TITLE:  Five Senses: Hearing
AUTHOR:  Susanne Barringer
E-MAIL:  sbarringer@usa.net
ARCHIVE:  Anywhere okay w/ these headers attached.
CLASSIFICATION:  VR
CONTENT WARNING:  MSR
SPOILERS:  none 
RATING:  R for sexual content and language
SUMMARY: Second in a series of Scully's reflections on Mulder
DISCLAIMER:  These characters happen to belong to Chris Carter, 1013, 
and Fox.  No infringement intended. 

___________

Five Senses: Hearing
by Susanne Barringer


He calls to me from across the office.  His voice narrows the divide.

"Scully?"

He is going to ask me a question.  It will not be a question about a case, or 
about an autopsy.  It will be a question about tonight.  Do I want to go out 
to dinner?  Do I want to come over and watch a video?  What do I want to 
do after work?  Something like that.

I know this simply from his voice.  From the way he says my name.  I have 
learned this about him.  I can almost always tell what he wants solely from 
his inflection, from the stress on either of the two syllables, from how long 
he draws out the L's, from whether his voice rises or falls at the end.  These 
are the things for which I have learned to listen.

"Scully?"  The inflection changes.  He is trying to get my attention.  He 
knows I have heard him but I am wrapped in my own thoughts.  I love the 
way he says my name.  In question, in anger, in frustration, in support, in 
concern, in love.  Recently, in a way that is new to us, in bed.  

The first time I heard his voice break on my name as he climaxed, I thought 
there was no more beautiful sound in the world.  I swear I heard choirs of 
angels that night.  Every night since has been the same.  Nothing arouses 
me more than the way he says my name as he pounds into me, and then 
again as he shudders in release.  It is the sound I most cherish.  I hear it in 
my dreams, upon waking, and even here sitting at my desk.  It comes to me 
in moments of silence when I am reading my e-mail or cooking dinner or 
taking a bath.  His voice.  Calling my name.  Loving me.  It showers over 
me like manna--soft, nourishing, giving me strength.  I hear it now, in my 
mind, and the warmth flares between my legs.  I want to hear it.  I crave it.  
I fear I cannot make do with a question "Scully?" or a challenge "Scully" or 
even an affectionate "Scully."  I want the "Scully" that smolders in my 
blood and sends flashes of lightning coursing through my belly. 

I finally turn my attention to him since his "Scully" is beginning to border 
on frustration.  He speaks to me of plans for tonight--something about 
dinner at our favorite Italian place, then he'd like to take me dancing.  I 
barely register what he is saying and instead focus on how he says it.

I love his voice.  There is nothing especially distinctive about it, but I 
would recognize it better than my own.  It is like him.  It is deep, powerful, 
unwavering.  His voice does not have much modulation.  Some people 
might even call it monotone, but I have heard his voice often enough to 
know its intricacies.   He is an emotional man, although to detect those 
subtleties in his speech is a skill one must master.  Like calculus.  It takes 
practice and analysis and trial and error.  I believe I have mastered it.  Right 
now he speaks to me with affection, with longing, with anticipation, as he 
maps out our plans for the evening.  We both know it is only a prelude 
anyway, a prelude to the shouts and moans and explosions of our desire. 

His voice rolls over me, soothes me, cocoons me.  Even when he is angry 
with me, I find solace in his tone.  It is home.  The sarcasm can be thick, 
but it only camouflages buried emotion.  I have learned this about him.  I 
love his voice.  I can read it like a code.

Tonight I know I will hear it in different context.  Not only the screaming 
of my name that I have come to love, but the moans of his passion, the 
grunts and guttural noises that communicate his desire for me.  I will ask 
him to talk to me, and he will tell me in explicit detail what he wants to do 
to me.  He will use words and phrases that, until recently, would have 
made me blush.  Coming from him, however, they ignite a blaze within me 
that can only be quenched by his acting upon his promises.  I will beg him 
to fuck me, and I will not feel the least bit guilty or foolish or embarrassed 
for my words.  I will tell him to taste me, touch me, lick me, make me 
come, fuck me hard.  I will love the sound of my voice saying those things.  
He is the only one I have ever said them to.  He will reward me with a 
breathy moan of pleasure.  I will love the power that words can create.

He has stopped speaking and is looking at me.  I want to hear more.  I 
need to hear him.  I ask him a question.  It is a meaningless question, but 
one that I know will bring me an extended answer.  I listen to his voice and 
watch his lips move and know that soon, although not soon enough, I will 
experience those lips on me as his words muffle against my bare skin.  He 
will whisper that I am beautiful and sexy, that he wants me, that he wants 
to be inside me, that he loves me.  He will tell me all the other things that I 
don't need to hear because I already know.  I will love hearing them 
anyway.  I will revel in his voice, play in its fire, hum along with its song.  I 
will wait for him to scream out my name and I will respond in kind.  We 
will communicate through words, but not because we have to.


END
_____________

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sbarringer@usa.net


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