TITLE: The Hand That Rocks The Cradle
AUTHOR: Token (token24601@aol.com)
CATEGORY: Post-Ep Vignette.  Phone Angst.  RST of a sort.
RATING: R.
SPOILERS:  General Season 8
SUMMARY: Mulder's desk phone has a period of self doubt.
DISCLAIMER: It's silly.
DISTRIBUTION: Wherever.  Let me know where it goes.
WEBSITE: www.grapefruithead.com/token

The Hand That Rocks The Cradle
by Token

*	*	*	*	*	*	*

I miss Mulder.

I miss the way his long, lean, strong hands would grip the hard
curve of my handle.  The way the tips of his fingers would gently
caress my keypad, making my touch tone cry out in ecstacy.

Fox Mulder always knew how to push my buttons the right way.

Late into the night he would use me; use me for business and
pleasure alike.  The times when unknown agents would call,
leaving cryptic messages while Mulder breathed his hot breath into
my mouthpiece.  Then he would Star69 me.  As he stroked my
buttons, I thought I would die.

I remember his calls to the 900 porn numbers as well.  I never felt
he was cheating on me, a little variety never hurt any relationship.
And as clutched me in one hand and his cock in the other,
fumbling with the words to speak to the operator on the end, I
could feel every thrust as he gripped me ever more tightly.  Then, he
would sanitize my reciever, wiping it carefully with a saniwipe.  No
one else ever does anything like that.  They don't care about me like
he did.

Or when he would gingerly unscrew my baseplate and casing, looking
for bugs.  He could never stand to have bugs where he put his mouth so
very often.  No one else could use me, as far as he was concerned,
unless he knew about it.  Unless he was there to watch.

His calls to Scully, that harlot who never appreciated him for the
man he was, I remember as well.  How I hated her smug denials of
everything he stood for, of his hopes and his dreams.  And now she
makes calls to her doctor on me, uses me like a tool.  She doesn't
even realize what it does to me to hear that she's carrying his baby.
That should be me.

And this new man, this Doggett, isn't much better.  Everyday he
comes back and makes endless phone calls to his friends and his
men.  Mulder never had either.  It was just him and me against the
world.  Mulder never came back stinking of onions and garlic from
whatever freakish ethic food Doggett seems to favor.  It's enough
to make you throw up.

Mulder cared about me.  I know it.  He never lost or abandoned me
like he did his cell phone.  That cheap whore thought she was so
good, with her sleek ergonomic design and her delicate circuitry.
Her and her dainty profile, petite enough to rest in his pocket.
Ugh.  I can't think of her resting there against his warm thigh, so
close to what makes him the man he is without wanting to scream.

Sure, there were times when he couldn't complete the call.  He'd
have to resort to directory assistance, or to redial in vain, but I was
always there for him.  I understood that sometimes a man couldn't
connect with the party that he wanted to, if you know what I mean.
He could finger me as much as he liked, and never complete the
call, and I'd be happy just to be held.

I can't wait for that man to come back, to hold me tightly in his
firm grip, to speak those gentle words of command.  I need him to
probe my input, to make me pulse with desire once more.  I know I
can be all that he wants, all that he needs.  I can be his everything.
I'm his phone, after all.  He needs me.

*	*	*	*	*	*	*
Author's Notes:  Special thanks to Lysandra for the quick beta.
Special thanks to Susan Frankovich for her "My Side of the
Story," which detailed the thoughts of Mulder's abandoned nameplate.