TITLE:  Pear Necessity
AUTHOR:  Lysandra
FEEDBACK:  Lysandra@mediaone.net or Lysandra31@aol.com
SPOILERS:  Blink and you'll miss them for Never Again & Lazarus.  This story
is set sometime in the 5th season.
RATING:  PG-13
CLASSIFICATION:  VR
SUMMARY:  Why should anyone settle for 'acceptable?'
DISTRIBUTION:  OK for Gossamer; others please ask permission before
archiving.
DISCLAIMER:  These characters are owned by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen
Productions, and Twentieth Century Fox.

Author's notes follow the story.


** PEAR NECESSITY **
         by Lysandra

He knocks on your door like he has a hundred times before.  You let him in
and he sits on your sofa, tosses an unimportant file on your coffee table,
and leans his elbows on his thighs, like he always does.

He's been over here more lately.  He always calls first to make sure you're
home, but no longer really bothers with excuses as to why he comes.  He just
arrives and hands you a file to look at, or a form to sign, almost as if
it's a formality, a joke; as soon as you take a gander at the casefile, or
add your signature to the dotted line, he relaxes into being in your home.

He never presumes to take off his shoes, or fiddle with your stereo's
presets, or turn on the television, but he makes himself comfortable,
settling into your sofa's cushions as if they were his own.  Sometimes he
grabs a drink from the refrigerator, but he always asks first, and always
pours something for you, too.  Not too much ice; he knows you don't like too
much ice.

Tonight he gets himself a Pepsi (you don't drink it, but you always have it)
and a glass of apple juice for you, and when he sits back down, he's a few
crucial inches closer than before.  He hasn't started investigating you
tonight, not yet, but something's swirling in that mind of his and you
wonder how many minutes will go by before he springs it, sneaking another
piece of you into himself.  You wonder how much you'll give him tonight.

"It smells different in here," he says, giving the air a sniff.  "What is
that?"

"Pear," you answer, nodding toward a candle burning on the windowsill.

"I didn't know you liked pears, Scully."  He closes one eye as he thinks it
over.

When Mulder wants to know something, he never just asks straight out.  He
somehow makes people think it's their own idea to bare their souls to him,
reveal themselves.  He hovers around a question, circling like a deceptively
attractive vulture until it's time to feed.  You've seen him do this with
suspects and witnesses.  It's a gift.  Professionally, anyway.  Personally,
it's exasperating, and you wish he wouldn't do it with you.

You close one eye and look back at him.  "I've always liked the scent of
pear."  You'll play along, for now.

"Really."

That wasn't a question, you think.  How can he be so smug when he's not even
right?  Challenging you on whether or not you like the smell of pears.
Ridiculous.

"I don't eat them," you explain, using your annoyed voice, which comes quite
naturally at the moment since he's being so annoying.

He turns to you a moment, then looks down, thinking again.  Always thinking.
He nibbles on his lip like a child puzzling over a math problem.  He's
mulling you.

He returns his gaze to your face.  "Have you ever?"

"Eaten pears?"  You wish you'd had a script to study before playing out this
scene.  It's like that Woody Allen movie, the one where the characters'
thoughts pop up on the bottom of the screen as they say entirely unrelated
things to each other.  Probably Annie Hall, you think, but it's been so long
you can't remember.

"Yeah," he says.  "Have you ever eaten a pear?"

"I don't like the texture," you say.  You sound defensive, and that annoys
you further.

"Maybe you're just not used to it.  How long has it been?"

That's *it.*  "Since I've eaten a pear, Mulder?  Or are we playing word
games here?"

"Come on, Scully, go with me here."  He is impatiently patient.  "How long?"

You are not at all patient.  "Fine.  It's been years."

"How many?"

"Don't push it, Mulder.  'Years' is all you're getting."

"Okay, so years, plural."  He tries not to smile.  "All right.  What's wrong
with the texture?"

You let him know you're irritated by releasing a loud sigh.  "They're ...
grainy," you tell him.  "Too soft.  I like them firm."  There.  Run with it,
you think.  Go ahead, Mulder, right here on my sofa.  Talk to me about
pears.

He doesn't miss a beat.  "You just haven't had the right one."

"Subtle," you say, rolling your eyes at him.  He deserves it.  "Maybe I've
found the perfect pear and still found it wanting.  Maybe--" you pause for
emphasis, "--I just don't like pears."

His eyebrows lift, and you can practically see visions of lesbians dancing
in his head.  Typical.

He manages to take the high road and stick to the subject at hand.  "But you
like the way they smell."  His voice is low.  "If it's just a texture
problem, then I think we can find you an acceptable pear, Scully."

You don't like all this talk about pears when there are no pears; there's
just you and Mulder, sitting on your couch discussing yourselves.  He's
talking in riddles, in circles, in covert clarity.  The metaphor is wearing
thin, and so is your patience.

Despite his arrogant words, you feel him wondering if he's acceptable, and
you wonder the same thing.  It's not that he's not good enough; he's plenty
good.  But 'good' isn't the same thing as 'acceptable.'  And 'acceptable'
doesn't only apply to him, but to you.  You're not ready.

Maybe you're too picky, you think; maybe you should try a pear again.  Damn,
he's sucked you in, the crafty bastard.  But he couldn't have planned this
exact attack; he had no way of knowing you'd be burning a pear-scented
candle tonight.  

When you emerge from your thoughts, you discover he's making his move,
literally.  He scoots closer, and puts his hand on your knee.  You both look
down; his fingers lightly scratch against the material and his palm warms
you through your jeans.  You shiver and hope he doesn't notice, but he has;
tonight he seems very sure of himself, firm and smooth, and you feel
yourself being drawn to him, annoying metaphor or not.  You struggle to stay
still, to not lean into him, but you know it will probably be futile.

"'Acceptable?'  Why should I settle for 'acceptable?'"

His hand stills and he releases a pained little sigh.  You've hurt his
feelings, but you won't explain yourself.  If he sees himself as merely an
'acceptable' mate for you, then he doesn't know what you're looking for.
You don't want acceptable.  If he's talking about sex and love and passion,
then that's exactly what you want in a man.  Not 'acceptable'; not
'suitable' or 'proper' or, God forbid, 'practical.'
  
After a moment he answers, and his voice is quiet and a bit lost.  "Who said
anything about settling, Scully?"  Definite hurt feelings.  He's studying
his shoes, and now it seems that if you want to try this pear you'll have to
do all the work.

"Mulder, have you noticed that pears always look bruised?"  That gets his
attention and he snaps up his head to look at you.  "There never seems to be
a perfect pear," you say.  "And I'm never sure just what I'm supposed to be
looking for.  I don't know whether you're supposed to squeeze them to test
for ripeness ... and there's a chance if I buy a pear, it'll sit on my
counter and then one day I'll look at it and it'll be overripe."  He looks
insulted, but you continue.  "I don't know how to treat a pear ... I don't
know if they go in the refrigerator or in a paper bag."

Mulder stares at you a moment too long and you're not sure what he sees;
you're not even sure what he's looking for.  It takes a moment for you to
realize that you've shocked him by stealing his metaphor.  Or maybe he's
surprised that you've revealed so much while ostensibly discussing fruit.

But you've already bought this pear, dammit, and it's been sitting on your
counter for years, so you'll try it, and if you don't like it, you'll go
back to oranges and apples and pineapples and plums.  Here goes nothing.

"Mulder, I don't want the pear to go to waste."

Now he just looks stunned.  Mulder probably thought, all these years, that
you were afraid of him; but you're not.  You're not afraid of yourself,
either.  Your fears are normal fears: you haven't been with a man in ages,
and none of your relationships have ended especially well.  You're out of
practice and don't want to end up working side by side with an ex-lover day
in and day out.  Never mind the fact that the last couple of men you've even
considered sleeping with have ended up starring in their very own X-files.

You calm yourself, quietly, inside, but you know the calm won't last long.
You look over at Mulder, who seems very nervous.  His unease only serves to
boost your confidence.  Now that your mind is made up, you are decidedly in
control, and your hand is steady as you reach over and slide the pad of your
index finger from Mulder's ear to the little indentation beneath his lower
lip.

"How--"  Mulder's voice comes out scratchy, and he clears his throat, but
you maintain contact with his skin, your fingers resting lightly on the side
of his neck.  "How's the texture?"

"It's a bit rough," you say quietly as your thumb rasps over the five
o'clock shadow on his chin.  "But I bet it's ripe on the inside."

Mulder blinks, then recovers quickly.  "You're probably right, Scully."  The
corners of his mouth curve upward.  "I bet it's perfectly ready to be
eaten."

You would have thought that Mulder would go with a less direct approach.
Then again, the two of you have never been in a situation quite like this
one, and your own approach this evening hasn't exactly been subtle.  But
after spending years with this man, you somehow knew a little nudge wouldn't
do the trick.  You've nudged before, and so has he, and you've always ended
up right back where you started.

It's clear this will not be the case tonight.

Your body follows the path your hand has already taken, and in a moment your
knee is touching his thigh, and your breasts are against his chest, and your
mouth is tasting his.  You take a tiny nibble of this pear at first, just a
taste, not breaking the surface of the skin, and it's fine, perfectly fine,
but not your favorite fruit.  Until you take a bigger bite, and find the
meat beneath.  

Ahhhh, this is more like it.  Sweeter than you'd suspected, not as gritty as
you thought, and you realize that it's true, that you hadn't eaten the right
pear before today.

This is the right pear.


** the end **

Note:  No metaphors were harmed in the writing of this story, and all
metaphor action was monitored by the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty
to Fanfic Readers.  Any resemblance to actual metaphors, living or dead, is
purely coincidental.

Beta thanks to:  Alicia K, Brandon Ray, Cofax, Diana Battis (thanks for the
stalks, you freak), Dreamshaper, M. Sebasky, Pebbles, Punk Maneuverability
(the spider web's gone, Punk!), Sabine, & shannono ... That might seem like
far too many beta readers for such a silly little story, but I've been
mulling it forever, it seems, and over a few months there have been a couple
of different incarnations of this story that I've gabbed about with all
these kind people.  (Sorry; the smutty incarnation fell by the wayside...)

Feedback is welcome at Lysandra@mediaone.net or Lysandra31@aol.com.