Even Thea Fidelis is his but, he might not want any them back now, as they are slightly wrinkled. Beta: MaybeAmanda - it's her fault. Thanks: To MaybeA for spectacular beta and moral support in writing what turned out to be a rather odd story. But at least I am happy with it. This would be totally unreadable without you. And to my husband for Mulder-modeling and other things far too numerous and embarrassing to mention . Your kung fu's the best, baby. Last but not least, thanks to Martha, wherever you are, for answering my Langly question Author's Note : Although Mulder and Scully appear throughout and are pivotal to this piece, it is Gunmen- heavy. As usual, I let the piece take me where it wanted to go, which happened to be right here. Take it up with the Muse, guys. Note: In ancient Rome, although society was organized according the patriarchal principle of the Pater Familias, the father with the power of life and death over every member of his household, twice a year the people made Blood sacrifices to the oldest deity in the Pantheon, the Tellus Mater, or All-Seeing Mother. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* It began like any bad science fiction movie. My life had the ham-fisted irony of an episode of the Twilight Zone, and not one of the classics with Rod Serling, but one of the episodes from the '80's where you knew the whole story in the first two minutes. Or maybe I have been living with 'Mr. Golden Days of Television' too long. Sylvie was in the backyard, eating mulberries and doing her standard running commentary while I valiantly struggled with the weeds around the zucchinis. I have no idea why I took the trouble; it was mid-September and I spent my nights in a post-coital haze wondering what new and exciting dishes I could make with all the damn zucchini in my garden. Yet, I weeded. Martin had just suggested I hollow out the day's bounty and make shoes for the children. I nearly told him exactly what I could fashion out of my produce but pity stayed my hand. After all, the children were right there. Danny, in fact, was doggedly pulling weeds beside me. He paused only to chide his father and sister. "Some members of this family can be very lazy," he signed to me with his grubby little fingers. The accused rolled their eyes in unison. "I have a black thumb," Marty signed back at him. "I so much as turn on the hose and our entire lawn will die. Ask your mother." Danny looked at me skeptically, so I responded, but with my back to my husband. "It's garbage. He just doesn't want to do it. But if they don't want to, they don't have to, Danny. This is not a prison camp. To each his own, remember?" My dear spouse, of course, asked his minion, "What's she saying, Princess?" 'Princess' was only too happy to oblige, screaming and signing at him simultaneously. "Mom says," her stubby purple fingers blazed, "that we don't - we don't -" but her high-pitched voice demonstrated her marked tendency to stutter "- we don't have to do what he says. We are not in prison! And you are a liar." She shrugged philosophically. "But all the most interesting people are liars, Dad, and that means. . ." And she stopped cold. Not stammering. Not searching her burgeoning brain for the right word. No, my little girl was frozen, staring into space, and she stayed that way for a terrifying three minutes. We whistled. Waved hands in front of her face. In the end, we even shook her gently, to no avail. When she was herself again, she smiled the broad-beaming smile that she usually reserved for cheese cake. "My sister is coming." "You don't have a sister, sweetheart." I cradled her to my chest. "You are the sister." "No." She struggled out of my arms. "No. Ask Buddy." Danny's reply was confusing and it made my blood run cold. He nodded seriously and used signs I'd never seen before but they could only be interpreted a single way. "The Goddess draws near and she is not alone." Marty slid straight into panic face as he scooped a child up in each arm and ushered us all into the house. What happened next? Nothing. Nothing happened. The kids nattered on as usual, fought about who had what toy and who had encroached on whose personal space. Sylvie kept talking. Danny continued his self-assigned summer project of global domination one little sister at a time. Marty and I were tense, but after four days and still no goddess, we were tempted to chalk it up to the weirdness that is our lives and move on. By the fourth night, it was nothing but a niggling thought in the back of our brains. No matter what you call my husband the man is not unattractive, and that night he was in fine form. The stress seemed mostly gone from his face. His brow had finally unknit itself. With the kids in bed, he switched on his favorite oldies radio station and began a Martin Levine style strip tease. BLESS MY SOUL WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME - -the radio throbbed, and he planted his feet wide apart as he slowly began unbuttoning his shirt. I'M ITCHIN' LIKE A MAN ON A FUZZY TREE Ohhhh, The King! I was in for a treat, but I struggled not to clap my hands or scream 'take it off!' - any encouragement could easily push him from charming into the realm of overbearing. MY FRIENDS SAY I'M ACTIN' AS WILD AS A BUG I'M IN LOVE - I'M ALL SHOOK UP I watched as his dusky gaze narrowed to mere slits as the shirt slid from his broad shoulders to the floor. That body. Don't tell Rabbi Lansky I said it or thought It, but -- Help Me, Jesus!!! My eyes hit his crotch just as the pelvic thrusts began. He turned. Oh that ass. He wiggled it just for me. MY HANDS ARE SHAKIN AND MY KNEES ARE WEAK I CAN'T EVEN STAND ON MY OWN TWO FEET WHO DO YOU THINK WOULD HAVE SUCH LUCK I'M IN LOVE - I'M ALL SHOOK UP My heart raced and I felt my stomach tighten as I took in his muscled back and narrow hips. He turned to me, holding the ends of his unbuckled belt in either hand. The broad grin I thought was unattractive when I first met him spread across his face. I was literally salivating. He pushed down his pants in time to the music. It took conscious effort not to drool. I'M ALL SHOOK UP And out his cock sprang, with a force and silly motion that merited some sort of cartoon sound effect. Not bad at all for forty something. It occurred to me, as it frequently did in similar circumstances, that there might be something to this SuperMan thing, after all. I brushed one knuckle against my lower lip and he got the message. Loud and clear. It took about two seconds before he was holding his warm penis against my cheek. I couldn't help myself. "Mmmmmmmmmmmmm." "Oh yeah. Just like that." He brushed himself back and forth across my cheek. "Can I call you, um, that is, can you be Scully tonight?" That nearly ruined the moment for me. I had to stop myself from laughing. My eyebrow rose of its own accord. "I never stopped." "Say it for me." He bounced his penis insistently against my lips. "Mulder. Is that what you want to hear? Mulder. You're Mulder and I'm Scully and I want you." I skimmed his shaft with my lips again. I drew my tongue up to his head so lightly I knew it would drive him crazy. I wanted to swallow him at that point but I knew my own private Chippendale dancer better than that. He'd be disappointed if I didn't drag the teasing out a bit longer. I could feel his pulse on my lip as I rested him on my open mouth without so much as getting him wet. His eyes practically rolled back in his head. I bit into the underside of his shaft near the base, just the way he liked it, edging up on pain, then backing away. I rubbed my face again him again, nuzzled his testicles, enjoying the wiry hairs against my lips and the smell - mmmmm - the smell of him. Possibly one of the best things about sex with him no matter what his name is. You have to be pretty much between his legs to smell it, but when he's aroused, there is the strong odor of sweetness and musk. It's almost like wearing a fur sprayed with Chanel #5 while eating caramel after caramel. A strange description I know, and but I have yet to fellate him with out the image popping into my head. I couldn't help myself. I buried my nose in his pubic hair and inhaled, only incidentally glancing his penis with the corner of my mouth . It drove him wild. "Ummfff," he grunted. I looked up to see him biting that lower lip. Another one of my favorite things. Oh, what a different movie 'The Sound of Music' would be if it had starred Marty and me. Neither of us can carry a tune in a bucket, for starters. What do you do about problem like Maria? Or Laura Levine? Or Dana Scully? I nipped one flared and fleshy edge of his head with my teeth. "Harder. Bite harder." I complied, even though this sort of thing tends to leave me vaguely worried. "Mmmmm, God Scully, you know just what I like." It was only at times like these that he showed even the most vague reverence for the divine. He hadn't changed as much as he supposed. I bit the other side. Asymmetry has always bothered me. "Now, make it feel gooooooood." His tone straddled the border between a plea and a command and I had to push it over the edge. To tell the truth, the few times he'd taken command in bed had left me feeling ambivalent. Perhaps ambivalent was the wrong word - what I felt was both sickened and aroused beyond my ability to articulate. Anyway, that night I assumed the role that he enjoyed on me so much - I stopped and waited expectantly, being cruelly passive. "Oh Scully, this is so perfect. I love the way you make me wait until I can't stand it anymore. You know what I love about the way you tease me? I love it," he said as I slid him slowly into my mouth, working my way down to his delicious smelling pubic hair, "because I know that sooner or later you'll take me all the way down your throat. Sooner or later, I'll be inside you." He stroked my hair, pulling out the clip that kept it off my face. He twirled a strand around one finger. I felt light-headed. My crotch was starting to throb in time with the pulse in my mouth. I reached one hand down inside my panties. "Ohhhhhhh Scully, does it make you hot to give me a blow job?" Yes, I was, as he put it, 'hot,' but that didn't temper any of the smart-ass remarks that came to mind. Luckily, I had a large, turgid penis in my mouth or one of those snotty retorts might have popped out. "I love it when you get turned on. Do you know how many times I used to imagine us like this in the office?" I slid him almost out of my mouth then slowly forced him down until my lips met pubic hair again. That fixed his wagon. All he could do was breathe for a minute while I held him in my mouth, slaloming my tongue from side to side. I could probably have given a fair estimate of the number of times he imagined us like this back in the 'good-old-bad-old-days,' especially knowing his appetites the way I know them now. Let's see - eight years multiplied by...by... I had suddenly lost my ability to multiply. Apparently, all the blood had left my brain. My clitoris was pushing back hard and wet against my fingers and I didn't have the energy to force myself into conscious thought. Saliva flooded my mouth. "Fuck, that's wet, Scully." I swallowed, then I forced my throat to relax and eased him down the rest of the way. I ran my free hand up his side to his nipple, scraping his skin with my nails as I went. "Stop." My husband pulled out of my mouth abruptly. "Gimme a minute, Baby. I don't want to come yet." He stood there shaking in air-conditioned room, literally panting. "Okay, now." He tried to put his cock in my mouth before he realized my masturbation was reaching a fevered pitch. "Oh Scully - mmmmm - that looks good." His thumb and first two fingers slid in to me as soon as he saw how close I was to coming. I barely noticed as he dropped onto the bed with his other hand wrapped around his penis. He reached with his fingers until he pressed the magic spot and something inside me whirred like a kitchen blender and I came. God bless you, Dr. Graffenburg. I had barely finished when he was looming over me, his penis bobbing against my lips again. I looked up at his face and somehow that lost and fearful look had crept over him. He was hanging back, waiting for approval, touching the corner of my mouth hesitantly, as if afraid I was going to hand him a rejection at that late date. I extended my tongue and drew a series of figure eights along his scrotum, then reaching out to grasp his buttocks in both hands. "I want you, I always want you," I whispered before swallowing him down again. There was a sharp intake of breath and unconsciously he bucked against me, ever so slightly. My mouth was stretched wide to hold him gently - no sucking, no undue pressure - he wanted to make it last, to hold out until the avalanche of biology won out over his monolithic self-denial. I let slip him from my mouth and drew my tongue over and between his testicles before moving in a single slow wet stroke all the way up to his urethra. The equivalent of a nuclear blast in our little war; a few more like that and he'd be waving the white flag all over my face. "Aren't you gonna fuck me?" Oh brother. He gave me a strained version of the kicked puppy face. There he was, the object of all my stupid passion spread out like a feast before me. It struck me as silly to be so moved but I remembered all the years I had gone to bed alone because I wanted him and desire welled up again in a cold wave. All I could do was nod. "Fuck!" I tried to climb up onto him but my leg chose that moment to cramp. He took advantage of the opportunity to come up behind me. "How 'bout like this? Is it okay? Do you like this, um, Scully?" All I could do was grunt as he slipped into me and I struggled to stay on my hands and knees. I guess the question was rhetorical. His weight rested on the one hand that gripped my waist while the other kneaded my ass. As he slid home again, his testicles bounced up to meet my clitoris. The rub was delicious. He pulled almost all the way out again, then moved back to his rightful position - in in in - and again his testicles hit my clitoris. Mmmmm! Three more strokes and I would come. Against his will, he was starting to move faster. If only he'd last until he could make me come again. . . I will be going to hell for pure selfishness. Then abruptly, he pulled out. "Fuck!" I groaned. "What the -" "Did you hear that?" He knelt there, glistening, his head cocked to one side. "Huh?" I listened. Lord, someone was knocking at the front door. "Damn!" I buried my face in his one thin pillow. "Better get it before Sylvie wakes up," he huffed. The most irritating whine came out of my mouth. "Awwwwww Mulder, come on! I was just about to have another orgasm!" I turned around and watched him put his ratty black bathrobe, easily the ugliest thing in his wardrobe. The robe had started out attractive enough, luxurious in fact, but in the years since I'd bought it for his first birthday 'in captivity,' it had gone decidedly downhill. Nearly six years wasn't a bad run for a bathrobe, but every time I told him it was time for it to go to the great closet floor in the sky, he countered by suggesting a Viking burial. I pulled on his old t-shirt and pajama bottoms and followed him into the living room. She was standing at the screen door. I never imagined I would remember that face, let alone with such clarity, and yet I did. Even the name clung to me. It was as if I had seen her yesterday and not nearly seven years before. Thea. Literally, The Goddess. "The Goddess comes and she is not alone," Danny had said, and he'd hit that one on the head. She'd grown. In the seven years, give or take a month or two since I'd last seen her, she had sailed from one far edge of puberty to the other. But not, to stretch the metaphor, without taking on passengers. Which is to say, she was pregnant. Very pregnant - clearly somewhere in her final trimester. I looked behind her for Gibson, but in that sense, at least, she was by herself. I moved the blind just enough to see a primer-gray Chevy Nova in the driveway. At least she hadn't hitch hiked here She was tall, Mulder's height, and except for her massive belly, looked rail thin. Her lips were chapped. Her face was all planes and angles, intense but closed off somehow. She wore an odd combination of jeans - unzipped, I presumed - a house coat, and what all the chic pregnant girls were wearing those days, flip flops. Her hair looked to be growing out of a very short and very bad cut. Her nails were similarly abbreviated and ragged. Her skin had the deep, dark color of someone who spent their days working unprotected in the full sun. She didn't look like she'd been living the life of one of the beautiful people. Mulder leaned against the doorjamb, his erection having lost steam, holding his robe shut with one elbow pinned tight to his body, and yet somehow, managing to look jaunty. Mulder peered at me out of the corner of his eye even as he addressed her. "Can I help you?" I remembered what Sylvie had said and a chill ran through me. Her sister was coming. Her sister. Was Thea another of Mulder's children, like Betty Roguebull? Not like Betty. Please, not like Betty. I looked at her again. It was all too easy to see him in her face - a slightly diminished and unbroken form of his nose, his chin exactly, his high, hard cheekbones, his long limbs. It was as clear to me as breaking glass. "I don't think she can hear you," I said, opening the door wide. "Come in," I signed. Her eyes lit up. It surprised me that she seemed so unafraid as she stepped inside. Despite the size of her stomach, she was remarkably able to hold her waddle down to a minimum. "Your friends the Gunmen told me where I could find you," she signed directly at me, trying to look utterly unconcerned with Mulder and not quite succeeding. Mulder led her to the couch, waited until she was seated. "Excuse us - we'll be right back," he signed at her just before he quite literally dragged me out of the living room and into the kitchen. He leaned back on his elbows against the too-high kitchen Counter, his lips pursed expectantly. "What's going on? Who is she? How does she know you?" It took me a moment to orient myself. "Her name is Thea, and - " "'Thea?' As in 'The Goddess approaches?' "I think so." "Oh, that's great. Just great." He blew out a long breath. "So, you knew all along and didn't tell me." "No," I answered. "I mean, yes, I met her, once, years ago, but the connection didn't occur to me. You've read the old files from when you were missing, right? When Doggett tracked Gibson Praise to the School for The Deaf in Arizona? He nodded. "Thea was there with him. Gibson trusted her when he didn't trust anyone else. I think," I rubbed my brow, "shit, I think she's another one of their projects." "And you think they put the two of them together just like they with us?" "Given what we know now, it seems likely." "You have anymore information?" Proof? Suspicions? Anything?" "Until I consult my Ouija board again, you know as much as I do," I replied. He snorted, then went to the refrigerator. I found myself staring at the kitchen sink, trying to ignore my racing thoughts. To admit my suspicions to Mulder would be to make them real, undeniable. I forced myself to think about something else. No matter how conscientiously I tried to keep dirty dishes from piling up, as soon as I was busy with something else, Mulder would come in and eat. Unlike in his bachelor days, he no longer ate over the sink while drinking straight from the pitcher. Instead, he did his best to supply me with a never-ending counterful of sticky, crummy cups, plates, and forks. There were three plates, a tablespoon, and a coffee cup on the counter. I could not figure out when he had had a chance to use them. I wasn't irate, just puzzled and slightly annoyed, but it tipped the scales in favor of not telling him out right that I suspected Thea was his child. That and that fact that he had probably already figured it out. In the living room, Thea sat bolt upright, looking distinctly out of place amid my husband's amorphous and expensive Scandinavian furniture, even though the blonde wood matched her sun-bleached hair. Mulder, ever the gentleman, had supplied her with a glass of milk. I turned back into the kitchen, unable to face whatever story was waiting for me. I pulled the coffee down from the cabinet and offered a prayer in praise of Juan Valdez. As I came toward the couch I saw Mulder sign to her, "Where's Gibson?" And her reply. "Dead. Gibson Praise is dead." *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* End 01/07