AUTHOR: Isahunter (Isahunter@aol.com)
RATING: R
CATEGORY: V, MSR
SPOILERS: Up to Triangle, S6
ARCHIVE: Yes, with my name and addy attached
FEEDBACK: Yes, please!
DISCLAIMER: These characters aren't mine. They belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox. I'm making no money on this (damn!) and this is only written out of respect.
SUMMARY: Scully reflects on her partnership with Mulder.
This one's for Diadem, one of my favorite writers. Who could have asked for a better friend? Thanks, babe!
I want a real man.
I don't mean some beer-guzzling, belching, football-watching loser. I want a real man. I want a man who can carry a gun with as much style as some men carry their briefcases. I want a man who can take down a scumball with as much finesse as he shows when he opens the door for me. I want a man who can, with one look, tell me exactly what he's thinking...even if it makes me blush. I want the man who's looking at me now.
As he reaches to put our belongings in the airplane's overhead compartment, I get a great glimpse of his taut stomach over his low-slung slacks. Instead of his usual well-tailored suit and tie, he is wearing a dark gray cashmere sweater and matching wool pants. His sweater rides up with the reach of his arms, baring his hair-sprinkled abdomen. I lick my lips as my gaze shifts from his enticing belly-button to the erotic slope of his hip bones. His flesh is dark, swarthy, and I imagine it must taste so tangy. God, it is all I can do to force myself to look away.
He lowers himself into the seat next to me, trying to stretch his long legs beneath the chair in front of him. The smell of his soap--of *him*--hits me, more intoxicating than any drug. I cross my legs, desperately trying to hide the fact that my thighs are shaking.
I want a real man.
I want a man who can talk to me about the most absurd of things, as if we're having an intellectual conversation. I want a man who can make me laugh even when I'm cold and miserable, even when I want to strangle him for dragging me out into the middle of nowhere. I want a man who can convincingly argue the cinematic brilliance of porno movies, and why they should be honored by the Society for Film Preservation. I want a man who can turn any disagreement into the most stimulating of foreplay.
And he wonders why I never agree with his theories.
I want a man who will treat me as his equal, and still respect me as a lady. A man who places his hand on the small of my back, escorting me like a gentleman, never realizing just how much I love his touch. I want a man who knows how to seduce me without even trying, whose husky whisper can make my knees weak, who has no idea just how sexy he really is.
Or maybe he does.
As he sits next to me, innocently reading his book, I wonder if he's aware that the heat of his thigh is burning against mine. I wonder if he knows that the subtle shift of his leg against mine makes me want to straddle his thighs and kiss him senseless.
He nearly kissed me once before. If it hadn't been for an unfortunate mishap, we might have been lovers by now. Instead, we both pretend as if it never happened. I wouldn't be surprised if he thought I'd forgotten about the incident entirely. He sure seems to have. But I could never forget it. That wild, primal look in his eyes. As if he could've taken me, right there in the hallway. Sometimes, when he thinks I don't notice, I see him looking at me like that in the office. Like he wants to shove everything off his desk and ravish me. I would welcome it.
We are the best of friends. Partners. Mates, in more than one sense of the word. But not the way I'd like it to be. Not the way I need it to be. He has made love to me countless times before, but only in my head. I think he is afraid of going beyond that. Yes, this man of mine feels fear. He's looked downright petrified several times, because of me. Love and death...I can't imagine two things Fox Mulder fears more. Well, maybe fire. But considering the past few months, he's had good reason. Anger is no stranger to this man either, and I'm not ashamed to say that sometimes it's directed at me. Sometimes I deserve it. But I'm not the type of woman to cower in the face of his rage. Sometimes, having all that passion directed at you is a bit exciting.
He's not perfect, but that's not what I asked for. I said I wanted a real man. You can't get much more real than this.
As the distracting sound of my heel tapping on the floor tears him away from his book, he places his hand over my thigh and stills my leg. Hell, that just makes me shake even more--in different places. He knows I don't like to fly, and he's just trying to comfort me, I tell myself. But it doesn't stop me from imagining that beautifully formed hand sliding even higher. From willing those elegant fingers of his to tease me into ecstasy. I can't tear my gaze away. As he keeps reading, he barely seems to notice. Doesn't it affect him at all?
With a savage bite to my lip, I stare out the window. Nothing but clouds and blue skies. Nothing to distract me. I try to swallow, but there's a knot in my throat. The air is becoming too heavy to breathe.
He's not the only one who's been caught staring before. I often find myself staring at his athletic body, my eyes landing on his crotch. I try to tell myself it means nothing. I'm a doctor, after all, it's only natural to be concerned with the human body. God, what a lie. The only thing concerning me at the time is what he looks like under those clothes. I've seen him naked before. But never aroused. Even the sight of him wearing those black silk boxers is enough to get my mind spinning. What would he feel like inside me? Would he scream at orgasm, or muffle his cries against my neck as he spilled himself inside of me?
Sadly, I'll never know.
But *she* knows. Diana knows what it's like to be made love to by my partner--and so do several other women I've met over the years, but none of them ever sparked so much of my jealousy as Diana Fowley. What is her hold over him? What makes him judiciously defend her, even when she betrays him? Why do I hate that bitch so much?
As I feel his fingers contract around the muscles of my thigh, I know exactly why I hate her. Because when he did this to her, he really meant it. He flirts with me, he drives me crazy, he tells me we were meant for each other, and he's even proposed marriage. But he's always teasing. He never really means it. Not even when he tells me he loves me. God, I wish he'd say it to me the way he once said it to her.
No, that's not true.
I wish he'd say it to me the way he never said it to her--like he's finally found heaven. Like no one else could ever come between us. And no one ever could, I tell myself. He's mine. And I won't let her have him.
I want a real man.
I want a man who can bare his soul to me, leave himself raw and vulnerable, and have the faith that I will catch him when he falls. I want a man that will trust me to stand by his side to the end of the world. I want a man that will fight his way through hell itself to be by my side. I want a man who believes so strongly in his convictions, and is so persuasive in his reasoning, he can convince me to follow him to the far corners of the earth.
I want a man whose every little touch, every glance, carries more meaning than a million Hallmark cards. A man who has no need for flowers and fancy gifts, because his actions speak louder than presents ever could.
I want a man who knows me better than I know myself. Who can make me see things no one else can. A man who can make me so very angry, I don't know whether to hit him or kiss him. I want I man I don't have to be afraid to be weak before. A man who will hold me tenderly, and soothe away all my fears, with as much intensity as uses when questioning suspects.
Sometimes, I imagine waking up in his arms. I imagine his ring on my finger, his heart in my hands. Sometimes, I think too much.
After a while, he moves his hand back to the arm rest and I shiver at the loss of his touch. The loss of his heat. I'm suddenly so unbearably cold I can't stand it. I lean closer, trying to absorb some of his warmth through the sleeve of his sweater. He seems to sense what I need and wraps his arm around me, guiding my head to his shoulder. The best of friends. He is what I need, what I want. What I have to have. The air I breathe. The man I love...and he will never know.
He moves his lips to my temple, causing me to shudder, placing a gentle kiss to my hair. And as he whispers in my ear, "Hey, Scully, ever think about joining the Mile High Club?" I laugh uncontrollably.
I want *this* man. And maybe, if I'm lucky, he wants me too.
END.
Comments appreciated: Isahunter@aol.com