TITLE: FANCY TOPPINGS AUTHOR: Pebbles RATING: R, I reckon, depending on one's point of view. Nothing too graphic, I don't think. DISCLAIMER: Alas, they are not mine. They belong to CC, 1013, Fox, DD and especially GA. WARNING: Ahead there be implied smut. Kiddies, no offense, but GO AWAY!!! CATEGORY: MSR, RST, IMPROV THANKS TO: The UberBetas: Ropo, Brandon, Shannon and Lena. NOTES: This is part of the Fancy series. And a Scullyfic Improv. See if you can guess! FEEDBACK: Oh, feedback me - please!!!!! I'm trapped in this computer at pebblesb@earthlink.net "Kill me now, Scully." Mulder is bored. I can hear it in his voice. He agreed to this assignment because I asked him, but he did not do so with a happy heart. Bored Mulder makes for miserable Mulder and this Mulder, at the moment, is both. He is about to bounce off the walls; which, given our locale and situation, would be a difficult thing to do. Even for Mulder. We are sitting on the Promenade Deck of the Caribbean Princess, the sun high overhead, surrounded by legitimate honeymooners who have eyes only for each other. Posing as newlyweds to maintain our cover, we have been assigned to keep an eye on one Brian O'Connor, Irish stepdancing sensation, who is part of a touring international dance troupe providing nightly entertainment on board the ship. Rumor has it that the fancy-footing Mr. O'Connor is traveling under a death threat from a band of IRA extremists, for naming names on a list to which he is privy. Mulder and I, along with four other agents working in teams of two, have been assigned to accompany him on this vacation cruise until he reaches his destination of New Providence Island in the Bahamas. Once there he will be handed off to a team of U.S. Marshals with the Witness Protection Program, who will covertly transport him to one of the Out Islands. There, he will disappear into relative obscurity until the death threat against him can be eliminated. Mulder and I ended our shift at 7:00 this morning after an incredibly long and tiring evening of watching O'Connor and Company perform their exhausting ninety minute program in the ship's auditorium. After watching the program through twice, I was worn out just from being so close to all that activity. All I really wanted to do this morning was stumble to our cabin and fall into bed. And sleep. Which I could not do because I knew that Mulder would follow me. And I couldn't allow myself to be alone with him, not after watching that highly charged performance, knowing the effect that the ancient Celtic music had on him. The same effect it has on me. Ever since Beltane and our time in the forest. But we are working and will be on the Bureau's clock until we dock in Nassau later this afternoon. Once we make port, we are officially off duty, off the ship, and all of our responsibilities with regard to the safety of Mr. O'Connor will be assumed by others. And not a moment too soon, from the signals I am receiving this morning, from Mulder and from myself. I look up from my magazine, reaching with one hand to lower my sunglasses so that I can peer over the rims at my partner. "The name," I remind him sternly, "is Lucy." It's hard not to laugh at him, at his pained expression, at the way he shifts in his chair, fingers drumming with nervous energy against the table. "That's just what I mean, Scu - honey," he breaks off as a waiter pauses to inquire if we need further refreshment. I shake my head and he moves on. Mulder nudges my feet under the table, as he is wont to do. "I mean, *really*," he continues in a tone dripping with sarcasm. "Lucy and Ricky McGillicuddy?" I watch, amused, as he rolls his eyes. He looks like a fourteen-year-old boy, complaining to his mother. I am having none of it. "You had your fun in Arcadia, Ricky, darling," I emphasize the endearment, relishing the subtext to this whole scenario I have devised. "Now it's my turn." He opens his mouth as if to protest, but the arch of my brow silences him. He knows I'm right. And it bugs the hell out of him. He flops back in his chair, looking out to sea as he works on the buttons of his shirt. "God, it's hot," he says unnecessarily. "I hate hot." He finishes his task and parts the crisp blue cotton to reveal a chest burnished to a deep, golden sheen. A chest lightly covered with fine dark hair that catches the glint of the sun and seems to wink at me, taunting me with the sight of a man in his prime and damned proud of it. I can't help but check out his torso, my body quickening despite my resolve to keep my libido on an even keel, and I mentally kick myself for engineering the merry hell I have wrought for myself this time. We are on assignment, the one place where I will *not* allow myself to give in to the passion that has had him by the testes and me by the hormones since we began this new phase in our relationship. And here we are posing as newlyweds, for God's sake, on a ship comprised largely of people of Celtic background, where the theme of the cruise seems to be "Kiss Me, I'm Irish" and everyone is only too happy to comply. We are in an atmosphere where the very air is filled with ancient, pagan rhythms and soul-stirring music that makes me want to grab my partner by the cheeks of his ass and whirl him madly around the dance floor. That, or maybe throw him to the floor and press my heels into the cheeks of his ass as he makes fast and furious love to me. Both options have their appeal. Oh, boy, am I in trouble. I think now that I may have been a bit too hasty in assuming that I could make up for Arcadia on this little cruise to the Bahamas. Mulder has an uncanny knack for making stone soup out of all the rocks that are thrown at him. Something in his body language tells me that he's up for the challenge. He looks up at me suddenly and catches me staring. His eyes engage mine in a game of chicken and we gaze unabashedly at each other for an indeterminable length of time. I experience the memory of a moonlit night and two entwined bodies before a raging fire... I have never felt more woman than I did that night. And the memory makes me crave a repeat performance, assignment be damned. "Gotcha," I hear him say, so softly as to make me wonder if he really spoke, or if it was one of those odd little telepathy things we've been doing lately, since our return from Brown Mountain. I decide to test my theory. //Yes, you do.// I send the words with a caress, my thoughts to his, and his sweet smile is my reward. I really love it when he does that. It makes me go all soft and gooey and forget things like Revenge of the Thwarted Lover and The Fine Art of One-Upmanship. He suddenly rises from his seat and moves away. "Be right back," he says, pursing his lips in a fleeting kiss and blowing it my way. I catch it in my fingers and press it against my mouth. We're getting better at this pretending to be honeymooners thing, I think, smiling as I return to my perusal of Mulder's GQ. I am so happily immersed in the story of Ewan McGregor and his considerable attributes that I don't hear Mulder's return. One minute I am checking out that bad boy Scot and the next moment his picture is obliterated by the most heavenly-looking confection I have ever seen. The dish is huge and bulging with ripe bananas, three scoops of ice cream in varying shades and flavors, smothered with whipped cream, cascading walnut pieces, four plump cherries and two of the biggest, reddest, ripest strawberries I have seen in some time. Since Valentine's Day, now that I think about it. I look up into the leering face of my cohort in the delectable activities of that lovely evening. In his eyes I see the memory of our sweetheart dance -- the night we fed each other strawberries and whipped cream and then licked each other clean. He sits before me now, chin ddown, eyes up and focusing on me, the hint of a smile on his lips, his forearms resting on the table, fingers steepled, waiting. He looks like the cat who is about to swallow the canary. Whole. Tweet, tweet, I think, taking the plunge and plucking one of the strawberries from the top of the mountain. I hold it inches from my mouth, watching as his eyes follow it and widen as my tongue snakes out to lick a bit of the whipped crème from the berry's tip. He shifts in his chair and I smile at him. "Do you like strawberries, Ricky?" I ask innocently. "You know damned well I do, Lucy," he growls. "Almost as much as I like cherries." His eyes lower to my bosom and I swear I can feel the heat of his gaze through the spandex of my swimsuit. I realize that my nipples are standing at attention and I flush at his grin as he takes in the hard evidence of his effect on me. "I'm particularly fond of Scully cherries," he taunts, his eyes snapping back to mine, glinting with mischief. Now it's my turn to shift in my chair. This is not going as planned. Just that quickly he has taken the lead in the innuendo department and now the ball is back in my court. Okay, big boy, you want to play? I bite into the strawberry, purposely making it squirt all over me, licking ineffectually at the juices that are trickling from my mouth and down over my chin, leaving a wet path across my chest and into my cleavage. His eyes follow the trail with a feral hunger that makes my toes curl. I've seen that look before. That "I'm going to eat you up" look, the one he has used with such success in the past. Oh, I *do* hope so, I think. I can see him capture the thought by the tilt of his head, the widening of his grin. He snags a cherry from the heap, holding it by the stem and dangling it before my eyes. "Hey, Honeybunch," says he, "did I ever show you how I can tie a cherry stem in a knot using just my tongue?" I sit bolt upright in the chair, looking surreptitiously around to make sure no one was within earshot of his suggestive query. This isn't so funny anymore. Not here on the damned Promenade Deck of the damned Caribbean Princess in the middle of a damned assignment, where we are restricted from acting upon the primal urge to devour each other. I am beginning to regret my impulsive acceptance of this job. "Stop it, Mulder," I say, hating the little catch in my voice as I try to call a halt to this madness. "Stop *what*?" he asks, all innocence as he pops the cherry into his mouth. I watch the stem disappear between those lips and try hard to look away, failing miserably, unable to tear my eyes from the sight of his mouth working as his oh-so-talented tongue goes to town on that cherry stem. "Stop *that!*" I try a little more forcefully. "This isn't going to do either of us any good, Mulder, and you know it. We're *working*." He ignores me, as usual, and continues his little oral acrobatics. Finally, I see him swallow and his eyes crinkle just at the corners as he sticks out his tongue, revealing no cherry but only the stem, wrapped around itself and tied in a neat little knot. I am stunned, amazed at his feat, embarrassed that anyone could have been watching this little charade - and incredibly turned on. And he, the cocky bastard, is sitting there with that shit-eating grin, so pleased with himself he looks about to pop. Meow. "Mr. and Mrs. McGillicuddy?" a voice erupts from the hazy world outside my vision of Mulder and the fruit of his labors. Reluctantly I tear my eyes away from my partner's triumph and peer up at the purser. "Yes?" I manage to croak. "Terribly sorry to interrupt, but we will be putting into port within the hour and I have orders to see to the smooth transfer of your belongings once we dock. Where are you planning on staying while in the Islands?" I give him the name of the hotel the Bureau has booked for us and start to gather my things as he moves away. Although I had taken care of most of my packing this morning before coming down to the Promenade Deck, I want to make a quick check of the cabin before we clear out if it. Besides, I have *got* to get us away from that banana split before this game of Top This with the ice cream toppings gets out of hand. "Come on, Ricky," I urge my pseudo-husband, rising and pulling him up by the back of his shirt collar. "Time to get ready to go." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Back in our cabin he does his utmost to drive me to the brink of distraction. The moment the lock clicks into place on the door behind us, he invades my personal space, standing so close behind me that his breath tickles the tiny hairs on the back of my neck. I can feel him hardening from the sheer proximity of our bodies and I have to keep a rigid control over mine lest we transgress. When his lips touch the crease of my neck and shoulder, I duck my head and move away. "No, Ricky," I remind him. "Not until we're off this boat." I go about opening closets and bureau drawers, double checking the bathroom and under the king-sized bed which we have for the last four nights shared so chastely. This cruise had enlightened me to the fact that I enjoy sleeping with Mulder as much as I enjoy, well, sleeping with Mulder. We both sleep better when we're curled up in each other, and spooning with the one you love is the best sleep aid in the world. But the growing discomfort of unrelieved sexual tension that has built up over the past few days made the last evening a bit strained, to say the least. I had the most incredible dream last night, doubtless brought on by the daily doses of Brian O'Connor and his dancers. I admit to having found a certain amount of enjoyment in watching all of those well-toned bodies engage in such energetic exhibitions of rhythm and precision. The images left by their sometimes sultry and stunningly sensual dancing carried over into the netherworld, where I found myself dancing with Mulder. The scene was a repeat of our Valentine's dance except that I was totally naked. Mulder, however, was not only wearing the studly Mr. O'Connor's costume, but was seducing me with all his step-dancing moves as well. Mulder is a fine-looking man. Correction. Mulder is a *damn* fine- looking man. Mulder in a pair of black step pants, purple cummerbund with Celtic knotwork embroidered in gold, and a white, billowy- sleeved flowing shirt cut to the navel so that you can see his chest hair and down the line that leads to the Land of Many Delights - *that* Mulder is damned near fatal. I must have moaned in my sleep before I woke myself because Mulder stirred behind me, which brought me fully awake and on edge. When he quieted, I thanked my lucky stars that he had slept through that one. Wouldn't do at all for him to know the contents of my dreams. Just as I am ready to head to the deck, he decides that he needs to change clothes, declaring the white jeans and cool blue cotton shirt too restrictive for an afternoon tear through the wild and woolly world of the island's market place. While I can't argue against comfort, I know the man well enough to read him when he has an ulterior motive. He stands there in his boxers, knowing how that sight turns me on these days, and takes his time about selecting his attire. After opening bag after bag of his previously packed and ready to go luggage, looking for just the right combination, he finally settles on a loose-fitting pair of khaki shorts and a simple white cotton tee that emphasizes his well toned chest and the musculature of his arms. I have to leave the room before I pounce on him. Assembling my luggage by the cabin door to be picked up, I snag my straw tote bag from the bed and make for the exit. I look back at him over my shoulder, blowing him an air kiss as I do. "See you up on deck, laddie buck," I call, using one of my father's old endearments. I close the door behind me and lean against it, checking my watch. With any luck we'll be off this boat within the hour. I have my doubts about whether we'll make it that long. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Hey, Loosy!" My partner is calling me from across the waves of tourists. "Get a load of the gonads on this elephant!" We are in the middle of the Straw Market in Nassau, hundreds of people swarming around us. I cringe as Mulder's voice carries across the aisles, though certainly none of these people have stopped long enough to hear him. Intent on claiming their own treasures, they go about their merry way. I come up behind Mulder at the dealer's table, fully one-half of which is taken up by a truly impressive ebony statue of a large bull elephant. A large anatomically correct bull elephant, to be precise. Mulder bends to get a closer look at the reproductive equipment on said pachyderm, displayed in all its glory on the underside of the beast. He pauses in his scrutiny to leer up at me, waggling his brows. "Does the sight of this titanic testosterone toting tally-whacker do anything to turn you on, Scully?" "Mulder!" I scold, shocked at his crudity. He straightens and gives me that grin again. Ass, I think. He knows full well what he's doing when he starts this crap. Baiting me to the point of pissing me off, enjoying the slow burn, having the gall to look hurt when I blow my stack and then wanting to soothe the annoyance with seduction of the sweetest kind. He's been seducing me all afternoon, since before we got off the boat, starting with that banana split on the Promenade Deck. He followed that with the near seduction in the cabin, the kisses on the back of my neck as he came up behind me on deck, and finished up with the blazing hand at the small of my back as he guided me off the boat and into the bustling crowded streets of Nassau. Then for reasons known only to Mulder, we wound up strolling through the local market instead of going directly to our motel. It must be part of an orchestrated plan of his to drive me insane with desire, and then thwart me. The problem is, it's working. But I'll be damned if I'm going to beg. I grab Mulder's hand and pull him after me as I continue through the maze of tables, amazed at the variety of items available. There is everything from clothing and footware to baskets and cages. On one side I see a display of exquisite, hand-painted batiks; on the other side is a table of obscure books and magazines. I see a particularly large stack on one corner and look closer. *Architectural Digest*. From the size of the stack I'd say there were at least seventy-five of them in there. What kind of a pack rat would collect seventy-five issues of Architectural Digest? "Oh, hey!" Mulder exclaims as he spots the magazines. "I have a stack like that in my closet." I pull him on, now anxious to get back to the hotel. As much as I would hate to have to admit it to Mulder, his little touches and all that innuendo have achieved the desired effect on me. I don't care if they haven't brought the bags yet; it's time to take care of business. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I barely make it through the door to our spacious room before Mulder has me against the wall, hands on either side of my face, holding me still while his mouth makes a thorough exploration of mine. I lean into him and clasp him to me, my knees quaking with the flood of desire that has consumed me, now that the opportunity is finally upon us. Neither one of us speaks, our mouths too busy nipping and tasting, sucking lips and suckling tongues. My hands are inside Mulder's shirt, caressing his bare back, pulling him ever closer. His mouth moves to my neck, back to my ear, taking the tender lobe between his lips and teasing it, making me shiver. "Cold, Lucy?" he asks against my skin. "The name," I gasp as his mouth moves lower, "is Scully. And I believe we're off duty." He slips the straps of my sundress off my slightly reddened shoulders, pressing his lips to the sunburned flesh. He continues to slide the dress off my body, followed by my bra and matching little white cotton panties. It is odd, I think suddenly, this feeling of déjà vu. It is my dream again; I am naked in Mulder's hands. But his attire is all wrong. //In your dreams, Scully,// he tells me in the moment before his mouth closes around my left nipple and his fingers go to work on my right. I ought to be upset by his psychic taunting, at the sudden realization that he had picked up on my nocturnal wanderings of the night before, but I can't work up a measure of indignation, not when his tongue has just done such a fine job of laving my screaming flesh and is proceeding due south at a breakneck pace. Thirty seconds later I am sprawled on my back on the chaise lounge, one leg on either side of it and Mulder in between, giving me a personal lesson in the advantages of having a lover who can tie a knot in a cherry stem with his tongue. After the second powerful series of shudders passes through me, I pull him up to me, my body demanding an immediate end to the waiting. He happily complies with his usual gusto and the next thing I know he is naked and deep within me and I am clasping him warmly, both inside and out. We move with such exquisite rhythm and precision, dancing our own primal dance, enjoying our own little bit of heaven after the hell of doing without. He begins to serenade me, in the manner that works so well. "Love you, love you, love you, Scully, love you, love you, Scully, love you, love you, love you, Scully, Scully, Scully, Sculleee!" My moans are lost in his, my cry of release mingling with his own, and we wallow in our euphoria, clinging tightly to each other, as together as any two people can be. Afterwards, sated and sleepy, we lie entwined, listening to each other's breathing, counting beats of each other's heart. "I love you, Mulder," I remind him, my voice barely audible, my thoughts barely there. //I know.// I feel the caress of his words in my mind. //I've always known.// - END - NOTES: Elements: A banana split, an elephant, 75 back issues of Architectural Digest, Mulder in a stepdancing outfit and Mulder and Scully on a vacation cruise to the Bahamas.