Title: Fancy Dance Author: Pebbles Email: pebblesb@earthlink.net Distribution: Anywhere, just play nice, please, and let me know where. Rating: PG-13 Classification: MSR, S, R, A Summary: Scully faces another Valentine's Day alone - until she gets her Irish up. Spoilers: The X-Files Movie, Season Six Disclaimer: Wish they were mine but they're not. Chris Carter, 1013 and Fox own them all, but I think they really belong to Gillian and David. "When We Dance", the soundtrack for this little business, belongs to Sting. I think we all know I'm not getting any money here, but just in case - I'M NOT! No harm intended. Just having a bit of fun with a fantasy or two. I blame it on Sting. When I awake, amazingly well rested, the first thing I notice is the big red date on the Monet wall calendar opposite my bed. My big, empty bed. This year the dreaded day, traditionally the most uncomfortable of the year, falls on Sunday. I heave a sigh of relief that I will be spared the discomfort of sitting eight feet away from the object of my traitorous heart, trying to get through a workday and keep my mind on potheads, low lifes and various and sundry forms of bull and other shit which it is now my job to track. Boredom makes the mind wander and mine has been wandering quite a bit lately. Unfortunately it takes entirely too many liberties with my good sense and more often than not I've found my thoughts occupied with forbidden flights of fancy. God, I need to get laid. I close my eyes again, trying to remember just exactly how long it has been. How many years have passed since I allowed a man's hands to travel over my body, lips to caress my tender spots, tongue to meet and tangle with mine? Sighing heavily, wallowing in my longing, I roll my head and open my eyes again, only to be met with an empty pillow. In my big, old, empty bed. Familiar visions appear, daily visitors from the secret corner of my mind where I keep all of my forbidden yearnings, penned up and craving attention. Visions of a dark head resting on the pillow beside me, his beautiful face peaceful in repose, his generous lower lip full and inviting and begging to be taken in and suckled... I snap back to reality with an impatient groan. This is getting me absolutely nowhere. I scramble from the bed, forcing myself to begin the morning routine before I get caught up in the all-too-easy fantasy. The fantasy of exactly whose hands and lips and tongue I want taking part in these activities. Fantasy is what got me into this spot in the first place. I pad into the bathroom, stripping off my cotton nightshirt and panties as I go. After taking care of the immediate business of emptying my bladder, I turn on the shower hot and hard and step under the spray. Taking up the oversized sponge I soap it liberally with Scottish rose soap, replace the bar in its cradle and go about cleansing myself. I scrub my body with a vengeance, as if I can wash away the confusion of being madly and totally in love and lust with my partner. Unfortunately every brush of the sponge against my body becomes his hands, his lips and there it is again, the vision of him before me, wet and naked and ready to please. My eyes close as I contemplate the possibilities. Dammit! I'm doing it again! I open my eyes and slap my hand hard against the tile, the sponge falling free and into the swirling water at my feet. I stand for a moment, watching it caught in the current, washing down toward the drain only to sit there, bobbing gently as the water flows out of the tub. Sometimes I feel like that with Mulder, I realize, caught in a current I have no hope of resisting, no matter how much I might fight. Fight my future with him. I know it is there, and so does he, but somehow we never seem to be able to get past the bullshit and down to business. I don't even know if we can. Taking up the bottle of shampoo I squirt some into my hand, work it into a lather with my other hand and apply it to my head. I massage my scalp with fingers that soon become his long, lean ones, caressing my head, twining into my wet hair, big hands combing through it and down to rest my face in the cradle they form against my cheeks. And his eyes as he looks at me, sea green and earnest and as full of love and longing as I know that mine are. I shake my head against the vision and duck under the spray, rinsing my hair thoroughly, turning around to get my entire body. I retrieve the sponge from its watery grave and return it to its spot in the shower caddy, turning off the water and taking up the towel that hangs on the wall beside the tub. As I wrap it around my body the soft cotton folds become his arms enfolding me, safe and warm in the security of his love and devotion. Again I sigh as I realize that it doesn't matter that this day falls on Sunday. Regardless of whether I go to the office or stay at home, Mulder will dominate my thoughts this Valentine's Day, as he does every day of my life. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Determined to lighten my melancholy mood, I spend a good part of the morning in the local Barnes & Noble, ostensibly looking for a new mystery in which to bury myself over the remainder of the weekend, but unable to find anything that catches my fancy. I pick up the new issue of Vanity Fair and spend a few minutes admiring the handsome cast of the upcoming Star Wars movie which graces the fold-out cover. Knowing that Mulder would like to see it, I buy it on impulse and take it over to a table in the café section of the store. I order a cup of latte, sit down and idly begin leafing through my magazine. Mulder's magazine. I can leave it on his chair in the morning. I swirl sugar and half-and-half in my coffee, idly wondering what he is doing today. The speakers above my head are crooning a gentle love song, rife with sensuality. I glance at the display beside the register, see the distinctive cheekbones and electric eyes of the singer, and know immediately who the seducer is. Sting. Just like that, I am back in Mulder's hallway, his thumbs caressing my cheeks as he holds my face in his hands, his eyes burning with the intensity of his love, my heart going like a triphammer and those lips for which I have so long lusted are brushing mine... ...before the damned bee announces its presence in no uncertain terms. Sting, indeed. I shake my head, trying to erase the all-too-vivid scene, one which has seen no repeat in the six plus months since it became conclusively obvious that Mulder wanted to kiss me. Six months of denial. We both know it. But have never acted on the forbidden knowledge. It is taboo. Oh, God, why is taboo so attractive? Why the hell do I have to remember something like that on Valentine's Day? I know full well the reason for my restlessness lies not in boredom but in sheer horniness, born of six years of doing without, waiting and wanting and lusting. Lusting for someone who is too chicken to do anything about it. Just as I am. Sting is still crooning over my shoulder: > My eyes close as I sit there alone, picturing the two of us together, dancing, my head against his chest, his arms around me and mine around him. Hips and thighs moving together in an ageless rhythm of courtship. The music turns heavy with angst and my longing becomes a physical pain. Enough is enough already! I open my eyes with a snap, now determined, fearless. Mulder may be chicken when it comes to matters of the heart but the same cannot be said for me. I am stronger than my fear and I know what I must do. I grab my coffee, magazine and purse, get up and walk purposefully toward the counter. Snapping up an unopened CD from the display, I turn on my heel and make my way to the front register. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Damnation. Here I am again. How many times have I stood on this side of the door, feeling his presence behind it, wondering what would be the outcome of my unannounced visit? I glance down at my attire. Dressed in charcoal leggings and a soft pink off the shoulder cashmere sweater which skims past my hips to gently hug my derriere, I feel nothing like the proper Agent Scully who is all too often in charge. Tonight SoftScully is in command and she has had six years to dream up her battle plan. Now if she can just manage not to bungle the execution. I give the door three sharp raps. A moment later it opens and there he stands, obviously fresh from the shower, bare-chested, damp, buttoning faded jeans slung low on his hips, his hand at work towel drying his wet hair, making it spike in all directions. I am mesmerized by the sight of the crisp, dark tufts of hair that dance across his chest, sprinkling lightly over his pecs and running down the middle of his stomach to the just-buttoned button. God, I had forgotten how beautiful he is without his shirt. He is beautiful all the damned time. Which is part of the problem. His eyes light up when he sees me. "Hey!" he says with a smile, moving aside for me to come in. He closes the door behind me and takes my coat, his eyes widening with pleasure at what lies beneath. I rarely let him see SoftScully. With good reason: given her way, SoftScully could get us both into a lot of trouble. Don't look now, partner, but SoftScully is in charge tonight. "You look nice," he tells me as his eyes rake me up and down. "What's up?" You, I hope, I think before I can stop myself. I get the distinct impression that he somehow manages to read the innuendo anyway and my breath catches as he flashes me that wicked grin, the one that can so undo me if I let it. I swallow tightly, effectively putting my emotions under control, and hoist the wicker basket I carry in my right hand. "Got plans?" I ask, arching a delicate brow. He shakes his head, raking his fingers through his spiky hair, smoothing it into a semblance of order. "Nope. Just me and the Knicks." He gestures at the muted television where healthy male bodies are sweating in a blatant display of testosterone. He cocks his head, suspicion dawning. "Unless you have a more attractive alternative?" I smile in what I hope is an enigmatic manner and move past him through the hall to the living room, placing the basket on the coffee table. Leaning over for maximum effect, I pull from it a pint of fresh strawberries, a container of prepared whipped cream, and a bottle of Bailey's Irish Creme. I remove and unroll two thick pink dinner napkins from which emerge two cordial glasses, their crystalline brilliance winking encouragement as they join the collection on the table. Next come three pedestal candles in pink, green and white and the new CD, which has played in my head like a soundtrack during my afternoon preparations. Finished, I look at him, giving him the full effect of my eyes and when I speak my voice is husky. "Do you like strawberries, Mulder?" The look on his face is almost comical: shock, suspicion, a reluctance to acknowledge the evidence at hand. "Scully?" He approaches me tentatively, touches me on the arm, rubbing gently. "Are you feeling okay?" I smile. "I'm fine, Mulder," I say softly, my fingers coming to rest momentarily on the hand that sits warmly on my upper wrist. "For the first time in a long while, I'm fine. Really, truly fine." I turn from him and set the white candle on the coffee table, walk over to the desk and place the green one there so that its flame will reflect in the glass from the aquarium. I move to the music center on the other side of the room and find a spot for the pink one, opening the CD player while I'm there and slipping the new CD into the slot. I do not hit power. Not yet, I realize. Timing is everything. I rummage in my pocket for the pack of matches I had picked up at the convenience store down the street and retrace my steps, methodically lighting each candle as I go, their soft golden glow competing with the more vivid colors on the television screen. Returning to the couch my fingers sweep over the power button as I pass, and instantly the room is bathed in romance. I sit down and pat the cushion beside me. "Sit, Mulder," I quietly command and he does so quickly, his hip and shoulder grazing mine and sending sparks all up and down that side of my body. I try to ignore it and open the strawberries and whipped crème instead, nodding toward the bottle of Bailey's as I do so and lifting a brow to convey the silent suggestion. I study his nimble fingers working the top of the bottle, opening it with a muffled pop! and watch as he pours the heavy liquid into the waiting cordials. He offers a glass to me, retrieves the other and raises it expectantly. "What are we drinking to, Scully?" he asks as he slowly, sinuously winds his wrist around mine so that his face is close enough for me to see my reflection in the magic of his eyes. "Extreme possibilities," I purr and am delighted by the flame that leaps to his eyes, the tightening of his jaw as he absorbs the hidden meaning of my words. "How extreme?" he whispers, his lips a fraction of an inch from mine, his breath sweet upon my face. "As extreme as only we can make it," I promise, meeting his eyes, daring him to deny it. His lips curve into a smile as sweet as any I have ever seen on him and only the glint in those cat eyes of his gives evidence of a hidden agenda. He gently clinks his glass to mine and raises it to his lips. He waits for me to raise my own before we sip together, eyes locked, each watching the other roll the decadent elixir over lips and tongue, savoring its sensuality, swallowing with relish. His eyes bore into mine and I feel a tightening in the depths of my belly, pulsing into the core of my being. I know. He knows, I now realize. We both know that each of us knows. And we both want it. "Be careful what you ask for, Scully," he warns in a tone that closely resembles a growl. I lick my lips, meet his challenge unflinchingly. "Why is that, Mulder?" "Because you'll get it," he hisses, his breath bathing me in the wildly erotic scent of Baileys. Oh, God, I hope so. Slowly, carefully, I unwind my wrist from his and sit my glass back onto the table, rise and walk over to the CD player. I push the play button and a moment later the slow, seductive love song I had heard in the bookstore fills the room. I look back at my partner, extending my hand. "Dance with me, Mulder," I urge and he instantly rises, comes to me and takes me gently, almost reverently into his arms. One of his hands is in my hair, caressing the back of my head as he guides it to rest against his chest, the other is on the small of my back, its favorite place and mine. I wrap my arms around him, my hands sliding upwards to caress the broad expanse of his back as I relax against him. He is still shirtless and I bury my nose in the center of his chest, breathing in his clean male scent, freshly showered and smelling good enough to eat. Now there's a thought. He rests his cheek against the top of my head and I wonder if his eyes are closed, as are mine. Together we sway to the music, temporarily lost, neither wanting to be found. I feel his arms tighten around me and I snuggle closer, wanting to stay here forever. I am supremely content. I don't want the music to stop, I realize. It can play on and on for the rest of my days and I will remain in Mulder's arms, dancing, loving, communing. Surely nothing can touch us so long as we continue to dance this way. I sigh again. God, when did I become such a critter for sighs? We move in a timeless, sensual rhythm, our bodies melded together, our hips moving in tandem and I smile secretly as I feel him hardening against my belly. He knows I can feel it, I can tell from the way his lower body lingers against mine, every step he takes as we move in our mating dance bringing it into greater contact, burning in its intensity. Despite his condition, he skillfully maneuvers me around the room, gradually making our way to the coffee table where he releases the hand from the small of my back. I immediately miss it and want it back where it belongs. I can feel his other hand move from my head and the warmth of his palm as it caresses the back of my neck, below the heavy fall of my hair. He guides my head back and up so that I am looking directly at him when I open my eyes, at him and the big, ripe, red strawberry, smothered with whipped crème that he is bringing to my lips. I hold my breath as he paints my mouth with the strawberry, then leans down and gently licks me clean. His tongue is warm and supple and holds the promise of rapture unending. I think I might die, right here on the spot. Spontaneously combust. He continues to hold the naked berry to my lips and I obligingly open to it, taking it in and biting down so that it explodes into my mouth in a burst of sweetness and color, making the juices leak from the corners of my mouth, which he likewise licks clean. Slowly, oh, so slowly. I am startled at the sound that leaves my throat. Could that really be me making that noise? Whatever it is, wherever it came from, the effect on Mulder is instantaneous. He emits a growl that is positively feral and pulls me to him, his hand on the back of my neck, holding me to him as his mouth slants over mine. Our kiss is deep and fierce, possessive and passionate and primal and I honestly think I'm going to faint. His tongue, that amazing tongue of his, is making thorough exploration of my mouth, my teeth, the inside of my cheeks, and mine is meeting his with such fervor that I am almost embarrassed. But this is Mulder. Oh, God, this is Mulder! My Mulder. We alone can do this to each other. We dance. And all the while we kiss each other as if kissing is the only thing in the world and we are the only two people ever to do it. The CD reaches its end and begins again and as the night wears on we delve into further explorations of body and soul, hearts already known to each other, and freedom comes from acknowledging the flame that has burned brightly for so many years, unquenchable and defiant in the face of all our common sense. Sting is right, I think, much, much later, snuggled securely in the arms of my lover, his lips in my hair, his hands worshipping my body, his heart my own and mine his. I daresay the angels do run and hide when we dance. I never want the dance to end. The CD plays on and on through the night. As do we. And the bee rests in peace. -END-