TITLE: Celebration (1/1)
AUTHOR: Jess
EMAIL ADDRESS: snarkypup@hotmail.com
DISCLAIMER: Hmmph, I'm not sure I even want them unless I get to go back
and remake Amor Fati.
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Anywhere, just let me know.
SPOILER WARNING: None
RATING: NC-17 (calm down, Darla. It's ok. Take a deep breath)
CONTENT WARNING: Um, some angst but mostly soft, fluffy smut pillows to
snuggle into
CLASSIFICATION: MSR
SUMMARY: Scully ruminates on Catholic jokes, Mulder's connection to sea
water and sex.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Darla, the line is in here. This is for you, and for Char
for sending me her smut to read, and very fine smut it was! You two rock my
little X-Files world. Let's take over the establishment. Long live the
revolution!

Celebration

I have a fantasy. It's not a particularly outrageous one, not that I don't
have my share of those as well, but this one is as simple as the dreams for
a white wedding I had as a child. Mulder and I are at the seashore. I don't
know why we're there, it's not as if we travel together, but nevertheless,
whether as a result of some comforting childhood association with the sea,
or because of the intense ordinary-ness of it, that's where we are.

He is already as brown as a newly-fallen chestnut, and he lies next to me
in the warm sand on his stomach, back glistening with swirls of sweat. He is
not wearing that damn Speedo he always packs just in case we end up at a
hotel with a pool. It's not that I don't appreciate the ass-hugging
tightness of that little scrap of red lycra. But you know, there should be
some mystery in life. He wears trunks, like a surfer, black with a white
stripe across the swell of his butt. His eyes are closed, his head is
resting on his arm and he is talking to me. About what? I don't know. It
doesn't matter. It's not that I'm not listening to him, it's that it really
doesn't matter what he's saying because it has nothing to do with a case,
or our latest mistake in the eyes of the bureau or cannibalistic mutants. He's
just... chatting, which I appreciate.

I am leaning back on my hands, with my legs straight out in front of me. My
tender shoulders have burnt the day before, as they always do, and I am
wearing a tiny white t-shirt instead of my bikini top. I know he has been
looking at the shape of my breasts beneath the cotton of the shirt, but I
don't care. That's why I wore it, really. That and the heat of the sunburn
on my body seems to keep rising the longer he stares, until I no longer
feel the pain of my skin but only the deep burning in my stomach, in my groin.
He has rubbed sunscreen onto my legs and arms and the back of my neck and even
in the stripe of the part of my hair. Sand sticks in-between my toes and
tickles the edge of my blue bikini. I am listening to him, not denying him
or confronting him, but hearing each word and accepting them because they
are not part of some grand cockamamie theory, but are the sort of thing
lovers say to one another on a sandy afternoon in the sun.

At last he rises, tawny and dark as an alley cat and stalks down to the
water to have one more dip before we go inside for the day. I love to watch
him swim. He isn't an overtly athletic man, not like some men I have known.

He is simply at home with his body, with his strength and weakness. He
swims like he gets off on the feel of the water on his skin. When he emerges at
last, he is more beautiful than Ursula Andress rising from the sea in Dr.
No. He runs up the beach, throwing off water like a dog, and grabs my hand,
too eager to be with me to even stop and dry off.

We make it to the door of our room, right there on the edge of the beach,
and fumble with the keys for a minute, staring at each other, heaving like
breakers. At last he opens the door and shoves me inside, jerking the
curtain closed but not all the way, so that a particularly nosey passerby
might see us later, naked and entangled in the cool hotel sheets. He pushes
me, damp and giving off humid waves of musky Mulder scent, back onto the
bed. I scramble back until I am lying in the exact middle, arms above me
head, stretching every muscle I can in anticipation of what he will feel
like when he enters me. He has said nothing, which is fine. We have long
since stopped having to explain this thing we have to one another.

He hovers over me, and he smells like the ocean on a clear day. Not fishy,
but like another world. His hands lift my t-shirt until it is balled up
around my shoulders and his lips are on my breasts. It isn't that I have
very sensitive breasts. I don't think most women do, contrary to what those
books I claim not to read may say. It's just that it's Mulder, his warm
tongue, his lips, his ravished face as he sits up a bit to try and choose
between them. That's really all the stimulation I need. The t-shirt feels
oddly erotic lifted up like that, as if I'm a kid again, making out in the
tall grass behind the base in San Diego.

When he finally kisses me, he tastes like the sea and the musk of my own
body and the rising need in his breath. We are leisurely, for a moment,
then he strips the shirt over my head, but leaves it around my wrists, telling
me this is his moment. You see, I love to give control to him. Truthfully, I
have always been attracted to men who took me over like a city breached in
battle. But with Mulder there is a new level of trust, and therefore a new
level of eroticism. You cannot underestimate the power of trust in a
relationship, its glorious effect on intimacy. I would willingly let my
fantasy Mulder turn me over and blindfold me while holding a branding iron,
because I trust him not to do anything that would cause me any long term
pain. Mulder hurts me, but they are slighting hurts, little cuts,
papercuts, really. They bring the pleasure of being with him into focus.

At last he strips away my bikini and slips his hand between my legs. I love
it when a man goes down on me, don't get me wrong, but there is something
wonderful about the way his fingers feel, their rough tips catching on my
skin. He fucks me with his thumb, and I rise and fall like the tide. When
he rubs that same thumb over my clitoris, I am so ready to be touched that I
grind into him, throwing my legs open and urging him silently, come on,
come on. He does, swirling around me until I am overcome by him. You see, if you
are masturbating, you have to picture someone, as I am doing now. You see
his face, you hear his name, and that's what makes you come. Or maybe you
picture two people doing it on the train, or a woman screwing a chicken, or
whatever. The thing with Mulder is, this is my fantasy. Seeing him there,
next to me, touching me, I don't need to close my eyes and think of
something else. Everything I ever wanted is there, doing it, doing me. I
come and come and come.

Then he is above me, hovering, his long body waiting for the tremors to
subside. But I don't want him to wait. I want him to dive in. I spread my
legs and urge him in, my hand wrapped tightly around him until I must move
out of the way. The thing about Mulder is, he's big. I know this because
I've seen him, and though I realize that regardless of their size when
flaccid, most men are about the same when erect, it doesn't matter in this
case. Because I have seen him erect. More often than he'd like me to know.
I have looked over in the car, or in a motel room, or on the plane, or once
even in the middle of a hearing with Skinner and a panel of Senators and
seen him, gloriously hard and practically thrumming like a guitar. And god,
do I want him. Not because he is big, heck, that's not necessarily an
asset, unless he is a talented lover to go with it, but because he is masculine
and musky and Mulder and I am in love with him. So in my fantasy, he sinks into
me and I stretch and stretch until he is fully inside me. He rises and
looks down at our union and then kisses my nose, because he is such a puppy-dog
romantic, unable to resist the sweetness of fucking, of making love, of
what we do when we are together. Then he begins to move, slow and sure at first,
but it is for my benefit and I don't want it that way.

"Harder," I say, the only word that remains the same from dream to dream.
He nods and begins to really stroke, in and out, swimming in me. We dive
together, we rise gasping, we sink again and again until at last he comes,
quivering inside my body until I am filled.

He curls around me, rubbing his sticky sand fingers through my hair. At
this point, he always says something funny, something Mulderish. Tonight it is
this:

"Scully, that was so good, even the neighbors need a cigarette."

Giggling, I curl up, but into myself, alone in my bed, which is oddly cold
around my sex-warmed skin.

xxxxx

This morning, I am cranky. I hate the morning after solo-sex. It's like he
knows, he must be able to see it on me, just as when I rose this morning my
underwear was still sticky and cold and disgusting and that is how I feel.

"Hey Scully," he says, "Ready to rumble?"

I'm not. This case, like many of the cases we do, is boring me. No one is
reading the stars here, no one is mutating or craving human flesh or even
exsanguinating cows, for heaven's sake. We are simply sitting in a car,
driving from house to house, interviewing miserable people who may or may
not have to do with the grisly, entirely normal murders of children.

"No," I say, and he looks at me as if I'm mad, which maybe I am, in both
senses of the word.

"You ok?" He is concerned, genuinely. What do I say? Remember that thing I
said about trust? Fuck it. You don't tell the man you love, who probably
loves you back but has clearly been enrolled in some secret alien
priesthood that practices celibacy so complete he doesn't even understand 
sex anymore,

that you spent the night fucking him and now you regret it, as always.

It reminds me of a joke. Catholics know the best Catholic jokes. It's like
Mel Brooks and Jews. The Pope dies and is received into heaven by Saint
Peter. "Your Eminence, what would you like to do in heaven?" the Saint
asks.

"Gee," the Pope says, "I hear you have a magnificent library with all the
great religious texts in their original forms. I think I'd like to take a
look at them, if I may."

"Why sure," says Saint Peter, and he takes the Pope to the library and sits
him down with all the great texts and an infinite number of translations.

A few hours later, he returns to find the Pope weeping over one of the
books. "Your Holiness!" Saint Peter cries, "What is wrong?"

"Oh no," the Pope says mournfully, "all this time it said celebRate!"

"Mulder," I say, getting as close to the truth with him as I can, "I'm just
wondering when the fun starts."

xxxxx

The rest of the day passes slowly. I once dropped a jar of molasses I was
supposed to bring home from the store so my mother could bake cookies. I'm
not sure women even use molasses for anything anymore, but it was exactly
like the old saying goes. It moved slowly, like a miniature lava flow,
smothering everything caught in its wake. That is my day, maybe my year, I
don't know.

It seems that way, though I remember the part with Mulder's illness and the
spaceship and the SHIT as going quite quickly, now.

"Scully," he says, chewing on something and sparkling the way he does when
he's amused. "Why don't you come into my room tonight and watch a movie
with me?"

"I don't think I want to watch that sort of movie, Mulder." I am absolutely
sure that watching porn in Mulder's room is the last thing I want to do.

"Not that kind, silly," he says. "I mean, we scroll through the other movie
menu and pick something out. Y'know, the latest Van Damme hit-fest or hey,
if it'll cheer you up, I'll even watch Emma."

I examine him closely. He's wearing his usual dark suit and tie and he's
looking particularly feral tonight. What's gotten into him? Or is it
something that's always there and has just gotten into me?

"Mulder, what's with the sudden desire to make me happy? My remark this
morning?"

He shrugs.

"It's not really a sudden desire, Scully. I strive to make you happy most
of the time."

This elicits a snort from me, but inside, I'm blushing. Really, and not
that sort. Just the pleasantly surprised kind of blushing. Ok, and maybe a bit
of the other kind.

"No really," he asserts, pulling up in front of the hotel. "Am I or am I
not, a perpetual laugh riot?"

"Not," I answer immediately. "But I'll watch a movie with you. Something
fluffy."

He grins and opens the door to his room. Even though the maid has cleaned
it, it shows the inevitable result of days of Mulder occupation. His
clothing is strewn everywhere, including several pairs of silk boxers he's
picking up quickly and attempting to hide. Trust Mulder to pamper his own
ass.

"I'm going to take my suit off," I tell him. He looks hopeful for a moment,
raising his eyebrows and waggling, there is no other word, waggling them at
me. "In my own room," I add. "And then I'm going to put on a big, baggy
pair of the scankiest sweats you ever saw."

He laughs and I must admit, I'm feeling better. It's like Mulder-balm. They
ought to sell it in little green tins with his face on the side, like Bag
Balm.

"Come here first," he says, so I do. Did I mention the whole city-storming
thing?

He hugs me, cradling my head and kissing my hair. We have become much more
demonstrative lately, if your scale of demonstrative is marked off in
nanometers.

"I do want you to be happy," he says gently. "Sometimes it's all I think
about."

And then somehow I am looking up at those big blue/green/whatever-they-are
eyes and I'm saying "You do make me happy" and he's nodding and we're
staring at one another.

He breaks first, of course. "Go change," he says. "And hurry up."

I am floating into the other room, riding a little cloud of hopes and
fantasies and touches. Suit off, I think, toeing off my shoes and then my
stockings and finally unzipping my skirt so I am standing in my room in my
underwear, my shirt and my jacket. Boy, am I whipped.

By the time I'm changed and warm and snuggly, Mulder is lounging in the
middle of his bed with the movie schedule all keyed up. The fact that he
doesn't scoot over when I come near leads me to believe he would like me to
lie down quite close to him.

And then it strikes me, that I am sick of this. That my fantasy, while not
outrageous, was normal. I just want that, I want normal. Not mutant-free,
you understand, but I suppose I want him to follow through on this whole
thing. You know, I want to do what people usually do when they are in love
and lying on a motel bed alone. It's one thing to say you want someone else
to be happy, it's another to actually throw your back out trying to achieve
it.

"Mulder," I say, feeling my way through the pounding in my head.

"Yeah? What do you think? I'm betting you're no Adam Sandler fan."

"Mulder," I say again, and he turns to look at me.

"Scully?" he says, leaning on his elbow, propped up so his face is a few
inches from mine.

"Make my night," I say, "and answer me something truthfully."

"Ok," he answers immediately. He trusts me.

"What the fuck are we waiting for?"

Ah ha, Mulder, I just saw the panic face.

"Um, in reference to what?"

Suddenly we seem to have the most fascinating pattern on the bedspread.

"In reference to... in reference to... what question is that, Mulder? You
know damn well what I'm referring to."

"You want to know what we're waiting for?" he repeats and looks up at me
and for the first time, I see the answer.

He was waiting for me. You see, Mulder's no city-stormer. Mulder's no
conqueror, no Mulder Khan. He believes in us as equals. I am sitting behind
my citadel of defenses and excuses screaming "just you try, you barbarian!"

waiting for him to put up a ladder so I can push it off and giggle while I
pour boiling oil on his head, and he believes it, every word. He has been
waiting for me to open the gates and invite him in as my lover, not my
vanquisher, which is exactly right. I need to stop reading those fucking
romance novels and start living life.

"I don't know," he admits. "I think I'm terrified."

"Oh," I say. "Well, so am I."

"Yeah?" His eyes are darkening and he's looking snarky.

"Yeah," I say, lowering my voice. "I mean, you're much more dangerous than
any damn mutant."

And then he's leaning over me, and he's HUGE. Not there, though that
probably is too, but I mean him, his body. He's so much bigger than me and
he's so frightened he's shaking. I turn my head and kiss his arm, just
above the wrist.

"You know," I say. "I've got a great joke to tell you."

"Hmmm?" he whispers, still hovering.

"Yeah," I say. "You'll love it. The Pope dies and meets Saint Peter at the
gate..."

You see, in the end, I looked at my life, and it said "celebrate."

end 1 of 1