TITLE: Sensitivity Author: Alcott alcott@chillylegumes.com Category: SRH Rating: R-ish Spoilers: None Archiving: Drop me a line and we'll chat about it. Feedback: is printed out and hung on my wall. alcott@chillylegumes.com Disclaimer: Insert obligatory disclaimer statement **here**. **** It all started because Agent Aaron Burke copped a feel. The person he copped was Laura Sorenson, a fresh-faced new agent who had been assigned to the cubicle next to his. Aaron, being a man with the hormones of a 15-year-old and a comparative level of common sense, found himself in the throes of a devastating crush. One Monday night, as the office was clearing out, he made his move. He sauntered over to Laura, leaned in close under the guise of a friendly "goodnight" kiss, and before the woman had a chance to step back, outlined the cup of Agent Sorenson's bra with his forefinger. Faster than you can say sexual harassment, Aaron was escorted out of the building, Laura was screaming lawsuit and the press, in their usual omniscient way, found out about it and splashed it all over the front page of the Washington Post. The FBI bigwigs held emergency meetings throughout the next day, and by that afternoon, the memo was in every mailbox: "Mandatory sensitivity training this Friday. See your AD for details." "You're doing this so the press doesn't make us look bad," Mulder protested, the memo crumpled in his hand. "I'm following orders," Skinner replied. "Agent Mulder, the press is breathing down our collective necks. We've got reporters calling the bureau every fifteen minutes. We need to throw them a bone to distract them. If there is one thing I have learned in my years of service, it is to not get on the bad side of people who buy their ink by the barrel. "Now you will go to the training," Skinner hissed, "and you will learn something. And if you continue whining about it, I'll assign you to be the press liaison during this incident. Is that understood?" Scully tugged on his sleeve. "Come on, Mulder." It was an endless week for Scully, who had to listen to Mulder gripe almost continually. By the end of the week, she was actually hoping for a nice alien sighting or glow- in-the-dark monster to distract him from his martyrdom. On Friday afternoon, he'd reverted from whining to sullenness, and when he followed Scully down to the conference room for their training, he was positively sulking. The room was decorated in the usual training-enhancement mode: the curtains were drawn, soft New Age music was drifting in from an unseen source. The agents, uneasy in their suits, ties and skirts, sat in a circle around the instructor, who was sitting, lotus style, in the middle of the carpeting. She was wearing a long, flowing, waistless dress. "God help us, she has flowers in her hair," Mulder muttered. "They're barrettes with silk flowers, Mulder, don't be so dramatic," Scully whispered back. The instructor, who introduced herself as Evelyn, gave her class a monologue about respecting each other. She had them pair up (at which point Mulder grabbed Scully's arm, staking his claim) and stand, facing each other three feet apart. They were supposed to take small steps inward, each time examining when they felt their personal space was being invaded. Little did Evelyn know, Mulder would have felt perfectly happy pressed flush against his partner. And when he wasn't sizing up to Scully, he was watching Skinner squirm inside the personal space of another male who was rumored to be gay. In fact, the exercise gave him one moment of happiness in three hours of hogwash. By the time Evelyn was giving her wrap-up speech, he was thinking more about who was going to win the Super Bowl than what she was saying. "Your homework is to think outside the box," the woman said. Mulder wondered if he had any tuna fish in his cupboard. "To do something you've never done before." He was running low on mayo; he'd have to pick some up before the game. "But the catch is. . . you have to do it while pretending to be a member of the opposite sex." And corn chips, the scoopable ones that could get you a whole mouthful of onion dip with a single flick of the wrist. "We'll report on your findings Monday." That caught his attention. As the other agents stood and began to disperse, Mulder turned to Scully and said, "What happens Monday?" "Class," Scully said, her face weary from three hours of training following an eight-hour workday. "Goodnight, Mulder." He followed her back to their office. "Wait, we have to come back? There's more?" Scully eased her tired body into her coat and picked up her purse. "It's a six-hour course." He threw up his hands. "I don't believe this!" he yelled. "Sensitivity training, my ass. I'm sensitive." She gave him her patented eyebrow arch. "Well, I am!" he protested. "Have I ever called you a chick?" She sighed. "It's in-service, Mulder, we have to do this." "Or what? We don't get our merit badges?" She turned to him with a frown. "Mulder. It's late. I'm tired and I'm hungry and I just want to go home. It has been a very long week, okay? I'll talk to you on Monday." With that, she was gone. However, when she was at home, in her pajamas and brushing her teeth, she really wasn't surprised when her phone rang. With a mouthful of toothpaste foam, she said, "Wha' is it, Mul'r ?" "How'd you know it was me?" She walked into her bathroom, spit out her toothpaste and wiped her mouth on a towel. "Because by now the fact you have a mandatory assignment has sunk into your brain and you want me to help you with it. You have also realized that if you don't do this assignment, then Skinner will most certainly make you the press liaison and you will be up to your ears in press conferences. Am I right?" Silence. "Fine," she sighed. "Meet me at the mall Sunday at noon. And Mulder?" "Yeah?" "Wear comfortable shoes." ***** Did anyone actually know what Victoria's Secret was? Mulder found himself pondering this and standing in the middle of the boutique, blushing furiously as Scully took her sweet time fingering the store's offerings. He stood away from the racks, his hands shoved deeply into his pockets and his face chagrined as Scully calmly picked up undergarment after undergarment, fingering the silky materials gingerly, tucking several pair of underpants under her arm before moving on to the nightgowns. Mulder lagged behind, muttering, "When you said you had to buy new underwear, I thought you meant you were going to buy a six-pack of Hanes or something." "You'll have to get a little closer if you want to touch these," she said. He wanted very much to touch them, but he didn't want Scully to know that. He shook his head. "Listen, Mulder, women shop for underwear. Sometimes they even buy something not made from cotton." "It's underwear," he protested. She held up a wispy pair of silk panties and touched the material to her cheek. "It's more than that, Mulder. Women wear this stuff to make them feel sexy underneath their clothes. It makes them feel special. "Here," she invited. "Feel this." And before he could protest, she had brushed the silk against his stubbly cheek. The material and the touch behind the material forced a shudder to run through him. She saw it, and smiled. "I told you." In his mind's eye, she now stood before him, wearing nothing but little silk underpants. It was too much for one man to take. "I'll wait in the hall," he said, and headed for the door. Outside the air was fresher and void of sweet perfumy scents. When she joined him, she was carrying a bag covered in red hearts. "All right, Mulder. Where to?" "Shirts," he said stupidly. "I need some new shirts." She steered him toward Nordstrom, walking quickly with the strides of a confident woman in her native surroundings. He lagged behind, until they were deep inside the store and he was standing amid shelves of neatly folded men's shirts. He fingered a price tag and gasped for air. "If you need me, I'll be down the street trying to rob a bank." "Oh come on, Mulder. It's a little more pricey than your basic fare, but it will probably last a lot longer. Treat yourself to the good stuff. You deserve it." "Is that how you women justify this sort of thing?" She grinned, picked up several dress shirts from the shelf, and held them up to his chest. "Think these will fit? What size do you wear?" "Medium?" he guessed. She rolled her eyes, stuffed his arms full of shirts and shoved him in the direction of the changing rooms. He tried on a half-dozen shirts, finding a few nice ones that wouldn't exhaust his bank account. Unfortunately, shopping for shirts was significantly less arousing than shopping for underpants had been. With their necessary errands out of the way, Mulder thought they'd leave. That's what you did: you needed something, you went to the store and you bought it, and then you went home. At least that's what men did. Two hours later, after following Scully like a pack-mule through the mall, he peered over the top of her boxes he'd been carrying, and said, "All right, Scully, I've gone shopping. My feet hurt and my credit card is panting for breath. I am officially a woman. Now, is it my turn?" ***** In a different part of town, Walter Skinner was trying, also, to do his sensitivity homework. He had rented some of the movies that his wife had enjoyed: "The Sound of Music", "The Age of Innocence". Despite his noble efforts, he couldn't keep his eyes open for the "Age of Innocence". He opened a beer and switched tapes, but right around the time Liesl and Rolf were singing the joys of being sixteen, he snapped off the VCR, grabbed a wrench from the junk drawer in the kitchen, and headed for the bathroom to fix the leaky sink drain. So I can't get in touch with my feminine side, he thought. I'll go fix something instead. Fixing things. That was manly work. He dropped to his knees and began shoveling things out of the shelves beneath the sink. Extra deodorant, extra shaving cream, Band-Aids, mouthwash, hemorrhoid cream. Guy Stuff; all of it was Guy Stuff. Except for the small bottle in the back of the shelf. He pulled it out for examination. Smoldering Vanilla Bubble Bath, the bottle read, and his heart cracked at the memory of his wife-his ex-wife- lying in the tub for hours, listening to opera and soaking away her troubles. He unscrewed the cap and sniffed. Sure enough, that was the scent he remembered, the one that clung everywhere, even after she'd moved out. He took another sniff and wondered what the appeal had been for her. "Ah, what the hell," he muttered, and reached to turn on the bathroom taps. He consulted the back of the bottle; when he found no instructions, he dumped half the bottle under the running water. He flipped on his stereo and poured himself a glass of brandy. If he was going to get in touch with his feminine side, a bottle of lukewarm Budweiser didn't fit the picture. A few moments later, only the bald pate of Walter Skinner was visible above the tidal wave of bubbles in his bathtub. He was up to his nose in vanilla bubbles, his legs folded despite the length and width of his tub. He lifted his head only to sing along with the Pavarotti CD, mumbling through the Italian as he went along. Bubbles clung to his head like the hair he'd lost long ago as he sang in a rich baritone, "Nessun dorma! Nessun dorma!" **No man will sleep, no man will sleep. . .** He sank below the water, holding his breath and listening to the distorted voices on the CD. When his face broke the surface of the water, he burst into song. "Ma il mio mistero chiuso in me, il nome mio nessun sapra." **But my secret lies hidden within me, no one shall discover my name.** And then, like the Ivory soap bobbing in his bathwater, his emotions rose to the surface. His eyes welled with tears at the sad lyrics, for the poor, unknown hero who was alone, pining for a woman. "Ed il mio bacio sciogliera, il silenzio che ti fa mio!" he cried out dramatically. **And my kiss shall break the silence that makes you mine.** Skinner sighed and sank back into his bubbles, feeling glum. Outside the bathroom, his telephone shrilled. For a moment, he considered not answering it. But he feared that, if he stayed where he was much longer, The Sound of Music would start to look appealing. He lifted himself from the water, and immediately gooseflesh broke out over his body. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his narrow waist, stepping from the tub and muttering, "I'm coming, I'm coming." Rivulets of warm water and bubbles ran down his back, seeping into his towel. He snatched up the telephone and barked, "Hello." At first, there was silence, as if the other person was contemplating hanging up. Then, Mulder's voice: "Um, sir?" "Mulder, what the hell are you doing calling me at home?" "Uh, well, sir... Scully and I are going to watch the Super Bowl and do our sensitivity training. We wanted to know if you wanted to join us. But, you sound ah, busy." "I'm not busy," Skinner quickly assured. "I'll be there in an hour." Hanging up the phone, he sighed, "Thank God. Five more minutes of coming to terms with my feminine side, and I would have been shaving my legs." **** "Tell me, Scully, when you make a sandwich, do you butter one piece of the bread or do you butter both?" Scully nibbled on a lettuce leaf. "I don't use butter, Mulder." "Aha. Herein lies the difference between men and women." "Women don't like butter?" "No, it goes deeper than that. The trouble with you, Scully, is you don't know how to make a Super Bowl sandwich." They were standing in Mulder's kitchen, contemplating the sandwich makings in front of them. While Mulder spoke, he slathered mayonnaise on every inch of his foot-long wheat roll. Then he added the tuna fish they'd made, and smeared more mayonnaise atop that. Scully covered her mouth, completely appalled. Mulder spread a half a pound of cheese slices, some lettuce and a few slices of tomato on the sandwich, added a little more mayo, and pressed the top of the bun down firmly. Mayonnaise oozed everywhere. Mulder proudly carried his masterpiece to the living room, where he had already spread out three different varieties of chips, four flavors of dip and a two cans of cold Budweiser. Scully followed, clutching her diet Coke as if it was a wooden cross and Mulder's sandwich was Lestat himself. She sat down beside Mulder and delicately ripped a corner of the bread crust. "So, gluttony is a guy thing?" Mulder took a long pull from his beer, then belched loudly. "That's a guy thing, Scully. The sandwich is just a perk of being a guy." "That was disgusting," she said. "You're just jealous," he grinned. "I assure you, I am not jealous of that particular skill, Mulder." He offered his beer. She stared at him. "Real men drink beer." "No," she refused. He arched his eyebrows. "Two words, Scully. Press liaison." She snatched the can, threw her head back, and drained it. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she set down the empty can, gulped air, and then emitted the loudest, most unladylike belch ever born. It reverberated through her tiny body and rang in the air for long seconds. Then she sat back in the couch and gave him the eyebrow lift she always gave when she knew she'd done something better than he had. He discovered his mouth was hanging open; he closed it and said, "I just don't know what to say." She smiled. "So, you ready for the big game?" he asked. "Yep," she replied cheerfully. "Who do you think is going to win?" "The Yankees," she said dryly. "Now what do we do?" "Do?" he asked. "We don't do anything. We sit back-" he demonstrated, "-and we probably, I don't know. . . scratch a little." He demonstrated again. Scully lay back in his couch, frowning, and trailed her hand to her groin. "I don't think I'll enjoy scratching myself." "I will," he said, before he could stop himself. The doorbell mercifully saved them from themselves. Scully's eyes widened visibly at the sight of her supervisor, wearing jeans and a cardigan sweater and carrying a bag of Fritos under his arm. It was the first of many surprises throughout the afternoon. Never would she have expected AD Skinner to yell at the TV along with Mulder, to swig beer as a chaser for the tuna fish sandwich, and to shovel into his mouth copious amounts of bean dip and Fritos. If he scratched himself, she was going to have to leave the room. Then there was the game itself. As if an ordinary football game wasn't tedious enough, this one seemed to be twice as long. At first she tried to follow the game, but gave up when she realized she didn't care. She began to get bored. And with the boredom, she found herself getting sleepy. She kept her eyes open as long as she could, but despite her valiant efforts and the gleeful shouts of her male counterparts, she found herself taking a short nap in the corner of Mulder's couch. When she opened her eyes, Skinner was shrugging his coat over his shoulders and thanking Mulder for the invitation. Skinner gave Scully a small wave, and was out the door before she'd fully awakened. She sat up, yawning hard enough to crack her jaw. "I've got to go home," she said. Mulder was clearly amused. "Always remember, Scully, snoring is a very manly thing to do." Her face lost its rosy sleep-induced color. "I don't snore." "How do you know?" He was grinning like a Cheshire cat. "Mulder, tell me," she threatened, "was I snoring in front of my supervisor just now?" "Drink another beer and I'll tell you," he invited. "Tell me or I'll shoot you," she threatened. He held out the can of beer. She swore in a very unladylike fashion and brought the can to her lips, intending to swallow the contents in their entirety but not considering the smallness of her mouth. The beer overflowed her lips, running down her jaw and flowing over the front of her shirt like an amber waterfall. Still, she drained the can as well as she could and when she was finished, wiped her mouth triumphantly on her sleeve. Mulder seemed to have lost interest in keeping his end of the bargain, however; he was staring at the way her wet shirt clung to her breasts. She glanced down, crossed her arms over her chest and said, "Do you have a dry shirt I can borrow?" He shook his head. "Help yourself." She went into his bedroom and closed the door. His bed was rumpled, unmade. She wanted to hold his pillow and breathe, to see if his scent still lingered. Instead, she peeled the wet shirt from her body. The bra, equally soaked, followed. Her jeans were also wet, making it look as if she had wet her pants. She took them off, touching her underwear and finding it also damp. At least she had gone underwear shopping that day. Stripping her underpants from her body, she balled up her clothes and then padded over to his closet. Opening the doors, the scent of spicy aftershave and Mulderness wafted, assaulting her nose and making her heart swell with an emotion she wasn't yet ready to identify. In the Nordstrom bag at the end of his bed, she found a casual button-down shirt and, tottering slightly from the beer she'd consumed, slipped it over her head. It drifted down her body in a soft swish. The sleeves, fitted for Mulder, hung well past her fingertips, and the shirt nearly reached her knees. Dry but still beer-scented, Scully opened the door a crack and said, "Could you please hand me my Victoria's Secret bag? It's next to my purse." He was sitting on the couch, one hand on his too-full stomach and the other hand holding the remote control. He retrieved the bag and held it out for her. Still wrapped around the door, she reached for it, giving him a view of one shapely thigh and one nipple pressing against the shirt. His shirt. "Thanks," she said, retreating into the room and leaving the door ajar. Pulling a pair of panties from her shopping bag, she snipped off the tags with her teeth. The underpants were the deepest shade of green silk. At each hip was a tiny green bow. He could not tear his eyes away from them. His mouth began to water. She dangled the panties from her fingertip and asked, "Are you going to watch, Mulder?" "Can I?" The words were out of his mouth before he had time to stop them. She put her hand on her hip and creased her brow. "Am I to understand you want me to show you my underwear, Mulder?" He cleared his throat. "I'd like to see what they look like when they're on." Her expression was unreadable. Then, she bent over, her eyes still joined with his, and pulled the panties over her foot. He watched, mesmerized, as she afforded him the chance to watch that lucky fabric slide up her calves, then her thighs. He lost his view then, as her hands and the underwear disappeared beneath the shirttails. His own boxers felt obscenely restricting at that moment. With the arch of her eyebrow, he knew that she knew. Then, she smirked, "I feel like I'm in kindergarten." "Why?" "Because." She dropped her eyes, then bravely lifted them and said, "Because, Mulder, I showed you mine. Now will you show me yours?" He smiled giddily, and stepped over the threshold. "I know I've been a pain about this sensitivity training," he said. "The thing is, Scully, I want to be sensitive." He swore he heard her breath catch. "Do you?" she asked. He lifted his shirt from her body, holding it bunched above her navel, and found much satisfaction in the way the small wisp of underwear lay, hugging her skin. Like a pagan lying down at the feet of his god, Mulder dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around her, leaning back on his haunches to accommodate her, pulling her even closer to his face, his mouth. He pressed his lips against the green silk, and her concave stomach trembled. Her nerves were tightly drawn; she was about to warn him that her heart was beating too quickly, when he nuzzled her, drawing his lips over the fabric. He bumped his nose gently over her skin. Forgetting what she was about to say, Scully tensed and knotted her fingers in his hair. He pulled away from her warmth and raised his eyes. She looked down at him, her hair framing her face and her eyes nearly on fire. Her cheeks were burning. She lifted one knee and parted her thighs, granting him better access, begging for him. "God. . ." he breathed. The puff of air against her skin made her arch her back. He smiled, as if asking permission. She couldn't return the smile, but nodded jerkily. After a few moments, she whispered urgently, "Mulder, I'm burning." In response, he lifted his head only long enough to pull the underpants from her hips, leaving them pooled around her feet. "Is that better?" "Yes and no," she gasped. This time, when his lips returned to her, she moaned aloud. As his mouth found her warmth, licking gently, his hands tightening against her buttocks and squeezing her closer. Her knees were trembling against his shoulders. "Ohhh, Mulder, I uh, feel like I'm going to fall." "Then fall, Scully," he said in a muffled voice. "I promise I'll catch you." "No, I mean. . ." She tried to push back a little, ". . .literally fall. I'm going to fall down." He lifted his head and grinned sheepishly. Above him, his partner was flushed, her breath coming now in short gasps. He lifted himself to his feet and draped his arms around her shoulders. "Sorry, Scully," he said. "Maybe I do need that sensitivity training?" She smiled and stepped back, breaking his embrace and taking his hand in hers. She kissed his palm, then trailed her tongue to the tip of his index finger and gently sucked his fingertip. He swore, feeling his own knees begin to weaken. The grin she gave was brilliant, nearly blinding him in its intensity. As she led him toward his own bed, she said, "Let me be the judge of that." The End AUTHOR'S NOTES: Conversation with husband over breakfast today: "What color underwear would Scully wear?" "Black." "That's a clich. Pick a different color." "A lighter shade of black." "All right, let's say all shades of black are out of the question. What kind of-" "Thong." "We're talking about color here." "Shhh. My mind is still working on those black thongs." ***** Thanks to Eclipse and Nlynn, who were my beta slaves, and to Kim, for making me do the Skinner thing. This story was born from a Scullyfic improv. My elements for this improv were: Mulder and Scully sharing a foot-long tuna fish sub with lettuce, tomato and a lot of mayonnaise; Mulder and Scully shopping for lingerie; Scully wearing one of Mulder's white button-down shirts with nothing else; Mulder and Scully watching the Super Bowl; and Skinner in a vanilla scented bubble bath, drinking brandy and singing "Nessun Dorma".