TITLE: JITTERBUG PERFUME 3 - NIGHTCLUB INTERLUDE AUTHOR: DASHA K. E-MAIL: dashak@aol.com Summary: Swing to the swoony sounds of the Chairman of the Board as our heroes drink martinis, smoke a cigar and investigate the dark corners of a nightclub. Third in the "Jitterbug Perfume" series. Rating: NC-17 for language and extremely adult situations Classification: SRHA Keywords: Mulder/Scully romance, minor slash themes Spoilers: Memento Mori Disclaimer: Somehow, I don't see CC ever letting them drink martinis, or making nachos, for that matter. Feedback: You know I dig it highly, at dakluz@stkate.edu Note: This is the third, and last, in the Jitterbug Perfume series. If you haven't read "Nightclub Jitters" or "Nightclub Girls", you can find them at my site: http://www.geocities.com/TelevisionCity/Studio/7367. This story will have more resonance if you read them. This story is a mind cocktail, with a dash of angst for flavor and a few drops of humor for color. Shake, don't stir and serve over ice. Garnish with a pink umbrella and enjoy! XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX "When we made love it made perfume." -The Reivers Scully is smoking a cigar. This vision, of my oh-so-proper partner sprawled against the red leather booth at Fabricant, puffing away at a Cohiba, is almost worth all the pain and tragedy I have endured over the past years. Flashing me a loopy smile, she takes a sip of her Cosmopolitan and expertly taps ash into the giant ashtray shaped like the state of Nevada. Where did she learn to smoke a cigar so well? This woman has done a lot of living without me. Heaven help me, those slightly swollen lips of hers, wrapped around the brown tip of the cigar, pursing to emit perfectly shaped smoke rings, well, I realize the folly of wearing the black jeans tonight. They're as constricting as any chastity belt as I watch the tip of her pink tongue run across her lipstick-slick lower lip. She knows all the tricks, doesn't she? Use them on me, I silently beg her, use them all on me. Fabricant isn't the frantic disco we had been expecting, but an intimate series of rooms decorated in the clubby style meant to evoke the halcyon days of Frank and his Rat Pack. Dim red lighting, dark leather everywhere, and surprisingly swank young women teetering on high heels, on the arms of equally snappy young men in vintage suits and brilliantened hair. My father would have felt comfortable here, holed up in a corner booth with a glass of Chivas, bobbing his head to the strains of Peggy Lee. Scully shifts her leg against mine and I run my hand up the sleek silk of her black hose, still endlessly surprised that I now have permission to do this, that she won't slap the shit out of me if I touch her anywhere but her hands, shoulders or back. Free access. I now have the Gold Pass to Scullyworld. No, make that the Platinum pass, all attractions included. My mouth and tongue twitch in sense memory of the first taste of her private wetness, the tangy delicacy of her arousal on my tongue, an achingly familiar taste, as if I had spent my entire life buried in that warm area, yet shockingly new at the same time. I remember slipping my hands down to grab her buttocks and pull her further into my ravenous mouth, and can't suppress a laugh at the supreme absurdity of the thought. I made love to Scully, I think, I made love to all of her and I wasn't dreaming, wasn't jerking off in some godforsaken motel room, it was real. Just last night, in my apartment, in my no longer neglected bed. She nudges me with her elbow and the corners of her mouth lift in a smile. "What's so funny?" she demands. I lean in closer, smelling the brown aroma of the cigar, mingled with the spiciness of her perfume. "I was remembering how you taste, Scully." Even in the dimness of the room I can discern a rosy flush spreading across her face. Her cigar drops in the ashtray, forgotten. In a husky half-whisper, she says, "Tell me how I taste." How do I put perfection into words? My lips nearly touch her ears. "You taste like saltwater taffy, like sugarcane, a purple iris, a string of black pearls, newly mown grass." She opens her mouth, in surprise, I'm guessing. "Never knew you were such a poet, Mulder." My hand skims the sharply delineated line of her collarbone. "In your case, I am. You bring out my creative side," I laugh. Her legs shift again and her right hand drops under the table. Scully brings her hand up again and holds it out to me in offering. "Want an appetizer?" It's hard to catch my breath. My mouth closes over her glistening fingers and she does taste of all those things, of long-held secrets, of womanly want and desire, of five years of restraint newly shattered. My head tips back against the leather in a groan. The jeans have to go, I desperately think, as I surge against the unyielding fabric. There's a dance floor on the opposite end of the room, where young couples sway together in unconscious imitation of their parents' and grandparents' mating rituals. "Want to dance?" I ask her. Screw the hard-on, it's dark in here. Besides, it'll just add to that prep school dance feeling I get whenever I slow dance. She shakes her head. "I'm a terrible dancer." "I watched you dance last night. You're a fantastic dancer and you know it." Scully glances down at the table and I know she's remembering grinding her body against that of the brunette's, as I stood from above, watching her. I tug at one of the spaghetti straps of her pathologically sexy dress. "Come on, dance with me. It's the one thing we've never done together." A mischievous expression moves across her face. "There are a lot of things we haven't done together." Standing up, I can feel the two vodka martinis coursing through my bloodstream. I hold out my hand to her. "Let's check this off the list so we can get to the rest." Arm-in-arm we walk to the dance floor. Frank Sinatra is crooning "Night and Day" on the sound system. It feels strange, being out in public like this, so visibly a couple. We should probably be more careful, more discreet. You never know where our enemies are. But the way I see it, they are going to do their worst, no matter what. It's best to just live our lives the way we want to. God, she's a tiny thing, I think as our arms close around each other. Even with her three-inch heels, her head barely peeps over my shoulder. I admit I've always been attracted primarily to the tall, lithe breed of woman, but Scully makes the women in my past fade into gray, formless shapes in my peripheral vision. This is the real deal here- red hair, blue eyes, soft neck, sweet smell, knife- sharp intelligence, and a kick-ass shot. What man could ask for more in his woman? Her head resting on my upper chest, we sway to the corny music, not exactly dancing, just moving together. For a brief instant I have a flash of standing with her in the hallway of the Allentown hospital, her ashen face pressed into my leather jacket. An inexpressible wave of sadness runs through me at the memory. Why wasn't I brave enough, I think, brave enough to love and comfort her in her time of need? Why did I have to be such a fucking coward? Because you couldn't have borne it if you'd lost her, I tell myself, but it doesn't help. That is not reason enough to excuse me. Because she wouldn't have let you. This I have to admit is true. She was determined to fight her battle alone, to prove her tenacity to herself and me. Scully had to deal with her cancer on her own terms. Still, that realization is cold comfort to me now. If I have one wish for our future together as a couple, it's that we can not just trust one another as partners but learn to trust in sharing our inner demons, as ugly and difficult as that can be. God knows, we have enough demons between us to populate a good-sized haunted house. Scully lifts her head from my chest and gazes at me. "Don't think these things," she says in an unusually tender voice. My arms tighten around her. "How do you know what I'm thinking?" "Mulder, you're so easy to read. I felt you tense up. Just be in the moment with me now. We have plenty of time to deal with the dark things in our lives." I hope, oh, I hope we have plenty of time. Just give me fifty years with this woman to sort it all out and I'll lie on my deathbed with a smile on my face. However, I'm far too aware it could be a year, a month, tomorrow. Her hand brushes through my hair. "You're doing it again." She sounds faintly exasperated, as she should be. My lips touch her shoulder, warm from the heat of the crowded room. "I'm sorry." "Just be here with me now." Finally, I relax into the strains of Cole Porter and we just dance. Soon the music switches to a faster Latin song and we leave the dance floor. I am suddenly aware of a need to visit the men's room. "I have to go to the bathroom," I tell Scully, "Can you order me a shot of tequila?" The hungry look on her face is unforgettable. "Tequila? I can definitely do that." Coming out of the bathroom a few minutes later, I spot her standing at the bar, talking to another woman. Their heads are close together and Scully's hand is resting on the other woman's back. Obviously, she knows this woman. I approach the chatting couple and do my damnedest to not act the part of the possessive, glowering boyfriend, for I am all too aware that this woman must have been one of Scully's lovers. She has the sharp glamour I can see Scully being attracted to- about Scully's size and wearing equally tall stiletto heels, dark hair pulled into a mussed knot at the top of her head, sculptured cheekbones and gorgeous almond Asian eyes, ringed in glittering silver shadow. Scully turns to me, looking just the tiniest bit flustered. Ah ha, two worlds collide yet again. "Mulder, this is an old friend of mine, May. She's from San Francisco, but up in D.C. on a fellowship for a few months." This goes back as far as the conference in San Francisco? I remember a radiant Scully stepping off the plane and now I know what put that flush in her cheeks. I shake May's hand. "Nice to meet you," I say automatically. May smiles. "So, you're Dana's guy, huh? You're a lucky man, she's something else." And you would know, I dourly think. I imagine the two of them in bed together, a tangle of soft, feminine flesh. No, I chide myself, remember what Scully said last night. This is all about you and her, not about those women she slept with in the past. It's hard to get the image out of my head, though, as the three of us chat about inconsequential things for a few minutes, just another postmodern love triangle. Scully isn't exactly flirting with May, but the familiarity she shows her stings me, just a bit. I should be more mature, more reasonable about this, but we're so new, not even twenty-four hours old as a couple. The last thing I need is to be confronted with one of Scully's lovers. If we ran into one of my former girlfriends here, Scully would be spitting blood. God, I love her. I can only pray she loves me half as well. Finally, May takes her leave to go back to her friends, and kisses Scully on the cheek. Scully kisses her on the cheek, and maybe it's just my imagination, but she seems to hold the kiss for just a bit longer than necessary. No, it's got to be my imagination, fueled by vodka and my infamous insecurity. Scully hands me a shot of tequila from the bar and holds up her own. "We need a toast, Mulder." "To what should we toast?" Another smile. I think I've seen more smiles from Scully tonight than I've seen in the past year. "To us." "How about if we toast your friend, May?" Wait, did I really say that? It's asshole Mulder to the rescue again. Her smile fades into a frown, the tiny crease between her eyebrows that signals irritation appearing, yet her voice is even, still silky. "May doesn't matter. You and I matter." "Okay, to us." "To us," she echoes, "To love," and the two shot glasses clink. We both toss back our shots and grab for the accompanying slices of lime. Scully lifts her face to me and bites her lower lip. "What are you thinking about?" I ask. "I was wondering how you'd taste right now." Ah, I've had that same thought before. "My mouth or other, more interesting parts?" "Mulder, I meant your mouth!" I love it when she gives me that look of hers like I'm being a bratty child and she just wants to ignore me, but she can't help showing her affectionate annoyance. It makes teasing her utterly worthwhile. "Why don't you come up here and find out for yourself?" I ask. She says with an exaggerated show of mournfulness, "You know I can't reach that high." "Oh yeah, I forgot about those little legs of yours." Her hand makes its way to my neck and pulls my head down level with hers until our lips are mere millimeters from touching. "Now kiss me," she orders. "You kiss me first." "Bastard," Scully mutters and lunges for me. Her slippery mouth moves against mine, her greedy tongue invading my mouth, the sharp tang of citrus and a lower note of tequila on her tongue. Scully has the unique ability of bringing an entire universe's worth of sensory images to a single kiss. Now that's talent, boys and girls. We pull apart after a long time, variously panting and whining with pleasure and frustration. The bartender, some college kid in a zoot suit, flashes me a cocky smile. Yes, Tad, people in their thirties do still get it on, quite nicely, thank you very much. A man's sexual peak may tragically end around age 21, but it doesn't mean he loses his drive. Instead, it just means we learn to last longer. A new, encouraging thought pops in my head. Scully is thirty-four, which means she's entering her own peak of sexuality. Hooray for me. "Monday's going to be tough," Scully sighs, signaling the bartender for another round of shots. "You and me, alone in the basement." "We're going to have to set some ground rules." Scully may be semi-drunk and horny, but her logical side always comes to the fore. I grab for my glass of Cuervo. "There is no written rule about fraternization between agents, you know." Her auburn eyebrow raises. Damn, even her eyebrows turn me on. "No, but there are professional standards to live up to." I laugh. "Scully, when have the two of us ever lived up to anyone's standards?" She drinks down half her tequila and twists her little face in a thoroughly adorable manner, although if I told her that, she'd knock me senseless. "At least we can agree that sex on the desk is probably a no-no." My hand makes its way to the swell of her hip under the thin, silky material of her dress. "Not even once, for posterity's sake?" I say, in a beseeching tone. "Mulder, you know the office is most likely bugged." "Too true," I sigh. Another dream dashed. Our own apartments probably wouldn't be safe, either, except the boys come by twice a month and sweep for devices. We learned our lessons after Bremer bugged my place. "It's going to be hard," Scully admits, "Looking at you from across the room, at that mouth of yours and knowing just where that mouth has been." My face inches closer to hers. "Do you like my mouth?" I'm rewarded with the Scully version of the Mona Lisa smile. "I've done a lot of thinking about your mouth, particularly your lower lip. You should say a nightly thank you to whichever of your ancestors bestowed that lip to you." Her index finger, tipped in brilliant red polish, runs across the lip in question and I realize my erection is reaching the unbearable point, trapped in its prison of unyielding denim. "And your lips, Scully," I add, "always look ever so slightly swollen, as if you've just spent a good ten minutes kissing in a broom closet." "With Bill, the basement custodian?" "He's not bad for an old guy. Can I tell you a secret?" Her eyes open wide. "More secrets?" My hands wrap around her waist and pull her against me, my hardness pressing into her abdomen. "It really turned me on to see you kissing that woman last night. Before I knew it was you, that is." "You like to watch, Mulder?" Again, the fabled eyebrow. I shrug, "I'm a man, we all like to watch. It's hardwired into my genetic code." Little hands reach for my buttocks and press my straining hard-on further into her softness. "Would you ever want to watch me with another woman? Someone like May?" Whoa mama, did I just hear what I thought I heard? Men spend sleepless nights dreaming of their woman saying just that, but I find myself shaking my head. "Yes and no. Yes, because it would be a fantasy come to life." "And no?" "No, because I want it to just be the two of us." Scully lets out a little puff of air and I realize she's relieved, that she was testing me. I don't want this secret life that belonged to Scully to come between the two of us. Really, I don't. We weren't together in any sense of the word then, she owed me no explanation for what and who, she did in her private hours. Still, it can't help but gnaw at my tender, insecure spots, that during my lonely hours, she was out at the club making her conquests. And, I admit that I want to know what it was like for her. It was a facet of her personality she kept hidden behind severe DKNY and a skillfully applied mask of detachment. I want her to unfold for me. I want to know her secrets. I want to tell her mine. Time, I lecture myself, give it time. You can't have it all at one. My mouth automatically goes for the plump, delectable flesh of her earlobe, tasting the fruity sweetness of her skin and the metal of the silver stud she's wearing. "What was it like the first time?" I ask, just a bit concerned I may have gone too far. But no, apparently this is a night when she feels comfortable to share this side of herself. Maybe it's the fact that we got extremely naked together last night, or else it's two Cosmopolitans and the tequila. She squirms under the ministrations of my tongue on her ear. "It was scary," Scully says, "But in a good way, like standing on the edge of the high dive at the pool and daring myself to jump. I knew the water would feel good once I got in, but there was that moment of staring over the edge at the water far below, wondering if I had the courage to do it." I run my finger in the dregs of my shot glass, trying to decide if I should order another. No, not unless Scully enjoys having a puking, impotent man in her bed. "Where were you?" I ask, trying to set the scene in my head. Her eyes flicker across the room to rest on the table where May is sitting with another woman and a man. So, she was the one, I think. I glance over at May, who is sipping at a glass of red wine, running her fingers through her black head of hair. What was it about you, I wonder, what made Scully want you? What made her break all her inhibitions and taboos for you. I turn my head from her to focus on my lover. "It was San Francisco, at the conference." Scully says, looking at her hands, "It was just a few weeks after Modell. That experience had some serious repercussions on my psyche." I picture myself training a gun on Scully, fighting the irresistible urge to pull the trigger, sweat running down my forehead, my slippery finger twitching on the trigger, the tears welling in her eyes. I nod my head. "I still don't know if I've entirely gotten over it." She squeezes my hand. "I think May saved me, in a way. You don't know how messed up I was after that, Mulder. I couldn't get the image of the hospital room out of my head. Of knowing that I nearly died at your hands. Of knowing that my death would have killed you, too. Sex with her brought me out of myself, like scaring the hiccups out of someone. Also, it had been almost three years since I had been touched, really touched by another human being." For some reason, that admission makes me ineffably sad. The most beautiful creature in the known universe, untouched, unloved. If only I had been able to show my love for her back then, reach out to her, touch her, try to exorcise the demon that was Modell. But I was too damn busy battling my own monsters. She continues, her voice over the fake exotica of Martin Denny a blend of wistfulness and remembrance. "Mulder, I now know I was beginning to love you then, but it was much easier that way, to be with the women. I felt powerful and sexy, to know that I didn't have to even try that hard and I could have the hottest woman at the club. I was too tired to have to try hard." Try hard for me, I realize. Oh, the years wasted. "Being with those women taught me a lot. Before them, I was always a very passive partner in bed." I have a hard time believing that after spending the previous night in the dazed bliss of her hands and mouth hungrily devouring me. "I'm such a perfectionist, I always worried that I wasn't doing it right, that I wasn't good enough of a lover, so I ended up withdrawing, too busy thinking about it to relax and enjoy myself. Being with those women, I had to be active. For them to have any fun, I couldn't just lie back and let them fuck me. I had to learn to give pleasure to another and I learned to love it." I laugh, "Maybe I should go over and thank May." She laughs too, and finishes her tequila. "Perhaps you should. If I hadn't met her, you'd find me a lousy lover." "That's one thing you could never be, Scully." "Hmm, call up one of my ex-boyfriends and see what he has to say about my skills. I think you'll find I have a rather spotty report card." I kiss her, again reveling in her tequila-soaked mouth. "I give you the highest grade possible." She sighs and glances at the small silver watch around her slender wrist. "How long do you suppose it'll take a cab to get here?" "According to what my pants are saying, too damn long." Surreptitiously, her hand moves between our bodies and she gives me a little squeeze. No, Scully, don't do that or I'm really going to embarrass us here. "Do you think people would talk if I just took you, laid you down on the bar and did you right here?" she whispers in my ear. You're treading some mighty dangerous ground, woman. "I think the bartender might enjoy it." She throws back her head. "I need to be with you right now, to touch you." She takes my hand and brings the index finger of her free hand conspiratorially to her lips. "I have an idea, Mulder." With a tug, she leads me through the crowd of achingly hip twentysomethings. "Where are we going?" She flashes that look at me again. "You talk too much." We walk through several rooms to the most quiet and distant room in the club, a room dominated by wall-sized tank of tropical fish that is playing ethereal New Age music. Only a few tables are occupied in here. Scully charges for the door of the Ladies Room with me in her bewildered wake. "I can't go in here," I protest. Scully snorts with amusement and pushes me through the door. Inside there is a small room with a few chairs and a long dressing table. So that's why women spend so long in the bathroom, they have furniture! There's a woman brushing her long blonde hair at the mirror who glances at us without curiosity. Apparently I'm not the first guy to make an appearance in one of the women's bathrooms at Fabricant. The inner room is your typical public bathroom, if a little cleaner than most, and missing the urinals, of course. Scully grins, "Oh good, the handicapped stall is free." Jesus, has she done this before? Frankly, I don't want to know the answer to that. She prods me into the stall and locks the door behind her. Leaning against the door, she says, with an evil smile pasted on her face, "Alone at last." I am propelled towards her by the invisible force field that has grown between us in the past twenty-four hours. We are all over each other like two teenagers at Inspiration Point, kissing, sucking, and biting, a frantic rush of tongues, lips and saliva. One of my hands meanders under the short hem of her dress and I find, to my delight, that she isn't wearing any panties. I can't help but groan into her open mouth at the sensation of lace tops of her thigh-highs against her skin and the bare, rounded globes of her bottom under my hands. "Do you like my little surprise?" she ask as my hand brushes against her coarse pubic hair. "You're bad, but I love it," I whisper as she unzips my jeans with hasty fingers and pushes them, along with my boxers, around my ankles. The sweet feeling of freedom at last. Her soft hand closes around my straining cock and I have to work as hard as humanly possible not to come at that slight contact. I manage, despite the shakes my own arousal has given me, to lift her up and press her against the stall door. Her strong legs wrap around my waist and then, hoo boy, I'm inside her, no preamble, just wet warmth surrounding me, my nerve endings immediately igniting. Scully smothers a small cry into my still-clothed shoulder and rocks her hips into me, bringing me impossibly deep into her. "Ahh, that's good-" I hiss. Our arms are around each other and I'm too enveloped in pleasure to really notice my lower back protesting its burden. Believe me, I'm no kid any more, but I do work out and Scully is a slender woman and besides, who the fuck cares? I'm driving into her hard and fast, her back making the bathroom door rattle obnoxiously. She's making little mewling noises in my ear as I joyfully slide in and out of her, the pleasure exponentially rising with each stroke. As our pace quickens, I worry a little about the holy racket we must be making but all is forgotten as she wraps her arms around my back in a stranglehold and shudders with the force of her orgasm. Score another point for Team Mulder, I think, somewhere in the swampy recesses of my blood-deprived brain, as my own explosion looms imminent, setting up camp in the base of my spine. I grab her ass and push her up against me, as deep as I can go into her and with a huge exhale of breath that has to substitute for the scream I really want to give, all hell breaks loose in my body. We stand, still entwined, for a long minute, panting against one another until she reluctantly lets go and slides down my body to the floor. She stands there, her face red, laughing. "I don't know if I can walk now." Indeed, her legs, and mine, are trembling. I glance down at the absurd sight of my black jeans bunched around my feet, my knobby, white knees sticking out, red penis, ridiculously dangling. "If only I had a camera, Mulder." "I'd have to kill you, Scully." She presses warm lips against my neck. "We'll have to do this again soon." "Only if you're planning on paying the chiropractor bills." It pleases me enormously to be verbally jesting with her, just like the old days. We set about to cleaning up with wads of toilet paper and Girl Scout Scully produces a balled-up pair of panties from the recesses of her black satin evening bag. At the sinks, we splash water on our flushed faces, and she brushes through her mussed head of amber hair. She turns to me for inspection. "Do I look like I just had sex?" "Yes," I say with a grin, "But you look glorious." I am rewarded with a long, sugar-sweet kiss. In the cab on the way home she falls asleep with her head on my shoulder. It's dark in the car, but I swear I can see the faintest smile on her face. Back at her place we spend a long, soapy and playful time in the shower and end up on the couch, devouring the world's largest plate of nachos. We watch an ancient rerun of Star Trek, laughing at the cheesy costumes and incredibly hokey special effects. It strangely feels like old times, before the pain got to be too much for us and we withdrew into our private wells of grief. Only now we're not in some tacky motel in the boondocks, but her apartment, and I'm just wearing my boxers and she's lying in her bathrobe, her head in my lap, fighting me for the last of the salsa. This is how we'll survive this, I think, this is how we'll cope. With love, a sense of humor and late night plates of nachos. We've tried separation and wallowing in our respective agony and it nearly killed us. It's time now to move past the blackness and exist in the light of day. I am a man who has attained what he always thought to be impossible, the love of a good woman. My partner. My partner not only professionally, but my partner in life- my best friend, my confidante, the rabbi who points out my weaknesses and absolves me of my sins, the doctor who not only attends to the failings of my body but those of my soul, the lover who floods me with shattering pleasure. She is everything. Let me deserve her. Make me worthy of the gifts she brings me. Scully's hand reaches up and caresses the stubble on my cheek. "I have a brilliant idea, Mulder. Let's call in sick on Monday." My, she is feeling naughty this weekend. "What, and miss the wonders of the Budget Committee meeting?" She smirks. "Food poisoning, terrible salmonella poisoning from the chicken salad at Ray's Deli." Clutching my stomach, I say, "Oh yeah, I feel just awful." I bend down and kiss her forehead, already planning how two free days with Scully might be most productively spent. I have a few ideas. END My thanks to Nye's Polonaise Room in Minneapolis, for providing a lovely atmosphere for research and a mean Cosmopolitan. I didn't smoke a cigar, though. I also want to thank Alanna for beta reading and some insightful commentary. Feedback would be just the thing to make me do a happy dance. dakluz@stkate.edu