Category: MSR/NC-17 Archive: no Spoilers: US Season Six Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, CC does. Feedback to: cicilean2@aol.com ======== FACINATION by CiCi Lean, 1999 cicilean@yahoo.com ========= Fox Mulder was quickly coming to the determination that he was a desperate man. Or, if he weren't a desperate man, he was, at the very least, some sort of irredeemably hapless loser, one of the lowest order. Oh, he knew he had things going for him. He had brains for one thing, lots of them. So many neurons firing off simultaneously that he occasionally overloaded on revelations and deductions large and small. Whatever he didn't know offhand, he could figure out and whatever he couldn't figure out, he could easily ignore. And -that- took more brains than most people realized. He had long legs and sharp looks for a man nearing forty and a lifestyle that allowed him enough Armani to supplant whatever the aging process had robbed away. His stomach was still flat and he was obscenely proud of that fact, considering it a major victory in the face of bad living. He had 1-800-Fuck-mee and a collection of video porn that would make Larry Flint drool. Knew all the girls by name: Iddoya and Miss DeeDeeDee, Sally Lovesux, Cherry Candy and Trudy Hole. His perfect memory filed each one away and he could tell a tit job versus the real thing in five frames or less. If that wasn't talent, what was? But, at the moment, he had little else. He'd been robbed of his life's work, with all of his precious files first reduced to ash, then reduced to confetti by a sallow, thin faced man named Spender who had aces in holes Fox Mulder only dreamt of having. Big wet dreams of information supplied at a snap of his fingers or a wave of his hand. He could know what he wanted, when he wanted to and all would be well in the world again. You'd have no more worries little girl, because he, Fox Mulder, The Man, would be in the driver's seat. In the back of his head he got the sickening feeling that Spender didn't want the job and was holding onto it just to spite someone or something unknown. He pictured him shredding documents without looking to see if his fingers were next. Feeling just as useless as Mulder did at his crap jockey desk while he was dialing up background checks on little old ladies from Tulsa. That was a thought that drove Mulder nearly insane, so he ignored it. For the time being. He still had his partner and she was as gorgeous and as cold and as competent as ever. But he'd been robbed of his mystery as far as she was concerned, sitting in that cheap chair dialing up suburban housewives and dime store owners day after day asking the same dumb ass questions to see if Joe Blow was worthy of his janitorial appointment to clean the hallowed Bureau toilets. He'd been robbed of her fascination. Of that scowl that made her cheeks flush and pale in turn. Robbed of those angry puffs of breath and short sputters of disbelief that both amused and aroused him. Robbed of the erection he got every time she pulled out her gun. He couldn't quite put his finger on what had changed between them. Maybe he was dreaming it, maybe he wasn't, but when he stared at her via the reflection plate glued to his monitor, he couldn't help but notice. She looked ... bored. Not on the surface. No, she was still sharp, crisp and cold on the outside, but deep in those eyes he saw a restless stir. A serious schism in the making. Something ... something was going to snap. To give. And whatever that something was, Fox Mulder was most likely going to get the old heave ho right along with it. Maybe that had been the plan all along. The smoking bastard might have finally wised up as far as Dana Scully was concerned. You could beat her, freeze her, shoot her, give her cancer ... do anything to her, except for one crucial thing. You should never, ever bore her. Because that's when the road would start looking good to a woman like Dana Scully, as fierce and determined as her loyalty might be. She'd measure it out, she'd think it over, but in the end, she'd be gone like the wind in spring. Without turning back. That's why Fox Mulder was becoming a desperate man. That's when he determined that things were not going to go that way, smoking men and tight-ass AD's and sallow shredding men be damned. ========== He made his move on a Saturday night. Good Catholic girls liked the option of quick confessions and Sunday morning would be right around the bend. He tried hard not to picture her on her knees, in the confessor's booth explaining away her sins in that soft voice of hers, going into detail after detail of her activities with him the night before. It was far too arousing. Instead, he concentrated on the drive over to her house and fought down the urge to pull over for a quick jerk off before arrival. She had amazing senses and he wanted to be in pristine condition for her as not to ruin anything. Besides, he *was* nearing forty and twice a night wasn't always a guaranteed bet. It was a simple idea, even a stunted freak like Eddie Van Bluhndt had figured it out. A bottle of wine, some *serious* talk and thee. He'd mapped out the topics he'd open up and made a vow to shut up and let her talk. He'd keep pouring the wine. Nod a few more times. Make his move and pray she wasn't armed. With any luck she'd give in and he could concentrate on whatever technique he still might have left over from his college days. He'd kiss her for a bit, roughly, letting her know he meant business. Some feeling up, but gently, through her blouse. Up her back and around her ribcage. No grabbing whatsoever until she started to ask for it. Beg for it. Once that happened, if it happened, he had his ticket to Nirvana. And he might actually get to keep her around for a while longer. He idly wondered what her breasts looked like. He had some idea; after five years of staring at them, he be a moron not to. They were amazingly consistent, no matter what she was wearing, so figuring out their contours wasn't exactly rocket science. He was pretty damn sure they were real and that thought made his cock twitch unnervingly. Boob jobs were fine for Trudy Hole, but not for her. Wondered what she looked like completely naked and sprawled out against the cool sheets. He'd bet good money that she was short in the waist, had nice slim arms and a pair of legs that were much longer than they looked fully clothed. She was anal enough to be completely shaved three hundred and sixty five days a year, so there would be no problem there. Hoped she'd left a little bit, close cropped between her legs, just for the hell of it. Finding out her real hair color would be a nice bonus. A very nice bonus. It began to rain. Mulder turned on the radio and winced at the screech of some alternative rock band. Twisted the dial and finally settled on Hot Tuna. They were singing about some woman trucking their blues away and Mulder hummed along for a moment. Smiling. Began to wonder if Scully were a moaner or a panter. A screamer or a hisser. If she swallowed. If she liked being eaten out. If she was as tight, as wet, as molten hot as he imagined she might be. Everything began to blur like the rain on his windshield and he shifted his now rock hard cock over a bit to one side before he hurt himself. He was getting hot, damp and sweaty. Was glad for the rain. He'd be able to explain away all the wetness, especially the dampness that was seeping through to his jeans. He drove faster and finally saw her street come into view. Found a lucky parking spot right in front. Grabbed the wine, opened the door and ran inside. Rang the buzzer once. Got nervous and rang it again. He shifted from one foot to the other thinking about the smoker, hoping to lose the hard-on. Showing up with a huge boner probably wouldn't produce the desired effect. Or, if it did, he'd be a much luckier man than most. A much luckier man indeed. Heard her voice. Tinny through the pager. "Who is it?" "It's me, Scully." He could almost see her puzzled look. But the Open Sesame buzzer rang anyway. Mulder jogged up the stairs, eschewing the elevator. Hoped that the exertion would calm him down. Or give him a heart attack so that he could back out if need be. He prepared his knock; his speech, but his hands were starting to shake. Turned the final corner and saw with dismay that Scully was already waiting at her door. Wearing her robe and nervous expression. Waiting for him to walk up and either be mortally wounded, sick unto death. His mouth turned dry. Fuck. "Hey." "What is it? Are you all right?" He was stunned with the sight of her for a moment. She was without makeup, wearing tatty robe and the world's ugliest slippers. She looked more beautiful than she ever had in his recent or far memory. And if there was one thing he had in aces, it was a perfect memory. "Mulder? I asked you a question. Are you all right? Is everything all right?" He saw blue eyes filled with concern. With loyal readiness. Filled with their same old fascination. "Mulder?" A hand reached out and touched him gently on the arm. Mulder stared at her. Shocked. Jesus ... Jesus Christ it was still there. Where on earth did he think it ever went? His heart soared. He was thrilled. Overjoyed beyond belief. And definitely in one heap of shit. "Uh, yeah," he ground out. His mouth was parched. "I'm fine. I was just in the neighborhood... and said to myself, *hey* why not see Scully?" The blue eyes narrowed. "... and on the way to hey, "Just See Scully," I brought over this "Just See Scully" bottle of merlot here ..." A delicate eyebrow twitched. Her lips pursed. "It's late, Mulder. I have two appointments tomorrow and I ..." "... and after we talked I was hoping to see if we could just shoot the breeze and..." She shook her head. "No, not tonight. I have three weeks worth of expenses to do." He rattled on. Thinking he was going to explode with happiness. "... get drunk, maybe go out for a few games of eightball or we can prank call Frohike..." "Get out, Mulder," she growled. "I mean, I just figured..." "OUT!" "... that you and I..." The door slammed shut. He stared blankly at the door for a long moment. His head was spinning. Took a deep breath before stumbling down her hallway. Ran down the stairs, panting hard, and he was wheezing when he reached the outside tempest. Stood in the pouring rain, alone, soaked, with his hands held up high. Raised in joyful thanks. ======== Feedback is cherished at cicilean@yahoo.com