Title: Figment By: Sheena E-mail: wendyt@ucla.edu Category: SRH Summary: Scully teaches Mulder a thing or two about his cynical perceptions of romance. Rating: NC-17 Warning: This is a sex police caution. Consider yourself warned. Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Nuff said. Note: All those who don't relish the term 'irony' will not appreciate this vignette to its fullest. Thanks: I would like to thank the smut fairy who infiltrates my nice clean mind like a dirty sweat-sock. I was feeling especially *saucy* when I wrote this. Dedication: This story is dedicated all to Gertie, my fellow X-Phile in a Web funk. Gertie, you *know* we all love you; you just need to be told more often. 'Figment' **************************** Her cheeks flushed a bright pink as Mulder walked in the door. She fingered the paperback book in her hands, furtively glancing at the wastebasket. Tossing it in the bottom drawer of her desk, she turned away from Mulder momentarily and opened her mouth to take in a silent breath. He paused and tilted his head like a puppy might in looking at an empty water bowl. "What's up, Scully?" He probed. "Research; you know, on that Halley case." "Ahh, zee old maid. I thought we determined it was natural causes. No alien intervention whatsoever." He was toying with her. They were in-between X-Files and he was momentarily feeling prankish. He was hard to keep in hand, though. Too much unused energy, she suspected. "She was actually a writer." He plopped down in his chair and reached his arms behind him to cradle his head in his hands. Stretching and yawning faintly, he lifted his legs to prop them up on his desk. "You're kidding. She lived in a one bedroom apartment off Lincoln Boulevard with no windows, no photographs and about a half a dozen books. Her lifestyle didn't exactly scream 'intellectual.' All we need is three cats and the stereotype of the lonely crone is complete." "Mulder, show some respect for the dead. Besides," she added nonchalantly, "people aren't always what they seem." He sighed impatiently and pulled his feet off his desk, leaning forward on his elbows. "Ahh, I see. This is where you tell me that appearances are deceiving and I shouldn't judge books by their covers, blah, blah, blah, and that she actually wrote Isak Dinisen-esque novels on the nature of safari-life." Scully squirmed slightly in her chair. He looked so appealing. He was in the moment, fired up for a heated debate. The ping-pong match was ready to go, and he was waiting for her approval to serve. "Ahm, actually," "Actually, she wrote those dollar bin romance novels." He tossed his head up and laughed. "Oh, that figures. How wretched. That really completes the picture. Just imagine it, Scully, she wakes up in an unheated apartment. After feeding her pet plants she spends her day not interacting with anyone and writes out these contrived stories to validate her existence." "What?" "Oh, come on, I mean, this," he added emphatically slapping his hand down on the desk, "is the danger of growing up in our society." "What's that supposed to mean?" "Think about it, Scully." He picked up a pencil and began twirling it in his fingers. He rolled back and forth in his chair. "We're born and raised with these unrealistic visions of grandiose romance. Marketing executives, movie producers, they all tap into this vein of precociousness and immaturity that stems from our unwillingness to accept the drudgery of our existence." She stared at the floor. "But," she staltingly uttered, "isn't it just an enhancement of the highly promulgated belief that monogamy is essential to happiness? I mean, the hero and heroine are always deeply in love and kept apart by circumstance. It's not some claim to immortal love that the novels embellish; it's the nature of love that is steady, strong, and doesn't fall to the pressures of real life." "Oh please, what is 'real life' in a romance novel? Some loner cowboy or Renaissance millionaire or highwayman stealing some virgin from her life. It's Cinderella; everything is glorified; bigger stakes, better intentions on the part of the man. These constructs of rebellious and psychologically isolated men are pure devices. The bad boy who just needs the right woman; saving that which is unsavable. It's every woman's fantasy." "Fantasy? Mulder, it's just a story. You make it out to be something as sinister as the Cancer Man." He looked at her incredulously. "It's a manipulation, Scully. Fraud. And you, as a person of science, of logic, should be more attune and outraged by that than anyone. This poor woman fell victim to the greatest lie of all." "You think the question of true love is erroneous?" "It's not an interesting question, Scully. It's the question of a little girl who has seen too many movies." She turned away from him then. Her eyes were wet but she refrained from wiping them. "Well," she said coolly, "that's sage advice coming from someone who hasn't had a romantic relationship for five years." He snapped his head towards her. "What? What the hell did you just say?!" His voice was stringent, angry. She grabbed her bag and stood up, heading for the coat rack. She turned back to him. "I mean, with something that doesn't require a VCR." Steaming with a hurt well masked as righteous indignation, she disappeared from the office. The sound of her slamming the basement door echoed against her ears all the way home. *********************************** Mulder examined his video collection. Okay, so he wasn't exactly collecting films comparable to 'Citizen Kane'. So his social life wasn't one soiree after another. So he had some issues with intimacy... The face on the cover of the movie beckoned to him. Large spheroid breasts and plastic features with a frame of bleached hair. Painted lips over capped teeth, coyly calling to him. "This is not a life." He called out to himself, kicking his feet up on the ottoman in front of him. The phone rang. He picked it up. "Mulder." He voiced. "Hey, it's me." He smiled unconsciously and then remembered their argument earlier. "Hey." He said cautiously. Tense silence. "I'm sorry." Her voice finally resonated over the receiver. "That, last thing I said, it was uncalled for." He was blithe again. He could care less what insults she tossed at him. Didn't make a bit of difference to him. "That's okay. I sometimes forget that others may not like hearing my opinions as much as I like speaking them." "You do have a way of getting yourself into trouble, don't you?" He chuckled. He heard something over the phone. "What are you doing?" He asked. A muffled voice responded, "Just getting ready for bed. Hold on," he heard some scuffling and then, "there, I'm back." His body was tense. "Good." He managed to get out. "So, you're sticking by your opinion then." "Whassat?" "Your opinion. What you were saying about romance being a fictionalized fantasy on the part of the media and advertisers." "Uh, yeah." He was trying to get back into the conversation. "We are a nation of saps." "Hmmm," her voice lowered, taking on a throaty quality. "But, you know, there's something to this trashy romance novel phenomenon, don't you think?" "Well, they're formulaic, predictable. Give the customer what they want." "But keep them wanting more, is that it?" She said more quietly, bringing a confidential tone to her voice. "Uhhh?" "The formula seems to be working, don't you think Mulder?" "Ahhhh, how so?" "Think about it." She was theorizing now, and it was almost like they were on an X-File. They were talking possibilities. "Where sex is concerned, you can either watch it, I suppose that would be your area of expertise," she chuckled lightly to herself, "do it," she let that hang in the air for a moment, "or read about it. Watching it, well that has limitations. Even the most brilliant actor or director brings to the movie his or her own ideas about the sex itself. Doing it is ideal but there's always STD's, birth control, and then, of course, we can't always find the right partner, can we, Mulder?" Her voice was breathy and he was itching to move. To stand up, take a couple hours on the treadmill or stairmaster, but he couldn't move a muscle. "Uhm, I guess not. Where," his voice went up an octave, "are you going with this?" "Well, when you read about it, the plot is conceived in the author's mind, with the only limitations being imagination and creativity. And the talent of the author." "I think I get it." "But there's so much more, Mulder." He gulped. "Like what?" "Like...where it happens, when it happens, that" she paused an inhaled over the phone "first kiss, the description of their bodies, the way they move, and then.." "Yes? And then?" His hand moved to his crotch, rubbing the stiff erection. "Well, the event itself, I suppose." "Oh yeah? What's that like?" He was dying, now. Breathing hard and biting his lip. "Hmm, well Mulder," she said loudly, "I guess that's something you'd really have to learn from studying the formula. But that's for simps, right? Bye, Mulder." She hung up; he could swear he heard her laughing right before he heard the click of her receiver. ****************************** Scully lay in bed, feeling totally vindicated. She had heard the hesitant tone in his voice, that subtle desire beneath his aloof comments. She had gotten him back good this time. Ping-pong match; 21-love, as far as she was concerned. That's when she heard the knock at the door. "What the-" she muttered, going to the front door and peeking out the eyehole. "Mulder." She stated simply, opening the door. "Okay, Scully." "Okay, what?" "I'm ready to study the formula." "Mulder, what are you talking about?" He opened his eyes and waggled his finger at her. "Scully, you said I needed to learn the formula; aren't you going to follow through?" She smirked as he moved past her inside her apartment. She placed her hands on her hips and looked at him appraisingly. "So then, you're ready for your next lesson?" "Your eager pupil awaits instruction. What's the next element of the puzzle?" "Ah, that would be, location. You know, on the hood of a car in the rain, on a beach at sunset." "In a bedroom." He offered. "In a bedroom." She nodded. "Well, in that case," he stood up, "shall we?" He held out his arm, gesturing to her bedroom, his gaze holding hers. "But of course." They didn't move. "Well, should I carry you?" He asked, exasperated. Not waiting for an answer, he swept her up and swiftly walked to the bedroom, where the bed she had abandoned only a few moments ago was just as she'd left it, the covers tumbled and pushed back. He bent and placed her in the middle of the bed and then sat down next to her. "What next?" He said, his voice a guttural whisper. She sat up, perching on her knees and stared nervously at her hands. This was not what she had expected. His gaze was cast over her, tugging at her, and she was having difficulty organizing her thoughts. "The, affected breathing of the participants. During arousal, it increases up to fifty breaths per minute." Her words came out in a perverse, halting manner; held back by her own pulmonary reaction to this gravely serious game they were playing. "You don't say." He murmured. He, himself, was fighting to hold onto oxygen, his breaths becoming shallow and short. "What's next?" She looked up at him. This was no longer a dare, on either part. "The kiss." He nodded seriously. "The kiss. How does the kiss advance the story?" She couldn't look him in the eye. "It affirms the mutual attraction between them. It says things hard to put into words. Intentions become clear with a kiss." He moved his face down to her, and with a feathered light touch, grazed his lips over hers. Her lips parted slightly and moved to make firmer contact with his. He captured her lips again, pressing them more firmly to his, letting his arms go out to hold her, pulling her to him. He held her tightly, engulfing her in his arms, urgently moving his lips over hers. What started out as a lingering caress was transforming to a more pervasive and intoxicating experiment. She tilted her head to the side, allowing his tongue full access to her mouth. He crushed her to him, brushing his hands up and down her back, settling finally to cup her rear. He pulled his lips from her and moved them to her cheeks, kissing her face and forehead. He moved his lips to her ear. Thickly, his voice so rough and strained it was barely audible, he said, "If you want me to stop... tell me now... so I still can." The desire for him coursing through her in time with the thundering beat of her heart was more real than uncertainty or anxiety could ever be. "Mulder, is this a game, or a dream?" He gazed at her, that pent up longing and passion so clear in his heavy-lidded overcast eyes. "Neither." Her response was as unthinking as her next short breath. Her arms tightened around his neck, and she pressed closer to him. "Don't stop," she whispered. A sound, rougher than any growl, emanated from his throat as he bent his head down and kissed her again, forcefully. He slipped one arm around behind her knees and slowly pulled them out from beneath her, causing her to lie back on the bed. She closed her eyes. He took the edge of her nightshirt in his hand and pulled the hem of it up. She lifted her hips instinctively as the material caught under her, then felt his strong arm beneath her back, raising her slightly. He freed her of the material and she once again curved her arms around his neck. Another kind of heat rose in her cheeks as she realized that she was naked- and he was fully clothed. But before she could give way to embarrassment, she saw the way he was taking in the sight of her, and her distress vanished. While she had felt each glance from him before, it was nothing compared to this. He ran his hands over her skin. It was sun-warm, emanating a soft glow. His fingers massaged creamy shoulders, leaving glistening kisses where his hands touched, then down over her taut abdomen to the velvet between her legs. The soft, curving flesh melted and he heard a gasp escape her lips. He kissed her stomach and then moved back up to her breasts. While one hand stayed between her thighs, the other slid up her rib cage and surrounded a breast, his long sculptor's fingers kneading her hard nipple just as his mouth closed over it. She jerked as pleasure erupted at each of his starkly intimate caresses. She parted her legs and pulled at him, urging him to fall between them. His gentle probing found her wet, burgeoning desire. She was flushed and sighing, arching her back and jutting her breasts out to meet his caresses. His lips met each of her rosy peaks in turn and she writhed beneath him. His face nuzzled between her breasts, and she gasped as the hovering tension began drawing tightly insider her. Needing to be closer to him, her fingers fumbled at his shirt. He helped her, stripping off the shirt and tossing it aside, but made no effort to remove the rest of his clothes. She had never prepared for such a feverish intensity in her life. Wildly unsteady, she placed her hand on his chest and held it there as though attempting to align her movements with the thundering rhythm of his heart. His intake of breath was ragged; he tangled his hands in her hair and kissed her long and hard. Her mouth was a living, burning thing under his. Her body was meltingly urgent. He sat up and moved her so that she sat astride him. He was so hard he was bursting. His hand was moving more ardently between her and she began pressing herself to it, urgently. His fingers moved over her throbbing flesh in a mysterious, stunning rhythm that her body reacted to with a violence of sensation. Some part of her brain not overflowing by the quickening surges of pleasure reflected with an uncaring idleness that she just might die from this. Her nerves were raw; then, there was an instant that it was too powerful, her entire body screaming in a mad silence, and a wild cry tore from her throat as she went over the edge. She was liquid, formless, pulsing. She was hardly aware when he gently unlocked her arms from around his neck and looked at her. He pulled away from her to remove his pants and boxers, ridding himself of zippers, cloth, shoes and bringing back to her an eagerness too old for patience. The swollen fullness of him was a mute testament to his desire. His eyes were pained, wracked with some unnamable strain. She was almost frightened of it. The black raging fervor of his gaze was beautiful and deeply moving in a way she never knew he could be, as primitive and compelling as any wild animal caught in a trap, biting it's own paw off to break free. She climbed back onto his lap, straddling him. She was instantly vulnerable- and available to him. That same tension arose in her again. The awareness of his desire sent sweet shocks of longing through her and heat rose from the tightening of her muscles. The need rising in him was riveting beyond what he'd ever experienced. He was desperate to become part of her. He wanted his body inside hers, seeking, plunging. Recklessly, she buried her hands in his hair and strained for that essential connection. His sex touched her, stroked against her opening, and she gave up a choked sound, answering his thrusting hips. He didn't disappoint her. He gripped her by the waist and gently eased her down onto his rigid flesh, shuddering as she tightened with excitement. She shivered. "Easy, easy." Mulder rasped, fighting for control. But control was no longer part of the game. Heedless of consequence, she drew her nails down his back and startled a growl of excitement out of him. He gripped her savagely and drove into her melting softness with a deep thrust. He pushed her back and settled between her legs, bracing himself with his elbows. She drew him down into her softness and moved slightly beneath him, her blue eyes fixed on his face, her breasts rising and falling in accordance with her breathing. Pleasure cauterized her worries and fused their movements. She was lost in the rising flurry of the waves of pleasure he gave her. He had waited a second too long. He bore down on her, the sensations of her heat enclosing him so exquisite that a groan of pleasure forced its way past his clenched teeth. He felt the silky brush of her inner thighs as her legs lifted to wrap around his hips; he drove himself into her over and over again, watching her eyes lose focus. Her muscles quivered around him and she cried out in completion; her abandon took him over the edge. He shuddered inside her, losing the rhythm of his thrusts, losing his mind. He imbedded himself in her, the hard heat in his groin burst into flame, immobilizing him. The heavy weight of his body felt surprising comfortable to Scully, and she didn't want him to move. She seemed to be floating, even with his weight holding her down, and soft aftershocks of pleasure lingered deep inside her. "So," she murmured, "are you standing by your opinion?" "I don't even know my name." "Is romance a delusion?" He moved his head so that he was staring at her. "I formally rescind my argument. You are right and I am an idiot." "Well," she acknowledged, "our situation is probably an exception. It might make for a great romance novel, though." He smiled and closed his eyes. "Or a television show." "Ugh," she sighed, slapping his chest lightly, "don't even suggest such a thing." He rolled over and wrapped his arms around her, kissing her softly and smiling. And they lived happily.... well, you know the rest. The End. ************************ Feedback is very much appreciated. Send all comments to wendyt@ucla.edu