Momentary Lapses V: Chocolate by Dasha K. and Plausible
Deniability
Please archive at Gossamer. Anywhere else, we would
appreciate a note asking for permission. We'll probably
say yes if you say please.
Summary: Sometimes chocolate is a girl's, and a boy's,
best friend.
Rating: NC-17 for sex, drugs and gratuitous Pink Floyd.
Classification: SRAH
Keywords: MSR
Spoilers: Never Again, Bad Blood
Disclaimer: You know this already, but they don't belong
to us, but to CC and 1013.
All feedback most enthusiastically accepted at
dakluz@stkate.edu and pdeniability@hotmail.com
This is the final story in the Momentary Lapses universe.
Reading the other four will probably make more sense before
you start in on this one. You can find all four at Dasha's
site- http://www.oocities.com/TelevisionCity/Studio/7367.
Momentary Lapses V: Chocolate
"We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year
after year . . ."
Pink Floyd
On Friday night I fight rush hour traffic and make it home
with a sense of relief. Shutting the front door behind me,
I lock and chain it with care. After turning on my lamps I
survey my tidy and familiar apartment and sigh with
pleasure. It's Friday and I'm home alone. Other single
women my age may be getting ready to hit the bars and clubs
of Georgetown, but I'm perfectly content to have a Friday
night spent in the bathtub with a good book and lots of
bubbles.
Yes, it's sheer relief I'm feeling tonight. I made it, we
made it through a week in the office together. After four
days spent in Boston tracking a serial murderer and
shagging Mulder silly at the Marriott, I thought it was a
well-nigh impossible task. Nah, it was a piece of cake.
We just had to put the past behind us and exercise some
restraint. So what if I had to go running twice a day and
wear my ugliest underpants (the baggy polyester numbers
that go clear past my bellybutton) in to the office. It
did the trick, right? I stayed on my side of the office,
and he on his. We chatted pleasantly about professional
matters only and at the end of the day we said our
civilized good-byes and repaired home to our separate
apartments. By 10 pm every night I was in my pajamas and
headed off to sleep.
And no, it doesn't count if you do it in your dreams.
Despite the fact it's early May, it's rather cool outside,
having rained all day, and I light a fire, craving the cozy
glow it casts on the walls of my living room. Then I run a
hot bath, dumping in several capfuls of Tranquility Bay
bath oil. I breathe in the soothing mixture of rosemary
and comfrey and immediately begin to feel the tension in my
neck and shoulders dissipate.
It's nights like these I treasure. Too often I'm on the
road in some dump of a motel with a shower only, usually a
shower with all the water pressure of your average Water
Pic. I'm not home nearly often enough to enjoy the
creature comforts of my own home and the pleasure of my own
company. If you can't be your own best friend, what does
that say about you as a person?
I uncork a bottle of Pinot Grigio and a pour a glass to
take to the tub. Back in the bathroom I light one of the
vanilla-scented candles Ellen gave me for my birthday and
switch off the lights. Sinking into the warm, fragrant
water, I sip the wine and shut my eyes. This is
perfection, right here.
Who needs a man when I have a hot bath and good wine? Who
needs the trouble of a man, especially a man as troublesome
as Fox Mulder, when I have a perfectly serviceable
vibrator? Sure, good sex is nothing to sneeze at, but why
make my life any more complicated than it already is? I
mean, do I really want to wake up every morning to his
snoring and blatant cover stealing? To wake up with his
morning erection pressed up against my buttocks and his
roving hands?
Okay, that wasn't a good question. Don't go there, my
brain informs me in a stern tone and I sip more of the
smooth wine, letting it roll over my tongue and down my
throat.
The final morning in Boston, Mulder and I woke at the same
time and sheepishly looked at each other through bleary
eyes and tangled hair. "One more for the road?" he rasped
in his morning voice.
I shrugged, trying not to smile. "One more time won't kill
us," I said. "I mean, we're already here and everything."
But I must confess something. When we were having sex that
final time, there was a point when I looked down at him and
he up at me and I realized we were heading somewhere
dangerous. Pleasure was beginning to wash through me as I
rocked on him, but I looked at him and caught an expression
on his face of such awe, tenderness and yes -- love that
the breath caught in my throat. And I began to feel those
same feelings welling in my chest and a few tears trickled
down my cheeks, landing on his chest. Staring down at
Mulder through the glassiness of tears, I noticed his eyes
were looking a little watery, too. I came just then in a
maelstrom of tears, frustration and pleasure and he, too, a
minute behind me, the two of us alternately weeping and
laughing.
I rolled off him and wiped my wet face, thinking, what the
hell happened here? And then I realized we hadn't merely
had sex, we had made love and my heart sunk. My pulse
began to race and not in a good way, either. It was
entirely one thing to tumble into bed with my partner as an
act of hormonal rebellion, but for it to escalate to an act
of love was a whole different set of problems. I reminded
myself of each and every reason why it was a bad, bad thing
to love Mulder as I attempted to get my breathing to calm.
He kissed my sweaty forehead and I shut my eyes. Thank God
this was the last time, I thought.
"Our plane is in two hours," he muttered.
"I'm up, I'm up . . ." After yawning and a good stretch, I
headed to my own room to shower and dress.
I showered like I had been contaminated in an accident at a
nuclear power plant. And through it all, I cried. I
sobbed at the unfairness that I had to meet Mulder as my
partner, that we were so opposed yet so oddly alike, that
our lives were so marked by danger that one of us was sure
to be killed any day now, that we were so marred by our
experiences we were truly the only ones suitable for the
other, that I had the bad fortune to fall for the one man I
couldn't, shouldn't have.
After the shower and the cathartic weeping I felt entirely
better. Temporary madness, I told myself as I dropped
Visine into my swollen eyes and again slapped on foundation
to cover the purple love bites on my neck. PMS, overload
from another road trip and too much sex, that's all it was.
I dressed in my navy pantsuit and again felt like I had
donned my suit of armor.
Everything would return to normal. We simply needed to
spend some time apart.
It will all work out just fine, I tell myself and drain my
glass of wine. It was merely a strange period in our
relationship, perfectly natural when two reasonably
attractive people spend so many years in close proximity,
like two polar bears caged together at the zoo.
Smirking at the image of Mulder and me, displayed in a cage
at the San Diego Zoo, I step out of the cooled water and
towel myself off. From the living room I hear the shrill
ring of the telephone. It has to be my mother, I haven't
talked to her since before the trip to Boston.
Wrapping the bath towel around me, I run for the phone.
"Hello," I say, breathless from the dash from the bathroom.
"Hey, Scully, what are you wearing?" Shit, it's Mulder.
"It's Friday night, Mulder. What do you want?"
It had better not be what I think it is.
***************************
I listen to the phone ring once...twice...three times.
Scully doesn't answer. Part of me, the cautious, rational
part, almost hopes she isn't home.
But she answers just after the fourth ring. "Hello."
If Scully ever grows wise to the fact that she's too good
for government work, she could have a spectacular future as
a phone-sex operator. Her voice makes my toes curl. "Hey,
Scully, what are you wearing?"
"It's Friday night, Mulder. What do you want?"
The sharpness of her tone is like balm to my wounded soul.
Not because I need to hear that she's happy I called, but
because that's the last thing I need to hear. I'm not
touching Scully again, not with a ten-foot pole. Nope,
nah-unh, not gonna do it. Since getting back to D.C. with
her last Sunday I've lived through a week of sheer hell.
From eight until five every day I hid non-stop behind my
desk, breaking into a cold sweat every time that she looked
at me. It was one of the roughest weeks of my life, but by
God, I made it through. I'm finally cured of Scully Fever.
"I just, uh, wondered if I could ask a little favor of you,
Scully."
"A favor?" Suspicion drips from each syllable.
"Scully, this is all completely open and above-board. I'm
just calling, mano a mano, in the hope that you will take
pity on my outcast state."
"Your outcast state? Mulder, what in the hell are you
talking about?"
I close my eyes in masochistic pleasure. Ah, yes Scully,
abuse me, berate me, put me in place. Don't let me forget
what a total fuck-up I've been. "Well, you see, at the
moment I'm sort of homeless..."
"What's wrong with your apartment?"
"It's a little crowded, Scully. As in, there's a party
going on there right now, and I just spent the last twenty
minutes watching two college kids making out. I mean, I
wasn't actually watching them, I was trying not to watch
them, but it's kind of difficult when they're doing it
right in front of you --"
"Mulder, what are you talking about?"
I sigh. "My cousin Seth is in town, my mom's sister's kid.
He's just a junior in college and when I heard he was going
to be in D.C. I offered to let him stay at my place for the
weekend. What I didn't know when I made the offer was that
he would arrive with his girlfriend in tow. Now he's there
and she's there, and so are about twenty friends of theirs.
My place seems to be the site of an impromptu kegger."
"And you're telling me this because...?"
"Scully, I'm too old for a keg party. I know that you'll
find that difficult to believe, I know you've probably been
taken in by my boyish looks and my bottomless joie de
vivre, but it's true. I can't drink beer from a funnel any
more."
"So? Kick them out."
"Scully, he's my cousin. And he's a nice kid, too, despite
having the worst taste in music since...well, since you. I
can't kick him out."
"Then get a hotel room."
"Scully," I plead, "come on. I don't want to spend the
night in a hotel. And before you get the wrong idea, I
don't want to spend the night at your place, either. I
just need somewhere to hang out for a few hours, until this
party dies down. I called the guys but Langly is having
some kind of Dungeons and Dragons thing tonight, and,
frankly, I'd rather watch college kids make out than have
to call grown men by their elf names."
"Mulder -- no."
"I wouldn't ask if I weren't desperate. You won't even
know I'm there. I'll just come over, I'll do a little
writing on my laptop, and I'll leave. I'm finishing
something for Omni and I just need some peace and quiet."
"Mulder, this is a bad, bad idea."
"Don't you trust me, Scully?"
I know even as the words are leaving my mouth that they are
a huge mistake. Of course she doesn't trust me, not when
it comes to spending time alone with her. Why should she
trust me after the way I behaved last week in Boston? But
I am a changed man now, a cured man. I'm not going to make
that mistake again.
No, never, never. And not only because I successfully
survived the recovery this week, the slow painful process
of sitting haggardly at my desk and trying not to watch her
every move. The difficult convalescence is not something I
would gladly go through again, but it was nothing compared
to the crisis that scoured the fever right out of me. I
will never forget that; never forget that the last time we
were in bed together, I made Scully cry.
I made her cry. I was a sick, selfish, weak-willed
bastard, and I made Scully cry.
"Come on, Scully. Please," I say. I know I could go to a
hotel. I could go to a bar. I could go to the adult movie
theatre across town, and numbly spend the evening watching
plastic women fake it. But I want to be with Scully. I
want to prove to her I am over my affliction, and that she
doesn't have to be afraid to be alone with me any more. I
want to know I'm forgiven, so maybe I can start to forgive
myself. "Please."
She sighs. "On one condition." Her voice is like ice.
"But only then, and the condition is not negotiable."
I steel myself to hear what she has to say. I have to keep
my hands in plain view at all times? I can't speak to her?
Can't look at her? Whatever it is, I will do it. I have
not stopped hating myself for six days now. "Shoot."
"Mulder, this is my Friday night, and my weekend. I'm not
cooking for you. I'm not cooking for myself, either. If
you want to come over, you have to bring me food."
I let my breath out. "Is that all? Scully, I will not
only bring you food, I will bring you the best-smelling
food you've ever encountered. Seth's girlfriend baked
brownies today and when I came home my whole apartment
smelled like a Hershey factory."
"Brownies?" she says in a hopeful voice.
"Yep, Scully. I'm bringing you chocolate."
****************
The first stage is Denial. No, that was not Mulder on my
phone making up some lame-ass excuse to spend the evening
at my place. It was my dear, sweet mother, who wanted to
know if I cared to join her for Mass and brunch on Sunday.
Just my mother, and now I'm going to curl up on the couch
with my copy of "Cold Mountain" and do some supremely cozy
reading on a Friday night.
The second stage is Anger. How dare he invade my private
time like that! It's bad enough he feels free to call at
all hours of the day and night to get me to join him on
some paranormal goose chase, usually in the most decrepit
rural town Mulder can find on short notice. Now he thinks
just because we slept together a time or two on the road,
that he can just stop over and fill up my personal hours
with his lanky, noisy presence.
The third stage is Sabotage. I grab my white cotton
panties with the ugly roses on them, the ones that have all
the sex appeal of a nun and yank them on. Call it Mulder
Insurance, as there is no way I would let anyone of the
opposite sex catch me in these. On top of the panties I
add my blue plaid pajama bottoms and the gray University of
Maryland sweatshirt with green paint stains across the
bottom. There, I'm about the furthest thing from sexually
desirable you can get. In fact, I should be rented out to
strictly Catholic families as a form of Natural Family
Planning.
The fourth stage is Indulgence. God, what kind of friend
am I? So what if we recently had a few tumbles in bed,
he's still my friend and he needs me tonight. I mean, if
some cousin of mine had invaded my house, I would probably
try to seek refuge at Mulder's. This will be just fine, a
nice test of how we've gotten each other out of the system.
Besides, it will be kind of nice to have someone around on
a Friday. He's bringing over food and maybe we can watch a
movie or something. Or, if he's really irritating me, I
can always go in the bedroom and shut the door.
The fifth stage is Acceptance. It doesn't matter how I
feel about Mulder coming over tonight. The deed is done.
In fact, I can hear him knocking now. I just hope he had
the good sense to pick up some Chinese from Yangtze River.
And if he forgot the chocolate, I'll have to kill him.
*****************
Scully takes her time about answering the door, leaving me
standing in the hallway juggling my laptop, a brown bag of
hot Chinese food, a six-pack of beer, and a pan of
brownies. I have to knock with my knee.
Finally the door swings open. Her eyes sweep up and down
the length of me. "Beer?"
"I figured you'd want to drink something." No way am I
going to bring wine to Scully's apartment. Wine is
downright risky, and I didn't just fall off the turnip
truck.
She sniffs the air. "Mulder, please tell me that's steamed
dumplings I smell."
"They're going to be steamed dumplings on the hallway floor
if you don't let me by. This bag is starting to burn my
hands."
She moves aside, and I push my way in and set the food on
kitchen table, keeping my laptop tucked under my arm. I
turn to face her. "Do you want me to go work in the living
room, or is it okay if I eat with you first?"
She gives me a strange look. "You can eat first, Mulder."
"All right. I won't say a word."
She shoots me another look. "Do I owe you for the Chinese,
or are you treating?"
"Um...my treat?"
"Okay, then you can talk."
I set my laptop down and take a seat at the table. Scully
goes into the cupboards, and comes back with two plates and
some serving spoons. I watch her warily as she lifts the
little white take-out cartons from the brown bag. Maybe
there's hope for my absolution yet, I think. At least
tonight she isn't wearing one of those keep-away-from-me
severely tailored suits of hers. Instead she has on soft
plaid pants and an oversized sweatshirt that makes her look
like a college student. The pants look like they might
even be pajama bottoms. Does she ever sleep in those?
Whoa. No thinking about sleeping, I remind myself.
Thoughts of Scully sleeping lead to thoughts of Scully in
bed, and thoughts of Scully in bed can lead to very
dangerous ideas...
Jesus, haven't I learned my lesson yet? I know I screwed
up in Boston. I screwed up even before Boston, really, in
Miami and in Wisconsin. I should never have touched
Scully. It was wrong. I knew it was wrong, and I did it
anyway. And the worst part, the absolutely unforgivable
detail, is that I made Scully cry.
I have never won an argument with a woman who cried. It
just isn't possible. Only the world's most cold-blooded
bastard could remain proof against a woman's tears. It
doesn't even matter what we're arguing about, or whether I
am in the right. Let a woman start to cry, and I feel like
such a sadistic shit that before I know it I am apologizing
for anything and everything I have ever done in my life.
And that's just ordinary women -- the forgettable girls I
dated when I was a lot younger, and the manipulative
Phoebes and Dianas of the world. Their all-too-frequent
tears always made me feel two inches tall, made me eat my
heart out with guilt. Potent stuff, a woman's tears. But
Scully's . . .
Scully never cries. I've seen her tear up now and then,
but only after encountering an extreme provocation like
death, disease, or utter disaster. She's too strong to cry
otherwise. Never once have I known her to bawl her eyes
out, to burst into outright sobs. Never once, until
Boston.
Even now, almost a week since it happened, it's almost
unbearable to think about. Unbearable -- and yet,
paradoxically, impossible to put out of my mind. I was
lying on my back, happier than I can remember being in a
long time, looking up at Scully as we made love. She was
moving above me in a sinuous motion, rocking up and down
slowly, unhurriedly, in a way that made me want to believe
in God and heaven and choirs of angels. And she was
beautiful, so beautiful; her hair was a like a vivid
curtain against her pale skin, and her eyes were dark and
soft with passion. Dark and soft -- and then,
unexpectedly, swimming with unshed tears. . .
When I saw that, it was like a knife in my heart. Why was
she crying? I was happy. She had to be happy too, didn't
she? Hadn't she wanted this as much as I had? She'd come
to my room two nights before, and the previous morning.
She'd agreed when I'd suggested that we make the most of
our last morning together in these rooms. This was bliss,
dizzyingly sweet. What was wrong?
Unless...was it possible I'd made a huge mistake? Only the
night before, I'd said to her, "We shouldn't be doing
this." She hadn't protested, hadn't contradicted my words.
"No, no we shouldn't," she'd agreed. I'd taken her kisses
for unspoken encouragement, but what if she really hadn't
wanted me to keep going? Maybe this whole thing had been a
huge misunderstanding on my part. What if the responses
I'd taken for passion had really been nothing more than
Scully's gentle determination not to hurt me?
The thought was frightening, galling, humiliating. I'd
felt tears start in my own eyes. And then I felt her
coming, shuddering powerfully around me. In almost the
same instant she'd burst into tears. I lay there baffled,
frightened, yet still so caught in sensation that a minute
later my own tension exploded in a similar release. With
that I'd lost my own tenuous grip on composure. Gasping
and crying, I'd tried to thank her and kiss her and
apologize all at once. God, I was a piece of work.
Three minutes later she was in the shower, getting ready so
we could catch our plane. I lay on my back in bed, my eyes
closed, trying to convince myself that Scully was happy. I
loved her. She was the most important person in my life.
We'd just made love together. Everything was fine.
Everything. I kept my eyes shut, and tried not to listen
to the sobs coming from the other side of the connecting
door.
That was the last time we were within arm's reach of one
another. Since then I haven't come within five feet of
her, not once. Not to kiss her; not to touch her.
Not even to help her carry her suitcase out of the
Marriott, and back to the sobering reality of the rest of
our lives.
*******************
The look on Mulder's face is priceless and heartbreaking.
He seems so unsure of himself, as if I may fling him out of
my apartment any second. I have to admit that sometimes I
can get awfully stern and cold with him and I decide
tonight I'm just going to have to figure out a way to relax
around him if we're going to remain partners and friends.
After unpacking the Chinese, I grab the pan of brownies and
peek inside. Holy Mary and all the Attending Saints and
Seraphim, these puppies are the real deal, moist-looking
and thick, smelling like paradise. I find a butter knife
in the drawer and pry up a generous-looking square. From
the kitchen table, Mulder clears his throat. "Not until
after you've had your dinner, young lady."
My eyebrow begins its ascent towards my forehead. "Last
time I checked, Mulder, I was an adult who is allowed to
eat her dessert first." I lift the brownie to my mouth and
take a taste. Oh, oh, yes, that's the stuff, deep
chocolate, not too sweet, tasting like it's laced with
espresso and walnuts.
"That good, huh?" I hear Mulder say.
After my eyeballs have returned from their visit to the
back of my head I manage to nod. "That girlfriend of your
cousin's can bake." I cut another square and offer it to
Mulder on a paper towel. "Try it."
Mulder looks at me like I'm Eve, proffering the accursed
apple. "I'd rather eat my Chinese first."
I laugh. "Chicken. Bet your mother didn't like it when
you wanted sweets before meals."
He shoots me a dirty look and shoves half the thing in his
mouth. Like me, his face twists into ecstasy. He
swallows. "Damn, I'm going to have to thank Ari for that.
She's a young woman of many talents."
Sitting down at the table I finish my brownie and
immediately cut another square. I can't help it, I'm a
sucker for chocolate and these things are addictive. "Want
to split this one with me?" I hold out the second brownie
to Mulder, licking crumbs away from my lower lip. He
reaches for the brownie and our fingers touch. It's the
first time I've touched Mulder since last Sunday and even
that mere glance of fingers feels just too good for
comfort.
That's the sad part, see? I went for so many years without
being touched that just the most innocuous caresses started
to have far too much meaning to me. Our quick squeeze of
hands after Modell, the press of his hand into my back as
we walked, a grasping of my fingers when I was in the
hospital, those touches began to be too significant to a
woman starved for touch.
I push the brownies aside. Despite having ingested several
hundred calories of pure butter and egg fat, I'm still
starving. "What did you get us?" I ask Mulder.
"All your favorites, Scully." And again, there's that
whipped-puppy look. It's cute as hell, but also guilt-
inducing. I wonder if he uses that look on other women, or
if that's a look exclusively for me.
He's right, it is all my favorites. Steamed dumplings,
vegetable lo-mein, kung-pao chicken and beef with black
bean sauce. I flash him a smile of gratitude after
sniffing the cartons.
Mulder can be the most inconsiderate man on the face of the
planet (I *still* don't have a desk), and then turn around
and do something that really touches me, that shows that
occasionally he does sit up and take notice. Last year,
for Christmas, he found me a first edition, autographed
copy of Betty Smith's coming of age novel "A Tree Grows In
Brooklyn." It has always been one of my favorite books and
it confounded me how he could have known that until I
remembered one night, months before Christmas, we were in a
motel scanning cable stations when we caught a minute or
two of the movie version on AMC. I happened to casually
mention how much I had loved the book and how I should buy
it again and re-read it. Mulder didn't say much in return,
but somewhere in the recesses of that brain of his he took
notes for later.
Have I mentioned lately how I don't understand this man?
We crack open bottles of the Bass Ale and the tension in
the room seems to dissipate as we start eating our food.
Wisely, we keep the conversation to light topics: where
the best mechanic in the D.C. area is, the painting I need
to do in the kitchen, the latest antics of my nephews. And
damn, I can eat tonight. Mulder must be thoroughly
disgusted by the sight of me shoving food in as fast as the
chopsticks will let me.
I come up for air, put down the chopsticks and say, by way
of explanation, "All I had to eat today was a blueberry
muffin and about a gallon of coffee."
Mulder finishes slurping noodles (and I won't even tell you
what that sound reminds me of). "S'okay, Scully. You're
not a supermodel, you are allowed to eat."
This is going to go just fine, I tell myself. We only
needed that time apart to calm down a little, let the
swelling subside, so to speak. "Fight you for the last
dumpling?"
Both of us lunge for the carton with our chopsticks but I
win, being the more dexterous of the two. I'm also a
better shot, but just try to tell Mulder that. I bring the
slippery dumpling, covered in dipping sauce, up to my mouth
but it falls from the chopstick and lands on my sweatshirt
with a plop. "Shit," I say and Mulder looks up, surprised.
I may swear like a trucker in my own head, but I rarely
curse in front of him.
"My sweatshirt," I explain, jumping up from the table as
Mulder inexplicably begins giggling in the background. In
the bedroom I lose the sweatshirt and find the matching top
to the pajama bottoms. I have a brief debate with myself,
should I wear a bra with this or not? The top isn't nearly
as baggy as the sweatshirt was, but it seems silly to wear
a bra with pajamas. I'll just try to not make any swift
motions around Mulder. It seems to take forever just to
settle the bra issue. Then I find myself removing the
ugly panties and putting on a more respectable pair made of
black lace.
Wait a minute, what am I doing? There is no chance in hell
Mulder is getting a look at my panties, so why am I
changing them? Ah yes, the white pair were rather loose in
the elastic department and they felt like they might slip
any second.
As I start to walk out of my bedroom, it hits me like a ton
of bricks. My head feels heavy and swimmy and my eyes are
starting to feel dry. It's like I'm having an out-of-body
experience, where I'm here, but I'm also in the corner,
watching myself.
I know this feeling. It's been a long, long time, but you
never really forget.
I stalk to the kitchen where Mulder is still slurping away
and stand in front of him, hands on my hips.
He looks up at me and I notice his eyes are awfully pink.
"What's wrong?" he asks.
"Mulder, what the hell is in these brownies?"
**************************
I stare at her blankly for a moment. "The brownies?
Whatever is usually in brownies, I guess. Chocolate,
probably, and sugar and -- " I notice the way she is
looking at me, her frowning expression and her angry
stance. I also notice the strange way my own voice sounds
to my ears, as if I am speaking from inside a barrel.
Realization dawns. "Oh, shit."
"Please tell me that you didn't just feed me hash
brownies," she says, her glare becoming murderous.
I spread my hands in a helpless gesture. "Scully, I didn't
know, I swear. I thought they were just, you know,
brownies." I am afraid to look her in the eye. When I get
home, I promise myself, I am going to kill my cousin Seth.
"Mulder, I can't believe this. I ate one and half of them,
and not little ones, either. You come over here and you
feed me hash brownies...!"
"Scully, I didn't know -- "
"Mulder, don't give me that innocent act. Nothing is ever
your fault, is it? I've had it up to here with you!" She
makes a chopping motion at her hairline.
Okay, maybe I fucked up. Maybe now I'm supposed to just
sit here and take my punishment like a man. But there's
something about that gesture, that pissed-off little chop
at her forehead, that strikes me as funny. I try to keep a
straight face. I strive mightily to look grave and
remorseful as she lays into me. Still, I can't help it.
The urge to laugh just grows, until finally it comes out in
a stifled snicker.
She stops in mid-rant. "What the hell is so funny,
Mulder?"
"Up to here," I say, still choking back laughter, and point
to her forehead. "On anybody else, that wouldn't be that
high."
Her brows fly together. "Ha, ha. Very funny."
It *is* pretty damned funny, or at least it seems so to me.
I dissolve into full-fledged giggles. "Up to here on you
is only up to here on me," I say, and point at my left
nipple.
"Mulder, you're stoned."
"Yes," I agree, laughing helplessly. "I am."
She stares at me angrily, and then her frown begins to
quiver. Suddenly she starts to laugh, too. "Your eyes are
all red," she says, giggling. "You look like some big old
red-eyed guy."
Coming from Scully, this bit of supreme inarticulation
sends me into another fit of hilarity. I can't seem to
stop laughing. "Oh, my God," I wheeze finally. "I am so
messed up."
She sinks down into the chair beside me. "Me, too. I
haven't felt this way since college."
I look at her in delighted surprise. "You smoked pot in
college?" Somehow, I had never imagined Scully as the
partying kind.
"Why is that so surprising? I've done a lot of wild
things."
"Yeah, I bet."
"I have!"
"Uh-huh. Name one."
She leans back and gives me a superior look. "I can name
three: Miami, Wisconsin, and Boston."
I feel my face growing hot. "Besides that," I say quickly.
She thinks for a minute, her head tipped back. For the
first time I notice that she's changed completely into
pajamas. In my brownie-induced fog, she looks intriguingly
soft. I can see the outline of her breasts straining
against the flannel. She's not wearing a bra. Not that
she needs one. Scully has great breasts, the best breasts,
firm and round and silky...
I realize that I am heading into forbidden territory, and
quickly avert my eyes.
"For one thing," she says, fortunately unaware of my
lascivious thoughts, "I once gave a guy a blow-job in a
car."
My jaw falls open. "You did not! He was driving?"
She looks slightly chastened. "No, it was a parked car.
But it was a really busy parking lot. Someone could have
walked by at any moment."
I have to laugh at Scully's idea of a walk on the wild
side. "Wow, you wild woman, you."
"Well, I was barely seventeen at the time, Mulder," she
says, bristling. "How much action were you getting when
you were seventeen?"
"Enough," I say vaguely.
She makes an indelicate snorting sound. "Yeah, with your
right hand."
Vagueness never seems to be as effective on Scully as I
hope it will be. I look away. "Geez, Scully, remind me
not to get you stoned again."
She giggles. I try to maintain my air of wounded machismo
but soon the hash brownies win out and I find myself
giggling, too. She's right, after all. Or mostly right.
I do have a few secrets but I suppose they would hardly
qualify me for wild man status either.
After the tension and the guilt of the past week, it's good
to be laughing with Scully again. Really, I'm feeling
pretty fine. I am not sure how much of this has to do with
the pot and how much has to do with Scully herself. When I
turn my head, the objects in the room leave squiggly little
trails in my vision. Then again, Scully has always had the
ability to make me laugh.
We move into the living room where, God help me, Scully has
a fire going in the fireplace, and sit next to each other
on the couch.
She leans toward me. "So," she says out of the blue, "have
you ever done it stoned?"
****
Oh God oh God oh God, did I really say that? I don't know
whether to laugh or cry at my drug-induced idiocy.
Instead, Mulder is the one who laughs. "Is that a question
or an offer, Scully?"
I lean back into the couch cushions. How have I had this
couch for so long and not noticed how insanely soft and
comfortable it is? After a swallow of beer, I say, "Don't
flatter yourself, Big Guy..."
"Big Guy? Thanks for the compliment."
The hole I am digging gets deeper and deeper by the second.
"You didn't answer my question. Have you ever had sex
high?"
He makes a funny little sound in the back of his throat.
"I never smoked pot once I got out of high school."
"And your point is...?"
Now Mulder is the one to turn red, nearly as red as his
stoner-boy eyes. "You were right, Scully, I wasn't getting
any action back then. I wasn't a wild child like you,
blowing boys in cars."
I start laughing so hard I tumble off the couch and land on
the floor with a resounding thump, narrowly missing
whacking my head on the coffee table. "What's so damn
funny?" Mulder demands.
"I was, I was," I wheeze through waves of laughter, "I was
picturing you as a teenager, giving head to another boy in
a car."
Mulder chucks a wadded-up paper napkin at me. "Cute,
really cute."
I crawl across the floor to the fireplace, since standing
currently seems to be too complicated a process for my
brain. I lie on my back and stare at the dancing flames.
"I remember getting high in college, " I say. "I didn't do
it a lot because I was a serious student, but sometimes my
boyfriend Peter and I would share a joint and it was like
heaven, the two of us on his narrow little bed, making love
and feeling like I was floating at the same time. God, I
wish I could be that young again, everything so
uncomplicated..."
"It sucks being old," is Mulder's astute comment. He
lurches across the room to the stereo. "Hey, Scully, you
have any Pink Floyd?"
I groan. "God, Mulder, drag your ass out of the 70s."
He clatters through my stacks of CDs, dropping every third
one until the room fills with the opening chords of "Hey
You". "I *knew* you had some Floyd."
Mulder grabs a pillow from the couch and joins me on the
floor in front of the fire.
"This song is so depressing," I moan.
"It reminds me of going to midnight shows of the movie. I
wanted to be Bob Geldof when I grew up, even thought of
shaving my eyebrows off."
I snicker. "I'll bet you had a black Pink Floyd tee shirt,
huh?"
"Don't forget the feathered hair. My hair feathers really
well."
Mulder, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, blow-
drying his hair into perfect feathers. It's too much, I
collapse in helpless giggles.
"If you think that's bad, you should have seen the mustache
I tried to grow Senior year. Darcy, my girlfriend, thought
I looked like Tony Orlando."
I'm gonna pee my pants if he keeps this up. "Is Darcy the
one who wouldn't sleep with you?"
"One and the same." He shrugs ruefully. "Never got to add
her to the Mulder Babe List."
I cock an eyebrow. "And just how long is that list?" Or
maybe I really don't want to know the answer to that. I
mean, anyone who calls it the Babe List, that's got to be
some list.
He spreads his arms far apart. "Miles and miles. How
about you? You asked first."
"Fine, let me see." I blow hair out of my eyes and think a
minute. Math isn't my best skill right now. "Okay, I've
got it. Nine, total. No -- it's ten, if I count you."
Mulder sits up. "You did NOT."
Ha, score one for me. Actually, score ten. I shocked
Mulder for once, and that's a wonderful feeling. I won't
tell him that they were almost all in college and med
school and before him, I hadn't had sex since George Bush
was in office, unless you count a little heavy petting with
Ed Jerse on his couch. "I did, too."
"Ten, huh? There's a lot I don't know about you."
If that isn't the understatement of the year, I don't know
what is. "What about you?"
He casts his eyes downward in a coy gesture. "Scully," he
says in a low voice. "I'm terribly ashamed to tell you
this, but I'm still a virgin."
I erupt into some unladylike snorts. "So, you're telling
me I was shacked up with Eddie Van Blundht in Boston?"
Mulder flops back down on the floor, this time onto his
stomach, and runs his hand through his dark hair. I am
suddenly all too aware of the way he smells. For a man who
wears no cologne, Mulder still has a signature scent -- a
little Ivory soap, Right Guard, pool chlorine and a dash of
something dark that is his own. I scoot a little further
away from him. He lets out a sharp breath. "Only six," he
mutters. "Pathetic for a man my age."
He's embarrassed, this is too rich for words. I stifle a
giggle, for I may be high, but I'm not patently cruel.
"Are you counting me?"
"You've always counted, Scully."
I choose not to respond to that. Danger lurks therein.
Mulder's feet are distracting me. Somewhere along the line
he removed his socks and he's wiggling his toes. Wiggle
wiggle wiggle, I can't take my eyes away. It's
fascinating. This little piggy went to market, this little
piggy stayed home...
"What are you staring at?"
I raise my head. "Huh? Nothing, just your toes." More
laughter bubbles up. "You keep wiggling them around!"
"I do?" Mulder looks over his shoulder at his feet. "So I
do. My new shoes haven't been broken in yet and my toes
hurt."
And then it's like I'm watching a movie of myself, in which
I get up and make a beeline to the bathroom and rummage in
the medicine cabinet until I find what I'm looking for. I
return to the living room, all too aware of the silly grin
plastered on my face. Got to stop smiling, my cheeks are
beginning to ache.
"What do you have there?" he asks.
"I have the cure for what ails you." I brandish a small
bottle. "Peppermint Foot Lotion from the Body Shop. How
else do you think I'm able to run in those high heels?"
"Foot lotion?" His eyebrows rise in suspicion. "Isn't
that for girls?"
"You'll thank me for it tomorrow."
He settles back on the floor, this time on his back, and I
sit near his feet. Okay, I don't have a thing for feet at
all, in fact most men's feet are disgusting, but Mulder
happens to be blessed with a nice pair of feet -- narrow,
well-trimmed toenails, high arches and long, slender toes.
And you know what they say about men with long toes.
I squeeze a handful of the minty-fresh goop in my palm and
start massaging it into the instep of his left foot, which
starts moving around in my hand. "Ticklish?"
"Nah," he grunts. "It feels weird, kind of tingly."
"That's the menthol in the lotion." I pick up his right
foot and rest it in my lap, working the lotion in with even
strokes. Mulder sits up, watching me with dark, intent
eyes. Soon he is breathing harder and beginning to squirm.
This isn't turning him on, is it? It can't, I mean, I
never get excited when I go for a pedicure.
As I rub harder, his foot relaxes in my fingers and I get
this irresistible urge to take his big toe in my mouth.
Oh God, do I have a foot fetish after all? Will I have to
start hanging out in feet chat rooms on the internet?
The next thing I know, I'm bending to his foot and my
tongue is slowly running up his arch to his toes. And then
it is exploring the little crevice between his toes and the
pad of his foot, tasting mint and salt. His toes scrunch
up.
I just made Mulder's toes curl.
This is so, so wrong. What is my problem? But I can't
stop myself as he squirms at my ministrations and pants
louder and louder as I circle his big toe and then surround
it with my lips.
He scoots backward a little, as if suddenly afraid of me.
"Scully," he says between harsh breaths. "You have to stop
that."
************
She lifts her head from my foot and regards me silently.
"Please," I beg. "Just stop."
She gazes at me, and a slow smile spreads across her lips.
"What's the matter, Mulder?"
"Scully, don't play around with me. Come on. Please." I
am almost on the verge of tears.
Her head dips to my foot again. I watch in dismay as her
lips close on my toe, and she begins to suck. She keeps
her eyes, those big blue eyes of hers, locked on mine the
whole time.
Oh, fuck. Oh fucking fuck. I don't know if it's the
brownies or the lotion or just the sight of Scully's
beautiful mouth surrounding a part of me, but I am in
serious trouble here. Serious, serious trouble. I am
breathless and my heart is racing and I am hard -- really
hard. I can barely sit still.
She keeps on sucking. I curl my fingers through the pile
of her rug in a death grip. She swirls her tongue around
my toe. My knuckles turn white.
She makes a little noise in the back of her throat -- half
sigh, half moan.
I yank away, none too gently, and skitter backwards across
the rug out of her reach. I sit there panting, staring at
her, with my knees drawn up so that she can't see my
erection. Oh, God. Oh, God. I lean my head down, and
rest my fevered forehead on one knee.
Does she have any idea what torture I am suffering here?
This is all just a game to her, a flirtatious little
brownie-induced joke, but she is playing with fire. Every
nerve ending in my body is tingling, including a few I
didn't even know I had.
I am not going to touch her. I am NOT.
She starts to laugh. "Mulder, I was just kidding around."
Mmmm-hmmm. It might be funny, if I were made of steel. I
am not made of steel. "Scully, don't talk to me for a
second," I say, my head still leaning on my knee. "Just
give me a minute, would you?"
Jesus, what a pathetic dork I am, I think as I struggle for
some composure. I must look pretty damned hilarious to
Scully, Dr. I-number-my-lovers-in-the-double-digits. My
breathing is ragged and I'm afraid to even look at her.
On the stereo, Pink Floyd is singing "Comfortably Numb."
Don't I wish, I think glumly. But how am I supposed to
feel? She was sucking on me, for God's sake.
I hear the soft sounds of her moving across the rug toward
me. "You okay, Mulder?" she asks. "You're not going to be
sick, are you?"
I laugh weakly, still not looking at her. My erection
shows no sign of subsiding. "Jesus, Scully. I'm stoned,
not drunk."
She giggles. "You're funny when you're stoned.".
"And you're pretty scary."
She moves even closer. "So did that -- you know, did it
feel good?"
Yes, it felt good. And war is heck. Scully has a gift for
understatement. "It was okay."
She giggles again. "You have nice feet, Mulder. Nice
other parts, too." Her voice is warm and a little rough
around the edges.
"Scully, please," I groan. This would be difficult enough
even if I didn't have hash brownies coursing through my
bloodstream. The blood is pounding in my head. I can feel
it pounding lower, too, my cock pulsing with every beat of
my heart.
"You want me to do the other foot?" she says, so close that
I can feel her breath on my neck.
I want you to do every inch of my body, I think
treacherously. I want to put Peppermint Foot Lotion all
over you and then lick it off as if you are a giant candy
cane. I want to come inside you. "No, thank you."
"You want another brownie?"
I can't help laughing. "No, I think I've had enough."
"Mulder, why won't you look at me?"
Instead of answering, I just sigh and listen to the music
swirling around me. I mouth the lyrics along with the
song: "There is no pain, you are receding; a distant
ship's smoke on the horizon..." I used to love this music
when I was in high school.
I feel Scully's hand on my shoulder. "Mulder, say
something."
I turn my head and look at her, still with my head leaning
on my knee. "This must be some good weed."
************
Things just keep getting progressively worse. What the
hell is wrong with me tonight? It's like we've entered a TV
movie -- "The Three Faces of Dana."
Mulder is staring at me and I feel deep shame. I've gone
completely out of control, sucking his toes like that,
teasing him. I'd like to blame it on the brownies, but is
that really it? My head is swirling with arousal and
contradiction and suddenly I just cannot deal. I have to
get out of this room.
I mumble something to him about needing a drink and flee to
the brightly-lit refuge of the kitchen. After pouring a
glass of apple cider and downing it in one cotton-mouthed
gulp, I press my forehead against the cool of the fridge.
Mulder and I, stoned. What a joke. We really are the
partners that put the fun in dysfunctional.
Why doesn't this stuff come easily to us? Why can't we
laugh and make love and forget ourselves like normal
people?
You and Mulder are the farthest thing from normal on the
planet, I think, and stifle a giggle as tears begin to drip
down my cheeks at the same time.
Must. Not. Cry. But it's too late, the wave is breaking
over me and I have to clutch the refrigerator's handle to
keep from collapsing on the linoleum below.
Footsteps sound behind me and I look over my shoulder,
blinking away the tears. Maybe he's too high to notice.
"Do you want some juice?" I offer.
His face falls and he sits down at the table, staring at
his hands. "I should go home," he mutters.
I shake my head. "You can't, you're in no condition."
Mulder looks up at me and I see the naked pain in his eyes,
which have turned a steely gray. My heart does a little
lurch and I wonder if this is how it feels to have a broken
heart, to break a heart. I dab at my eyes with a hank of
paper towel and sigh, leaning against the counter. "I'm
sorry," I exhale. "Can I blame it on the drugs?"
His mouth twists into a poor imitation of a grin. "I was
drugged..."
I remember a chubby, teenaged maybe-vampire and Mulder
singing the theme song from Shaft in his undershirt. It
seems so long ago.
A long silence passes until he says, "I tried so hard to be
good tonight, to not touch you, but you were making it
awfully difficult back there."
More tears speckle my face. "I wanted to leave you alone,
too."
He looks straight at me and I notice his eyes seem to be
completely focused and sober now. "I promised myself that
I'd never force myself on you again."
I have to try really hard not to laugh. "Force yourself?
Is that what you think it was those times on the road?
God, Mulder, did I ever turn you away? Did I ever say no?"
Please, each and every time I temporarily shucked off the
guilt and eagerly jumped into bed with him.
Mulder shrugs. "There's saying no and there's saying no."
He just doesn't get it, doesn't think that I could possibly
want him the way he wants me. Mulder doesn't understand
that I've been suffering just as much as he has.
I cross the kitchen and kneel before him, grasping his warm
hand in mine. "I never said no in any way, shape or form.
Believe me, you would have been made very aware of it if I
hadn't wanted to be with you."
He squeezes. "Why did you cry in Boston?"
Burying my head in his lap, I fight another storm of tears.
Is this what happens when I suppress my tears for so long?
I lift my head. "I was crying because I knew it had to be
the last time."
His entire body seems to relax and Mulder strokes my hair.
"Why aren't we able to really talk to each other, Scully?"
I smile. "Because we're two lonely, misanthropic people."
He nods. "How do we stop wanting each other?" I can feel
the proof of his want under my cheek.
That's it. I give up, I'm hauling out the white flag.
Total and complete capitulation. I can't fight my desire
anymore, I can't keep struggling against the current of the
inevitable. Mulder and I can't go back to the way things
once were. As my mother likes to say, it's impossible to
pour the spilled milk back into the glass.
I may still be a little high, but it all seems so clear to
me now.
Mulder's eyes are wide and fearful. He knows he's just put
it all in my hands. I take a deep breath. "I don't think
we can stop. I don't know if I want to stop."
As if by the mutual accord of our unspoken agreement of
surrender, our mouths meet. Collide, really, in a hot and
sloppy kiss.
He pulls away from my lips. "Here we go again..."
"We can always blame it on the drugs," I chuckle.
Perhaps we'll always need an excuse to feel that it's okay
to be together like this.
My fingers travel to the fly of his jeans and clumsily
start working the buttons. Now who was the genius who
thought up the button fly? I'd like to smack him.
"Scully," he gasps and throws his head back. He raises his
hips off the chair and pushes his pants and boxers down.
I smile and bend my head to this most agreeable task.
Have I mentioned how I have the munchies right now?
***********************
If this is not Nirvana, if Heaven is actually better this,
then I don't want an afterlife because I really don't think
I could stand it.
This has to be the best blow job of my life.
Maybe it's the pot, but I can feel everything in amazing
detail: the back of Scully's mouth, the swirl of her
tongue, the friction as her lips slide up and down my cock.
She has her hand wrapped around the base of me, working
back and forth with every bob of her head. It's driving me
crazy.
"Oh, God, Scully," I groan.
I'm not sure why it's so good. Not that I've ever really
had a bad blow job; "bad blow job" is the ultimate
oxymoron, more nonsensical than "genuine imitation" or
"definite maybe." But this is incredible.
She slips her free hand between my thighs, and fondles my
balls. Her mouth is like silk. I'm breathing like a
bellows, just trying to stay ahead of the sensation.
Eventually sensation pulls into the lead. "Scully." I
squeeze my hands into fists. "Scully, you'd better stop."
She shakes her head -- which, considering where her head is
and what it's doing, only makes matters worse.
"Scully, that's enough." I tense the muscles in my legs
and hips, fighting the urge to twist my fingers in her hair
and thrust up into her mouth. "Come on, stop. Please."
But no, a very take-charge type is my Scully. She's not
taking orders from anyone. Instead she just keeps doing
what she's doing. She lifts her head away just far enough
to sweep her tongue in a complete circle around the head of
my cock, and then plunges her mouth back down again.
"Scully!" I can barely get the words out. "Scully I don't
-- I don't want to -- "
She shakes her head again.
God, how I would like to put my hand on the back of her
head and give in to it, coming hard, coming loudly. But,
face it, I get one chance, and then the show's over, at
least for a while. Right now the thought of being outside
Scully's body for even the briefest of times is not
something I'm willing to contemplate.
I put my hands on her shoulders, and push her away.
She sits back on her heels and looks up at me accusingly.
Those huge blue eyes of hers are as wide and bottomless as
infinity. "Mulder, what do you think you're doing?"
I laugh breathlessly. "I'm being a total masochist."
"Mulder, I wanted to -- "
"I know what you wanted to do, and believe me, I appreciate
it." God I'm aching. Still panting, too. "You have no
idea how much I appreciate it. But I don't want that right
now."
"Mulder, I don't mind..."
"Well, I do." I slide off the chair, and kneel before her
on the floor. "I want something a little more...landmark."
"More landmark?"
"Scully," I say, reaching out and pulling her pajama top
off over her head, "when am I ever going to get another
chance to make love to you stoned?"
"I don't even think we're really stoned anymore. I think
it's wearing off."
Ever the logical one, isn't she? I yank off my own shirt,
and tug her against me. "Shhhh," I say. "Don't spoil my
sex, drugs, and rock and roll fantasy."
She laughs. I have a shirtless Scully pressed against me,
laughing. Does it get any better than this? I don't think
so. She said she didn't want to stop. She said I never
forced her. Maybe it's not the most circumspect thing in
the world, sleeping with my partner, but it feels right.
Fuck circumspection, I think with great satisfaction. This
isn't just some momentary lapse. I want this. I've been
wanting it for years.
I lift my hands to her warm breasts, and kiss her. My
pants are down around my knees and my cock is prodding her
in the navel, wet and a little sticky from a moment before.
I probably look ridiculous but it certainly feels good,
rocking against her like this. Her breasts are soft and
she tastes like apple cider.
"Let's go in the bedroom," she whispers, as I circle her
nipples with my fingertips.
"Unh-unh," I say, throbbing. "Your bed's too big. We'll
lose the whole wild college high-on-pot vibe."
"Then where? I don't have a twin bed."
"Right here. On the floor." I push her flannel pajama
pants down off her hips. "What was the name of your
college roommate, Scully?"
She laughs. "Julie."
"Okay, we're in your dorm room," I say, reaching down to
find she's already wet. "We have to do it now, Scully,
right now, before Julie gets back from the library."
"In college I was the one who was always at the library."
I ease her over onto her back, and cover her body with
mine. "Don't screw with my fantasy, Scully."
She giggles.
"Nope, we have to do it now." My fingers stroke through
her slick folds, pushing a little way inside her. "I'm
going to fail all my classes because all I can think about
all day is fucking you."
"You're going to fail, Mulder?" Her voice is playful, but
with a breathless catch in it that makes my temperature
soar.
"Oh, yeah, Scully. If you don't let me fuck you right now,
that is."
"I wouldn't want you to flunk out..."
"Yeah," I agree. "We couldn't have that." I position
myself, and thrust inside her.
Oh, Jesus.
I didn't really have a plan for this; I didn't stop to
think whether I ought to make it slow and languorous or go
for broke. It's probably good that I didn't have a plan.
Adrenaline takes over.
I start shoving into her, hard. "We college boys -- like
it rough," I say, panting. I have one hand under her ass,
holding her against me. "Rough and -- fast."
She moans.
"Got to hurry." I'm slamming into her. "Before Julie --
gets back."
She closes her eyes. She's tilted her hips and she's
straining against me, meeting my thrusts with thrusts of
her own. I drive into slickness so tight and so sweet that
I can hardly stand it.
"Come on, Scully," I growl, the words coming out in jerks.
"God, you feel good."
She's gasping, squeezing my cock with muscles designed, it
seems, just to reduce me to incoherence. The soft little
noises she's making are like gasoline on a brush fire.
"Yeah. That's it. Gonna major in -- fucking -- "
I pound into her. Her hands are clawing at my back. I
realize how crazy this is, spinning out college fantasies
while nailing her on the floor, but the thought just makes
me that much more out of control.
And then, mercifully, she gives a little cry and her back
arches and that wild convulsive feeling explodes around me.
And the knowledge that it's so soon -- that Scully is
already coming and we really *have* beaten the imaginary
roommate -- is like a shot of pure hormonal insanity. Just
a few more thrusts, just a few seconds later, and I gush
into her, coming as hard as if I really am twenty-one years
old again.
I collapse against her, dead weight, dizzy.
And then we both burst into laughter.
*****************
It's a mighty good thing that my mother is miles away and
has no chance of seeing her daughter lying in the bathtub
with her partner, holding a beer in one hand while said
partner passes her bits of leftover kung pao chicken with
his chopsticks. It's a blessing she can't see the post-
coital blush on her daughter's face or the loopy smile her
partner is wearing. My sweet, terribly naive mother would
never get over the shock.
My bathtub, which normally seems as large as a swimming
pool now seems crowded after adding Mulder to the equation.
To save room I'm sitting between his legs, with my head
resting against his chest, which is not a bad way to spend
a Friday night.
"Green pepper?" Mulder asks and I nod my head. En route to
my mouth it slips from the sticks and splashes into the
pale lavender Tranquility Bay-flavored water. Mulder
fishes it out from under my left calf and hurls it towards
the toilet, where it lands in the bowl with a satisfying
splash.
He raises his arms and cheers. "A three point shot for Fox
Mulder and the crowd at Madison Square Garden goes wild!"
I snort with laughter, not really sure if that was actually
funny or if I'm still high.
After setting the carton of chicken back down on the floor,
Mulder steals my bottle of Bass and takes a long swallow.
Leaning against him the way I am, I can feel his esophagus
contracting as the beer travels down to his stomach.
Mulder sighs, but it seems to be one of contentment. "I
don't know if I'm high any more."
I smile. "I am, but I'm not sure if it's from the brownies
or the sex."
It's probably both. A powerful combination -- pot,
chocolate and Mulder.
His hand reaches up and lightly pinches my right nipple
between his fingers and I loll my head against his
shoulder. "Do you like that?" he whispers in my ear in a
sly voice. The other nipple gets the same treatment and I
smother a gasp. "Do you?" he repeats, circling my nipple
with wet fingers.
"God, Mulder, what's not to like?"
Fingers trail ticklish patterns on my belly. "I just want
to make sure you're...satisfied."
Was he temporarily deaf back there in the kitchen? No,
simply as insecure as me. "More that satisfied," I manage
to say as his fingers dip lower under the water to my lower
thigh. "I'd say sated."
"Good," he mutters and bites down on my neck. "But does
that mean you don't want more?"
Oh, his fingers have found my clitoris and make feathery
circles. Tease. He sets the beer down and soaps his
fingers and slides them back and forth, back and forth. I
have to bite my lip to keep from crying out.
"Do you want more, Scully?" I can feel him hardening
against my lower back. You have to love a man who at his
age is still as randy as a teenager. Perhaps there's
something to be said for not resolving the sex issue for
more than five years.
With shaking legs I stand up. "What are you doing?" he
asks.
"Room," I say, turning around to feast my eyes on his
happily aroused state. "We need more room."
I give him a hand up and out of the tub. "Your bath mat
looks awfully comfy," he cracks.
"Mulder, do you have some deep-seated aversion to beds?"
His answer is to push me down onto the mat. I shiver, my
wet body protesting the loss of the hot water, until he
covers me with his warm flesh. He makes a nice blanket.
Damn, that man can kiss, not too much tongue, just enough
of it entering my mouth and teasing with light movements in
and out. I groan in happy protest and spread my legs,
wanting desperately to be touched again. With unerring
psychic ability, his hand finds me again and dips into the
wetness, spreading slow circles.
Then, I can't help but cry out as his head moves lower and
his tongue starts its talented little dance across my
clitoris, his lips nipping and sucking in turns. Some day
I'm going to have to ask where he learned to do that, I
think, as my fingers increase their grip on his shoulders.
He should teach a community ed class.
He lifts his head from me and I howl in disappointment.
"Go back, go back," I mutter as my thighs begin to shake at
the loss of sensation.
"No," he grins. Mulder orders in a low growl, "Put your
hands on the edge of the bathtub." Bossy, but that's fine;
next time I'll be in charge. I turn around so my back is
to him and grip the porcelain between my hands, spreading
my legs wider. His mouth moves down my back and he makes a
happy humming noise as his two fingers move into my vagina
and gently thrust.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, I think.
I arch my back as he moves behind me and his cock slowly
slides into me, my hips pushing him further in. It's
strangely exciting not being able to see his face, but to
hear his panting and groaning in my ear and feel his
hardness driving in and out, at an increasingly faster
pace.
"Harder," I mutter.
"You like it rough?" he asks and I can hear the grin on his
face.
"Harder," I repeat.
With one hand grasping my shoulder and one pushing against
my clit, he complies, throwing his back into the task. I
hear myself mumbling his name over and over again, a litany
of my desire until I simply can't stand it any more. "This
is so fucking good," I mutter into my hands, eyes squeezed
shut. Oh God, it's going to happen again, I think, as my
heart starts madly pounding.
"No, this is good fucking," he rasps and I laugh as the
climax rips across me, leaving me a shaking, convulsing
wreck.
Mulder turns me around so that I am sitting on him and
again thrusts up into me. Our eyes lock and I can feel the
tears well. His hand travels up to my face. "I'm not
sad," I reassure him and he gives me a sadly sweet smile.
We kiss as if the end of the world were near.
With the last burst of strength I move up and down on his
cock with fierce abandon. "Oh shit," he says into my neck
and I feel his lower body begin to tremble. With a drawn-
out sigh, he comes, his arms tightly wrapped around my
still-wet back, his lips pressing into my neck.
We stop and stare at each other.
"Oh God, Scully," he says, a red flush spreading on his
cheeks.
"I know," I say, nodding.
Hard to believe that I had such a lover by my side for so
many years.
The question now is, now that I have him, do I want to keep
him? Or was this just another lapse?
No, I want this.
We clean up and dry off and hand-in-hand walk to my
bedroom. I flick on the bedside lamp and turn down the
covers. I knew there was a reason I did my laundry last
night.
Sliding into bed next to him, I kiss his lips, loving his
taste, his touch.
"In the morning we can christen this bed," I say.
"Who said anything about the morning?" he chortles,
squeezing my bottom with his large hands.
Oh dear, I'm in big trouble with this man.
Well, for once I'll have something interesting to tell
Father McCue at confession.
***************
I fit my key in the lock and swing the door open slowly, a
little afraid of what I'm going to find. And with good
reason: my apartment looks like it's been hit by Hurricane
Budweiser. There are paper cups everywhere, the coffee
table has been pushed over by the window, there's a stain
on the wall that I sincerely hope is just splattered beer,
and an open bag of Ruffles is strewn across the couch and
all over the floor.
Also on my couch is the reason for this disaster, my cousin
Seth. He's stretched out with his Doc Martens up on the
leather and he's watching TV with my remote control in his
hand."
"That better be the Discovery Channel," I say, remembering
that I left an apartment full of college kids alone with my
video collection last night.
He looks up, and grins. "Hey, Fox."
There's nothing more silly looking than a white boy with
dreadlocks. "Something happen to your arms? I mean, did
you break all of the bones in some horrific accident that
kept you from picking up all this shit?"
"I'll get to it."
I start collecting half-empty paper cups. "Where's Ari?" I
ask, looking around for his girlfriend.
"She went out for some food." He sits up. "Hey, that
reminds me, dude -- what did you do with our brownies?"
I give him the dirtiest look I can muster. "I ought to kick
your ass for making those brownies in here. Did it ever
occur to you that I'm a federal agent?"
He just grins and shrugs.
"I know what was in them," I add.
"Yeah, I bet you do. Good stuff, huh?"
I turn away so he won't see my smile. "Get off your ass
and help me clean up this mess."
He does, but not without remarking, "You know, you're
pretty crabby for a guy who just got laid."
I stop gathering cups and stare at him. "Who says I got
laid?"
Seth starts to laugh. "Oh, please, dude. You didn't come
home last night, you have a hickey on your neck, and even
from here I can tell that you smell like some honey's
bubble bath. Who was she?"
"None of your damn business."
"See what I mean? Crabby, crabby, crabby..."
I just ignore him, and go back to straightening up what
used to be a habitable dwelling. Let him think I'm crabby
if he likes, I decide happily. I'm not in an arguing mood.
I may never be in an arguing mood again, not when I'm twice
his age and I still got more sex than he did last night.
I look around me. There's a lot to do here. The living
room is a mess, the kitchen is a disaster, and I haven't
even worked up the courage to check out the bathroom yet.
It's going to take a while to get this place back in shape.
I should probably take Seth and his girlfriend out to
lunch, too; I did invite him to stay here, and I remember
how much I enjoyed the occasional escape from bad college
food when I was his age. And then...And then...
I smile to myself. I can't help it if I forgot my laptop
at Scully's again, can I?
****
End of the whole damn thing!
PD and Dasha would like to add that we do not advocate drug
use in any way, shape or form, nor do we advocate the abuse
of Pink Floyd and steamed dumplings. Do not try these
sexual acts at home if you have knee or back problems.
All feedback to dakluz@stkate.edu and
pdeniability@hotmail.com
The reference to the parked car is for the gang at JCLS and
the Chinese food is for our girl Sharon. Merry Christmas,
sweetie!
(
geocities.com/hotsprings)