TITLE: Mutual AUTHOR: Jess EMAIL ADDRESS: snarkypup@mindspring.com DISCLAIMER: You're kidding, right? DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Anywhere, just let me know. SPOILER WARNING: None really. RATING: NC-17, maybe an R. CONTENT WARNING: Lots of slapping of the proverbial Salami CLASSIFICATION: MSR, pure crispy smut biscuit SUMMARY: Scully is caught doing something... erm... private. Mulder decides to let her know the feelings are mutual. Email me, I substitute it for food. You know, by nature, I am not necessarily a patient woman. I know Mulder thinks I am, but hell, he probably also thinks I'm still a virgin, so I don't put too much stock in his opinion of me. I have been writing in my journal all evening, the way I always do when we've finished a case, the same stilted, artificial language I've been using to express my feelings since I was ten. I don't talk like that, I don't think like that, what on earth possesses me to write like that? I quote: "Somewhere beyond the finite recesses of our logical minds, we have found it impossible to let go of the idea of the primitive man-beast, feral and predatory, waiting for the moment of greatest weakness to?" blah blah blah. Why do I do this? No one ever reads it. Except that time Mulder read my diary in the hospital. Even then I was embarrassed, and not just because I didn't want him reading my private thoughts. I mean, how private are they when you obsessively spell-check them as you write? What kind of freak am I that I cannot let myself go even to myself? It's like I'm a little knowing Anne Frank, hoping if something happens to me, Mulder will publish the sad testament to our pathetic little crusade. But I digress. I am not patient. I have been waiting for six long, impossibly long, years for him to do something about this itch I seem unable to find anyone else to scratch. It's not that I haven't made the occasional attempt. Ed. Oh, don't get me wrong, it felt wonderful to lie in his bed, my shirt off, his hot hands scrolling over me, but in the end, I just couldn't do it. Why? Because I'm a slave to love. I'm an idiotic, whipped little puppy to the master that is Mulder. The way he looks at me when he wants something nasty, like a four-hour autopsy of a guy found in a sewer? I'd do just about anything for him. Even give up the one legitimate chance of mind-blowing sex I've had since I met him. Ah Mulder, the sacrifices I've made? But here I am, Saturday night in a cheap motel on a strip of road known only to loggers and the occasional Big Foot nut (Mulder included), completely alone. In the room next to mine, just a thin connecting door away, lies the single sexiest, most infuriating, most lovable man I've ever known, clearly watching bad porn too loud on the crappy Seventies 20-inch TVs this place provides. Why, I ask myself, would he prefer to watch "Night Treasures" or whatever the hell is on pay-per-view tonight than to climb into my bed and slip, pulsing and greasy with lust, into my body? Is he some sort of strange aesthetic, who eschews pleasure in order to form a greater connection to the spiritual? Is he gay? Then of course, the usual doubt hits me. It's not him, I think, listening to the forced moans and "oh yeah, come on my face"es from beyond the wall (like any woman in the history of the universe has said that without being paid first). I know he loves me. But I don't think he's actually "in love" with me. He thinks I'm beautiful, sure. He worships me in a nice, crush-y sort of way, but he doesn't really want to get down and dirty with me. The unbelievable swiftness of his sexual reaction to Diana Fowley should certainly prove that to me. Six fucking years, and he's out of his mind with hallucinations, doing the wild thing with Diana in the span of one jealous beat of my heart. Ok, so maybe the hallucinations helped him get past the fact that the woman has the face of a very old racehorse? no, I'm just being mean. He's attracted to women with long legs and dark hair and smoldering gypsy looks and I have none of those things. He loves me, but in the way he loves his sister. Unattainable and remote, Antarctica in the flesh. Speaking of that? I play over the moment in the hallway in my mind. We must have stood there looking at each other for nearly a minute. The entire time, my mind is chanting like a Hari Krishna "kiss me, kiss me, kiss me." And he must have realized that if he did, I would stay. So, after much obvious internal debate, he finally leans down and? well, we all know what happened. Since he has not attempted, in over a year, to repeat the performance, I can only assume he has realized that I am not about to walk out the door any time soon and he may once again start looking for big breasted ex-girlfriends to screw. Do I sound that bitter? Damn. I lean back in bed, propping my head up with one arm. I do love him, so intensely that at times I find it difficult to breathe in his presence, as if he's strangling me. And maybe he is. No doubt if I had never met Mulder, I would now be married to some nice fellow pathologist, living in a lovely suburban brick house with our darling children? and then when the coming viral apocalypse hit, at least I could have just become bewildered alien fodder like everyone else. I wouldn't be lying here alone with the knowledge that in the truest sense, we are all dying any day now, and this is certainly not what I would have planned to do with my final days on earth. I have only one fantasy, sexually anyway, of Mulder. The sick reasons behind the exact positioning involved are obvious even to psychologically stunted me. We are in our office, late at night. Lights down, door closed. I stand to go, feeling sleepy and aroused (this could be because it's my fantasy), and suddenly Mulder is behind me. He's caressing me, stroking my breasts, kissing the back of my neck. Just thinking about this makes me crazy. I slide down lower in the bed, naked and already sweaty, and spread my legs. The cool air against me is magnificent. Mulder slides his hands up under my shirt. "Don't move, Scully," he says and roughly grabs my breasts, running his thumbs across my nipples. This is all he ever says to me. Funny that normally talkative Mulder becomes so silent in my fantasies. I doubt this is because I really want him to shut up, though sometimes I do. I suspect it's because all the other things lovers say to each other sound false coming from my fantasy Mulder's lips. Why would he tell me how sexy I am, when I know deep down he doesn't see me that way? How the hell I ever achieve orgasm with this running commentary of despair in my head is a mystery. But even so, I am unbelievably wet already, and as I slick my hands through my own liquid, I am aware of how nauseating this whole thing is. Doesn't matter, I jump and buck into my own hand. I groan. "mulder" A soft little word, like cotton, like clouds, like the inside of my own thigh. He slides my skirt slowly up my body. I am shaking, quivering with fear and lust and horror all in one desperate moment. In my fantasies, I am never, ever wearing pantyhose. Gripping my underwear, he pulls them down and pushes me, one arm around the front of my waist. I bend for him. This is the sickness of this fantasy, you see. I can't see him. He can't really see me. We don't have to look at each other. I don't have to see the contempt in his eyes. He enters me swiftly, hard, pushing against me with a manic fervor. There is no attempt to pleasure me. Hell, I'm now rubbing myself, so my fantasy Mulder can hump away with no fear that I won't come. I think, to be honest, that just having Mulder that near me, with that intent, could do it. God forbid he ever knows that. I am close now, hovering around the edge of my orgasm like a nervous wife. I work myself, faster and faster, harder, groaning, thrashing, moaning his name over and over. "Oh God, Mulder, right there, just like that. Oh please, please, please? Mulder, please." And then suddenly, there I am, cresting the wave, surfing away. I gasp his name again, almost a whisper and collapse, spent. It's then that I see, out of the corner of my eye, the connecting door quietly slip closed. I have no idea what I'll say to her this morning. Here I am, holding two cups of steaming Joe (perhaps I should not think about "steaming" anything), desperately hoping she didn't know. Really, I just wanted to get a case file. I swear on my father's unconsecrated grave. And as usual, being me, I just pushed open the connecting door without even really thinking about it. First I heard her, a low moan and then my name. Jesus, my name. I've never heard her say it like that. I thought, stupidly, "maybe she's having a nightmare. I'd better go wake her up." Yeah, smooth move, slick. So I open the door a bit more. And I'm transfixed. She's lying on her bed, covers off, stark, fucking, amazing naked. She has her hands between her legs and she's putting first one and then two fingers inside herself. I can't move, I'm frozen. I want to be her fingers, I want to know them intimately, in the biblical sense. In any sense. I want to lick them clean. She moans and whispers "please, Mulder, please." A wiser man would have turned around and run like hell before she realizes I've witnessed this most private of moments. A very wise man would have settled his face between those spread thighs and given her what she was begging for. I am a very, very stupid man. I just stand there, watching as she thrashes her head and lifts her hips. I am seeing way more of Scully than she ever intended. And my God, she's absolutely breathtaking. I know, because I'm turning blue even thinking about it now. She sweaty and slinky and sexy as hell. Not that I ever thought she wouldn't be, but there was no way I ever pictured anything like this. My Scully, and I mean the Scully I know well, because I could never possess her in any way? my Scully is buttoned-up and in control, able to cut into the moldiest dead body you've ever had the pleasure of inhaling and come out of the room smelling like a strawberry cheese cake. She doesn't roll around covered in a fine sheen of her own juices whispering my name and aching for me to touch her. Let's just say I need a new paradigm. So here I am, waiting for her to answer the door (there is no way I'm just opening it) so we can go chase another Sasquatch sighting and all I can think about is that she wants me. She wants me. It's become my mantra. I will sing it from the rooftops. Don't get me wrong, I know I'm an attractive man. And I've had no shortage of offers, if you know what I mean. But with Scully, I've always felt so inadequate, so unable to live up to the men she grew up with, and the woman she is. From the very first moment she walked into my office and appraised me with those cool blue eyes, I've been as intimidated as a schoolboy witnessing his first real bra. She is so far above me in the pantheon of decency that sometimes I have difficulty looking up at her, floating in her white robes in the clouds. She is Aphrodite and I am Mars, an ugly troll toiling down in the bowels of the volcanic earth, trying to forge weapons to fight against an unseen enemy. Clearly, I read too much. She opens the door and, without looking at me, skitters out into the hall. There is no other word for it. She moves like a spider afraid of being swatted. I am absolutely sure she knows. Well done, Mulder. What I can't figure out, is what to do now? I don't know exactly how she's feeling yet. Is she ashamed? Angry? A combination of these things? Right now all that matters is that she's not looking at me. "I got coffee," I say. She glances up at me and smiles weakly. Her normally pale skin has a distinct rosy glow. I am tempted to take her hand and tell her it's me, she doesn't have to be embarrassed or ashamed. Doesn't she know how crazy I am for her? How can she not know? I've told her, outright told her, that I love her. It's not my fault if she refuses to believe it. "Thanks," she says and when she takes the cup, she looks me briefly in the eye. And then I know. Special Agent Dana Scully, a woman who can face shape-shifting aliens and flukemen and Skinner, for God's sake, is terrified. What on earth, I wonder, does she have to be afraid of? She couldn't possibly be afraid of me. Could she? I examine her as we walk, my head filled with seriously pornographic images of Scully writhing beneath me. What could she have to fear from me? Rejection? Disgust? She keeps her head down, her eyes lowered, like a good subservient middle-eastern bride. I hate it. "Scully," I start to say something. But what can I say? God, you're gorgeous when you come? Say my name again, please, in that same wonderful throaty way? I love you, I want you, please believe me just this once this is not a paranormal phenomenon? She's looking up at me, wary and on edge, ready to flee. "Mulder?" she says and sends my brain crashing straight down to my groin like a stone. "I? I just wanted to know if you'd like to go get breakfast somewhere." God, where did that come from? The geeky depths of my teenage self? But I must have hit the nail on the head, because for the first time since we walked out the door, she smiles gently and nods. "I would love to," she says and tucks her hair behind her ears, shyly. She is shy. Scully is shy around me. She fears me. She wants me. She wants and fears and needs me and I am lost in the sensation of it. And she is still two paces behind me. Come on, Scully, catch up. Don't you know that we are equals? We are more than equals, you are my pace car. I glance back at her and slow until she is forced to walk beside me. Then I place one hand in the small of her back and rub it, ever so slightly. Maybe she'll mistake it for a pat or the inadvertent twitching of my hand. I don't care, as long as she can feel it. Equality. I have placed her on a very high pedestal. Maybe it's time to bring myself up out of the gutter and sit next to her for a moment. After all, I'm fairly sure that she thinks she's tumbled down to my level. ++++++++ It wasn't as awful as I'd anticipated. He didn't hate me or reject me or tease me. In fact, he was abnormally sweet to me today. I know what he heard, then, I know? God, did he see anything? I will, I swear, collapse in a little puddle of green alien goop if he saw. I think he's being sweet to me to make me feel less embarrassed. But it isn't working. If he'd wanted me? well, who could have resisted what they wanted, splayed out like a pinwheel, groaning and calling their name? The only reason someone would creep out of a room where their friend, their partner was madly pleasuring herself to their image is if they don't really share the same feelings and wanted to spare that person the inevitable shame. Too late, Mulder. I know you know. So here I am, on a Sunday night. Watching the Simpsons without a trace of a smile. And in the other room is Mulder, going over case files, puttering, whatever the hell it is he does when I'm not there. He didn't invite me in to watch Futurama. He didn't start quoting Bart or Lisa or Grandpa. He said "I'm bushed, Scully. I'm gonna go for a run and then head to bed." Right. Bushed and running do not normally go hand in hand. If I weren't so crazy head-over-heals in love with the bastard, I'd hate him for this, I swear. I can't do this. I can't sit here and pretend that I'm fine with watching TV on my own in this room. I need him to talk to, to sit near. Even his presence is necessary to me now. I no longer crave time alone. I crave moments with him. Rolling over, I hear Mulder's gentle knock on the door. Oh, so we're knocking now, are we, Mulder? "Come in, Mulder." It's open. It's wide, fucking open. "Hey Scully," he's freshly scrubbed, showered and glossed like a damp peach. "I'm just turning in. There's that early day tomorrow. Thought I'd pop in and say goodnight." In other words, Scully, feel free to masturbate to your heart's content. I'm not going to open this door again. "Goodnight, Mulder." "You should rest," he says, walking over to the TV and turning it off. So Mulder, so pushy. "We've got to be on the plane at five." "Right," I say. Rest. Uh huh. He crosses back to the door. He hesitates for a moment, then smiles to himself, opens it and steps into his own room. I feel shame rising inside like a cramp. That little smile at the door. Bastard. I can't lie here with no TV. My thoughts will drive me slowly mad, until I'm pacing around my own head like Mulder interrogating a choice witness. I rise and make my way into the shower, turning it up to "scalding" just to spite myself. When I step out, the room is dark and quiet. Mulder's TV is off now, no loud Swedish groans echoing through the walls. I slip into bed feeling dirtier than ever, despite a good half hour of scrubbing and soaping. Close your eyes and you'll go to sleep, I tell my unwilling mind. It doesn't work. Slowly I open them and stare at the ceiling. Gee, no chance of touching myself tonight. Maybe not ever again. I glance at the opposite wall, toward the offending door. And then I realize, it's not closed. A small bit of light floats in from Mulder's TV, still on but silent as an old film. Flashing, flickering lights. Probably another porn film, I think. I'm immediately annoyed. How dare that damn door stay open? Hasn't it given me enough trouble? I rise and make my way over, intent on closing it. Until I get close and hear his voice, soft, like an echo carried on the wind. "Scully, oh God, Scully." I gasp, internally at least. There is no way I'm going to let out a peep now. Carefully, in an exaggerated slow-mo of my normal g-woman surveillance routine, I open the door another crack and peer in. Mulder is lying on his bed. He is completely nude. I am in shock and have to stop myself from slamming the door. Clearly, he wanted me to see this. To know this. His hand strokes his erection, slowly at first, teasing himself. He is taking his time. "Oh yeah, sweetheart, right there. That feels so good, Scully." Sweetheart? I sink slowly to my knees in the doorway, watching with rapt attention as he touches himself. He is giving himself to me, taking away my shame and loneliness in the sweetest way possible. He is putting us back on the same ground. Maybe that's all it is, I think. Maybe he doesn't do this all the time and he's only doing it to keep me from running away. But then his hand begins to move faster and I lose my train of thought. "Scully, god, you're so?" He stops and I wait, breathless. His hand pumps again. "Lovely." Lovely? Such an old-fashioned word, so gentle and kind and? I sigh. I know he's heard me, because he slows down again, gasping for breath. "Oh, oh, please, Scully. Please come for me." I moan, without thinking about it. I moan. And then the spasms begin, shuddering through my body. I am going to come just watching him, just knowing that he wants me to. Told you I was slavish. "That's it baby, that's it. You're so good, Scully. Too good for me. Keep going, sweetheart, keep going." Who knew Mulder was such a romantic? Prone to pet names other than "red"? I suppose I did, from his performance as Rob Petrie. My body melds and shifts and I feel my orgasm arrive. It isn't huge, after all, I haven't even touched myself, but it's there. From his voice, from the long dark slope of his body, from the sensuous way he moves his hand, the other curled around a clump of bedspread as if he's going to slide off. I sigh, again, this one deeper. He moves quickly then. We are in rhythm, as always. He knows I've come, feels my release, and moves toward his own with a rapidity I would never have suspected. Obviously, he was close, waiting for me. "Scully, oh yes, oh please. Harder, Scully, please let me. Harder." I let him. At least in my head, I do. And he senses it, releases, gasping and glorious, his weary hand sliding down his side to rest on the bed. He moans. I echo him. We are together. Slowly I stand, my legs aching, my whole body still pleasantly throbbing. He turns to see me and smiles a lazy little half smile. I smile back, filled with longing and desire. I know it isn't time yet. But I leave the door open. End. Still reading? Then email me, please!