AUTHOR: TinkaW
EMAIL: tinka@canoemail.com
RATING: R
CLASSIFICATION: V, MSR (UST?)
DISCLAIMER: If I owned them, would I be doing this?
My first finished attempt after many false starts. This is *not* songfic, but was inspired by the awesome "Roadtrip" song by Tim Finn. Check him out. This is dedicated to the small unfinished stories on my harddisk - should I bother to finish them? Feedback, please!
***
"Travelling the open road,
Hands on the wheel,
Can I be dreaming?
'Cos when I felt you staring I knew I wasn't lost"
- "Roadtrip", Tim Finn.
***
I have never seen him this silent. Usually, even when he is not speaking, words radiate from him. His body spells out his emotions, even if his mouth does not. His fingers create sentences that only I can read. His breath is a poem. His eyes are my books. He is my language. He is silent tonight. Even though I often act as if I am oblivious to him and his words, I am constantly reading, constantly turning a page. I want him to speak to me. We are driving home after a long week in Nowhere, Arkansas. Just a couple more hours behind the wheel for me and we'll be at the airport. I turn my head to look at him. It is dark outside and every time we pass a street lamp it briefly casts light on his head. That dear head. I catch myself reaching out to brush a lock away from his brow. Oops. Do not go there, Dana K. Scully. Keep your eyes on the road, there's a good girl. I smile at myself and just as the silence becomes too loud, I hear his breath. Ah, here we go. The Mulder poem.
He does not know, I am sure, but I often fake sleep just so I can hear him hum under his breath as he drives. He does not sing too well, nor am I particularly fond of Elvis or The Boss, but I feel safe and happy when I hear him hum. It drives me mad too, because I cannot help wondering - does he hum in the shower too? Sometimes I've tip-toed into his motel room and listened at the door, but apart from the times I've caught him moaning, I've never heard anything. He never hums driving when I'm awake, so I'm left wondering whether he hums ever so quietly just to let my subconscious know that he is still there beside me. Ha, Mulder. As if I weren't always aware of you being by my side. One day I'll tell you, promise.
Hey, he is turning his head now. Looks like I am not the only one to fake sleep. I smile briefly and ask him if he'd like some coffee and a quick snack. I believe there is a diner coming up soon. He nods and starts talking about the case. I nod the right places, while I secretly pay attention to the way his hands are moving frantically as he recounts a particularly interesting [insert obligatory Mulderish paranormal gibberish here] aspect of the case. I even remember to shake my head a couple of times as we are parking in front of a really seedy looking diner. His hands are wonderful, they really are. For a man his size, they are not very big, but they are graceful and strong. I harbour quite a few fantasies about his hands and me. One of my current favourites is the one where he has made a mess of himself eating and I clean up his hands sucking .. hmm .. mocha-laced whipped cream or perhaps cherry ice cream .. off his fingers. I would slowly curl my tongue around his finger, slide my tongue up and down before applying my mouth. Oh yeah. That's a good one. Obviously, his fingers would not be the only thing I'd be sucking. I am licking my lips as I realise that he is standing outside waiting for me to step out of the car. He gently enquires whether I'm tired and if he should drive the last miles to Little Rock Airport. I shake my head and say something stupid about needing coffee. Ooops, Dana K. Scully, you have just been reduced to a shivering bundle of nerves by fantasizing about your *partner's* fingers. Hm, wouldn't be the first time today.
***
She is tired and should not try to pull wool over my eyes, that little wonder woman that I call my partner. I have been spying on her for the past 30 minutes and boy, oh, boy, she has been zoning out a lot. No, not the kind of zoning out where I have to fear that an accident will happen. No, not my little Scully-girl. She knows what she is doing. I am just worried about her and of course she refuses to hand over the wheel. Feisty little thing. But she is tired. I saw those glassy eyes of hers just a minute ago when she sat in the car outside the diner. Diner. Uhmm, coffee. Hopefully they will have a couple of not-too-gross muffins that Scully might just want to throw herself at. Coffee and a muffin. Perhaps that is a good analogy as far as Scully is concerned, I muse as I hold the door for her. Life-supporting, just like coffee, and something I'm just dying to bite into.. Wait! Hold it, Spooky Boy! That ain't no way to think about your gun-welding, overly tired partner. I cannot hide a smile as we sit down at a table by the door, Scully and I. I've had this discussion with my naughty side before, and he always wins. That Spooky Pervert. Uhmmm.. biting into Scully's tender.. Whoops.
A waitress comes waltzing over and I smile politely. Okay, I turn on the old Mulder charm. She is at least 50 years old, and her jet-black haired looks like a wig, but Scully needs coffee and I need to keep Scully satisfied (Down you Spooky Pervert!). So I ooze charm as I order two coffees - one black and one with one cream, plus two chocolate chip muffins. Scully is scowling a bit. I hope the Cher-wannabe-waitress shows up with our coffees and muffins real soon. My red-haired goddess needs caffeine and sugar. Her hands are fidgeting and she is flexing her neck. Oh, we need to get back home to D.C. She needs her bed (and I need her bed too, but that's another matter). I look around to see what the waitress is doing. Scully obviously thinks I'm afraid we'll miss our plane and softly assures me. Oh baby, I'm not thinking of our flight. I'm just thinking of making you happy.
Finally two big coffees are placed on the table, and a second later they are joined by two plates with muffins. I sigh with relief, but realise quickly that things have gone from almost neutral to really bad. Scully is drinking coffee. I look down at my own cup, but I can still hear her. Hear her lips close around the edge of the cup. Hear her happy sigh as the coffee meets her taste buds. I look up - bad move. Her eyes are closed, her head is thrown slightly back and I can see her throat working as she swallows the coffee. All I can think of is how she'd taste if I were to kiss her right there and then. All I have to do is to just lean slightly across the table and brush my lips against hers. Then hopefully she'd open her mouth ever so slightly and my tongue would slip in. My taste buds would be greeted with a taste of dark, bitter, strong coffee, smooth, sinful cream, and the delicate taste that I'm sure *is* Scully. I'd lick her tongue real good just to feel its texture and after a while of intense French-kissing, I'd suck on her sexy lower lip for a fraction of a second before licking down her neck. Heck, I want to *be* the coffee. I want caress her lips with a scalding hot sensation before floating into her mouth. I want to swirl around her mouth, kiss the roof of her mouth before being swallowed by her, and swim down her throat. I want to dissolve into atoms (I'm not sure about the process, and I don't think asking Scully is a good idea) and flow with the blood-stream out to the tip of her toe. I have completely forgotten all about my own coffee and do not realise that Scully has opened her eyes, before I hear her voice asking me if I am okay. I quickly bite into my muffin and then look at Scully's face. She sips some more coffee and makes this tiny happy sound that I wish I would get the Guys to make me a .wav-version of for my computer at home. Sick thought. Just as sick as the time I pictured getting a Scully-themed desktop. I had it all figured out. A great Scully-picture as a wall paper. A coffee-cup , some surgeon-knife , latex-gloves and cell-phone icons. Woo Hoo. Mind you, I dismissed the idea when I realised that she often came over and worked using my computer. Too bad.
**
Perhaps he was not faking sleep in the car earlier. He definitely looks dazed now. This week has been tough on him. He hasn't been sleeping too well. He woke me up two nights ago at 3 a.m. to ask me whether I would like to play Scrabble. His mind was on overload. Of course I refused. Playing Scrabble with him is akin to committing suicide with a plastic spoon: it is slow and painful. Instead we sat discussing the case and he began to wind down. He still has dark rings under his eyes. I know Mulder will fall asleep on the plane though. He always does.
I wave the waitress over to our table, and quickly pay for our small indulgence before Mulder has a chance to say anything. We're going home, darling. He follows me to the car without protesting. He is still eating his muffin. Wait, it must be my muffin he has nicked. Scumbag. I feel like wiping the crumbs off his chin, but start the engine instead. It is tempting though. I could just wipe my tongue across his chin and then put on my Mona Lisa face before he could react. In his condition, he'd think he was hallucinating anyway. He stuffs his mouth with the rest of the muffin and crawl into the car. His trousers tighten briefly as he sits down and I catch a tiny, but exhilarating glimpse of his well-toned thigh. One shouldn't think that I was a federal agent in her mid-thirties. I am behaving like a teenager - well, actually the teenage version of me would be sitting across his lap rocking against his erection and sucking his earlobe. Or something less constrained. But that is not the point. Dana K. Scully, you are sex-crazed. Or rather Mulder-crazed. Same thing.
Suddenly without warning he turns on the radio. The reception isn't very good and it interrupts my thoughts. It plays soft jazz, which is usually nice to listen to late at night with a fire going and a bottle of red wine. Instead I am sitting in a tiny, ugly car late at night on a road in Arkansas with my drop-dead sexy partner sitting next to me. I am not sure which scenario I prefer, which I suppose says a lot about my state of mind. I turn off the radio again, and he does not seem to mind. He stretches slowly (how he is able to do that with those long legs of his in such a tiny car as this is beyond me) and I keep my eyes fixed on the road.
"We'll be there in less than an hour, Mulder", I say.
"Yeah?", he replies softly. It is just a tiny fraction more than a breath, but remember I'm a skilled Mulder-reader.
"Yeah, so if you want to doze off for a while, you can", I offer.
"I'd rather be watching you drive."
As I turn my head, I find him looking at me with warm glow in his eyes. Without thinking, I reach out and brush the crumbs off Mulder's chin with my thumb. And as we travel down the road, I let his eyes tell me a story.
*************