Title: Good Morning, Sunshine
Author: BJ Garrett
Pairing: Mulder/Doggett
Rating: PG-13 for adult situations, I guess, and references to underwear
Summary: Nausea and squishininess--could it be love?
Feedback: northernirony@yahoo.ca or allcanadiangirl@lycos.com
**--I need to know, for this story specifically, if the ending sucks. Just tell me, I can take it:)**
Disclaimer: 'The X-Files' and all related material are the sole property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions, and 20th Century FOX. If you want to pay for this, pay them, you fool.
Author's Note/Warning: This story is slash. That means it contains material of a sexual/romantic nature between two characters of the same sex, in this case Mulder and Doggett. If you don't like slash, don't read this. If you do anyway, don't complain to me, because I like slash, and you'll get no sympathy from me.
Good Morning, Sunshine
By BJ Garrett
The smell of coffee roused him sometime before dawn, but he rolled over and went back to sleep, hugging the blanket around himself, wallowing in the warmth of the bed. He'd forgotten how much heat two people in one bed created. Sounds--water rushing in a sink, the brisk hush of someone brushing their teeth, the closet door on a squeaky track opening and closing. All familiar, and yet not. He opened one eye and looked around, not in the least surprised at where he was, but very surprised that he'd stayed all night.
"I didn't mean to wake you, John," came that voice, imprinted on his memory now...he'd never be able to forget its rasp across his neck, shoulder, back. "You can go back to sleep."
He shook his head and surfaced, pushing the diaphanous comforter down so he could see. "What time is it?"
Crooked grin. Something inside him squished and flopped over. "Just after nine." Mulder finished buttoning his shirt and left the bedroom, leaving the door on the latch.
With a curse, Doggett fell off the bed and grabbed for clothing. He wasn't entirely sure what was his and what wasn't, but as long as it fit...
There were no underwear on the floor. None in sight. Feeling something approaching nausea, he tugged the comforter off the bed and looked in the sheets--under the pillows. Gone.
He eyed the dresser in the corner, but a wave of nausea roiled in his gut and he pulled on the dark trousers he'd found wrapped around a bedpost. As he walked into the adjoining bathroom, he wadded his shirt in his hand nervously. Only one toothbrush. Mouthwash would have to do. He swallowed some of the overly-minty green liquid and gargled with more, trying to fight the nausea swelling inside him.
Spitting out the foamy rinse, he caught his own eye in the mirror and shook his head at himself. He was tempted to wait until he got home to shave, but decided to go right to the office instead, and slapped on some of Mulder's generic cream with a trembling hand. While the razor scraped his jawline, he noticed a purple-ish red spot on his neck.
He leaned closer over the sink and surveyed the ovoid bruise with confusion. "Oh my God," he said slowly, realizing what it was. "A goddamn hickie."
The nausea overcame him and he spit a milky yellow gob of emptiness into the sink. Quickly, he finished shaving and washed the sink out, careful not to look at himself again.
As he entered the kitchen, fastening his cuffs with downcast eyes, Mulder said wryly, "Good morning, sunshine."
Searching in vain for his tie, Doggett muttered, "I think we should forget all about this."
"It's right here," Mulder replied, as if he hadn't heard, holding up the plain grey tie. "It was on the coat rack." Doggett looked over his shoulder at the coat rack. He didn't remember being anywhere near it. "You threw it."
Turning sharply, Doggett repeated, "I think we should forget all about this," and caught the tie as it was thrown back at him.
Again ignoring him, Mulder flipped four large pancakes onto a plate and pushed them across the counter to him. "Butter and syrup are on the table, John."
"Since when did you develop selective hearing, Mulder?" Doggett demanded, pushing the pancakes back and stuffing the tie in his pocket.
Pouring more batter onto the griddle, the other man shrugged. "I may have sustained some auditory damage last night--somebody kept screaming in my ear..."
The nausea pulled at his stomach again and Doggett spun away before he caused Mulder further 'auditory damage.' But he wasn't giving up. Mulder had to understand...last night wasn't an experience he wanted coming back to haunt him later in his life. Although it would, no matter what deal he struck this morning. "Just forget about it, okay?"
Mulder slapped the spatula on the counter. "Then you should probably fish your underwear out from behind my dresser. No reason to keep a spare pair here."
Heat crept up his neck as he put on his jacket and he forced himself not to think about how they may have got back there. He stalked into the bedroom and pulled the dresser away from the wall, bending to grab the jockeys from the hardwood floor.
When he emerged again a few moments later, Mulder grinned wolfishly. Doggett didn't even look at him, just made for his shoes, one of which was teetering on a lampshade. As he pulled them on angrily, Mulder said amiably, "Hey, it was just a joke--"
"It's not you I--" Doggett began, but clamped shut again, not fully understanding what it was he was trying to say. Some half-baked psychoanalysis was lurking in his mind, an explanation, an excuse. Something to quell his rebelling stomach.
Quirking an eyebrow, Mulder prompted, "Not me you what?"
He gestured vaguely, sitting at the dining table with one shoe untied.
"Punched? Kicked? What?"
The words came to him in a flood, and poured out before he could think of their ramifications. "Wanted to sleep with. I didn't want to sleep with you."
Rolling his eyes, Mulder picked up the spatula again. "Could've fooled me."
Doggett could think of no pride-saving response to that truth-filled statement, so he was silent. Mulder seemed consumed with the mountain of pancakes he was building. A crack about a Dutch army was on the tip of his tongue, held back only by the nausea climbing up his throat.
After a while, his shoe was still untied, and Mulder looked over at him curiously. "You're not going to reveal the identity of my rival?"
His eyes snapped up to Mulder's, eyebrows beetled. "Rival? What are you talking about? I thought you and--"
"Scully? Nah. You're way easier than Scully."
The nausea launched itself past his tonsils, but carried no substance, so he was left sitting stock-still, becoming slowly aware that the bubbling in his gut was really shame. There was nothing he could say to that. He could get up and walk out, but his shoe was still untied. His hands seemed dead, resting on his leg. They wouldn't move. The squish-flop thing hardened inside him and rocked back and forth painfully. It hadn't meant anything. Mulder had...what? Seduced him? And it meant nothing.
Seeing that Doggett was having trouble re-joining the living this morning, Mulder said gently, humourously, "That was another joke, John. Are you sure you don't want anything? Coffee, maybe?"
The everyday words brought him back to reality. A cold reality in which he'd done something very wrong and very stupid. "It wasn't funny."
"I gathered that," Mulder replied, bringing a mug of black coffee to him. He stared at the hand that held the mug, so lean and strong and--"You're cute when you're quiet, John, but--"
"Stop saying my name like that," he spat, taking the mug preemptively, splashing some of the hot beverage on his lap. He stoicly took the pain, refusing to even hiss a curse or put a hand over the spill.
Mulder grinned that lopsided grin again. The squishy thing inside him unhardened and somersaulted. "Like what?"
He tore his eyes away from the endearing smile and put his coffee on the table, tapping fingers beside it, trying hard not to cry from the pain of the burn on his leg. "Like--like...like we're lovers."
An incredulous silence filled the apartment. Only the harmonized hums of the fish tank and griddle broke it. There was not even the sound of traffic outside the window, or an altercation from the neighbours next door--who were understandably cranky this morning, seeing as they'd had no sleep. Again.
Finally Mulder cupped a hand around his chin and forched their eyes to meet. Still smiling, he said affectionately, "We are, moron."
The nausea flinched and died. Doggett closed his eyes and pulled away. He wasn't sure if he wanted that dubious distinction...what about his psychological explanation? Maybe he was just settling for the person closest to her...coupled with an unhealthy amount of frustration, and the book. It wasn't his fault. It was Mulder's fault. He took advantage...
"I didn't mean what I said about you being easy," the villain confessed, crouching in front of him. "If I asked, Scully would smile and say something witty about waiting until we're older on the way to the bedroom. You...months. And months. I kept thinking I'd made it clear, but I guess I'm more subtle than I thought."
He wanted to pretend he didn't hear, but the words were feeding the squishy thing, and it flopped again, sending a ripple of cautious acceptance to his brain. But he forced himself to think with a pang of Scully's devotion. The squishy thing rolled over the twinge of jealousy, killing it entirely. He couldn't have her. Another ripple of acceptance soothed that ache. "Yeah, right, subtle," he said, in an almost-joking voice.
Peering into Doggett's closed face, Mulder's smile turned tentative at the quip. "The last resort of a desperate man--porn."
A hesitant laugh escaped Doggett.
"You like that, eh?" he asked, gesturing toward the book, which was sprawled open on the floor near the coffee table, both covers lit in glorious technicolour by the early-morning sun.
Doggett shrugged non-committally, but Mulder knew somehow that his choice of reading homework had been well-received. He leaned back with a satisfied smile and tied Doggett's shoe deftly. "There. All set," Mulder said, patting the other man on the thighs when he was done.
Looking down into Mulder's warm, accepting, expecting eyes, he felt the squishy thing swell. He uncrossed his legs and waited for Mulder to get out of the way so he could stand up. But he stayed there, mischief adding an edge to his gaze when he realized Doggett's predicament. "Better get to the office, or Reyes will think you've been out somewhere you shouldn't be."
"No," Doggett replied, pushing the chair a couple of feet back and standing triumphantly. "She'll just think I'm dead. I don't go where I shouldn't be." A wide smile lit his normally cold features. He thought of the wounded feelings he'd had whenever Mulder and Scully were together around him...and decided it didn't matter who he was really jealous of, her or him. The squishy thing had made its choice.
Rising as well, Mulder put an arm around his shoulder and drew him close. "It's about time you realized that."
The End
Author: BJ Garrett
Pairing: Mulder/Doggett
Rating: PG-13 for adult situations, I guess, and references to underwear
Summary: Nausea and squishininess--could it be love?
Feedback: northernirony@yahoo.ca or allcanadiangirl@lycos.com
**--I need to know, for this story specifically, if the ending sucks. Just tell me, I can take it:)**
Disclaimer: 'The X-Files' and all related material are the sole property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions, and 20th Century FOX. If you want to pay for this, pay them, you fool.
Author's Note/Warning: This story is slash. That means it contains material of a sexual/romantic nature between two characters of the same sex, in this case Mulder and Doggett. If you don't like slash, don't read this. If you do anyway, don't complain to me, because I like slash, and you'll get no sympathy from me.
Good Morning, Sunshine
By BJ Garrett
The smell of coffee roused him sometime before dawn, but he rolled over and went back to sleep, hugging the blanket around himself, wallowing in the warmth of the bed. He'd forgotten how much heat two people in one bed created. Sounds--water rushing in a sink, the brisk hush of someone brushing their teeth, the closet door on a squeaky track opening and closing. All familiar, and yet not. He opened one eye and looked around, not in the least surprised at where he was, but very surprised that he'd stayed all night.
"I didn't mean to wake you, John," came that voice, imprinted on his memory now...he'd never be able to forget its rasp across his neck, shoulder, back. "You can go back to sleep."
He shook his head and surfaced, pushing the diaphanous comforter down so he could see. "What time is it?"
Crooked grin. Something inside him squished and flopped over. "Just after nine." Mulder finished buttoning his shirt and left the bedroom, leaving the door on the latch.
With a curse, Doggett fell off the bed and grabbed for clothing. He wasn't entirely sure what was his and what wasn't, but as long as it fit...
There were no underwear on the floor. None in sight. Feeling something approaching nausea, he tugged the comforter off the bed and looked in the sheets--under the pillows. Gone.
He eyed the dresser in the corner, but a wave of nausea roiled in his gut and he pulled on the dark trousers he'd found wrapped around a bedpost. As he walked into the adjoining bathroom, he wadded his shirt in his hand nervously. Only one toothbrush. Mouthwash would have to do. He swallowed some of the overly-minty green liquid and gargled with more, trying to fight the nausea swelling inside him.
Spitting out the foamy rinse, he caught his own eye in the mirror and shook his head at himself. He was tempted to wait until he got home to shave, but decided to go right to the office instead, and slapped on some of Mulder's generic cream with a trembling hand. While the razor scraped his jawline, he noticed a purple-ish red spot on his neck.
He leaned closer over the sink and surveyed the ovoid bruise with confusion. "Oh my God," he said slowly, realizing what it was. "A goddamn hickie."
The nausea overcame him and he spit a milky yellow gob of emptiness into the sink. Quickly, he finished shaving and washed the sink out, careful not to look at himself again.
As he entered the kitchen, fastening his cuffs with downcast eyes, Mulder said wryly, "Good morning, sunshine."
Searching in vain for his tie, Doggett muttered, "I think we should forget all about this."
"It's right here," Mulder replied, as if he hadn't heard, holding up the plain grey tie. "It was on the coat rack." Doggett looked over his shoulder at the coat rack. He didn't remember being anywhere near it. "You threw it."
Turning sharply, Doggett repeated, "I think we should forget all about this," and caught the tie as it was thrown back at him.
Again ignoring him, Mulder flipped four large pancakes onto a plate and pushed them across the counter to him. "Butter and syrup are on the table, John."
"Since when did you develop selective hearing, Mulder?" Doggett demanded, pushing the pancakes back and stuffing the tie in his pocket.
Pouring more batter onto the griddle, the other man shrugged. "I may have sustained some auditory damage last night--somebody kept screaming in my ear..."
The nausea pulled at his stomach again and Doggett spun away before he caused Mulder further 'auditory damage.' But he wasn't giving up. Mulder had to understand...last night wasn't an experience he wanted coming back to haunt him later in his life. Although it would, no matter what deal he struck this morning. "Just forget about it, okay?"
Mulder slapped the spatula on the counter. "Then you should probably fish your underwear out from behind my dresser. No reason to keep a spare pair here."
Heat crept up his neck as he put on his jacket and he forced himself not to think about how they may have got back there. He stalked into the bedroom and pulled the dresser away from the wall, bending to grab the jockeys from the hardwood floor.
When he emerged again a few moments later, Mulder grinned wolfishly. Doggett didn't even look at him, just made for his shoes, one of which was teetering on a lampshade. As he pulled them on angrily, Mulder said amiably, "Hey, it was just a joke--"
"It's not you I--" Doggett began, but clamped shut again, not fully understanding what it was he was trying to say. Some half-baked psychoanalysis was lurking in his mind, an explanation, an excuse. Something to quell his rebelling stomach.
Quirking an eyebrow, Mulder prompted, "Not me you what?"
He gestured vaguely, sitting at the dining table with one shoe untied.
"Punched? Kicked? What?"
The words came to him in a flood, and poured out before he could think of their ramifications. "Wanted to sleep with. I didn't want to sleep with you."
Rolling his eyes, Mulder picked up the spatula again. "Could've fooled me."
Doggett could think of no pride-saving response to that truth-filled statement, so he was silent. Mulder seemed consumed with the mountain of pancakes he was building. A crack about a Dutch army was on the tip of his tongue, held back only by the nausea climbing up his throat.
After a while, his shoe was still untied, and Mulder looked over at him curiously. "You're not going to reveal the identity of my rival?"
His eyes snapped up to Mulder's, eyebrows beetled. "Rival? What are you talking about? I thought you and--"
"Scully? Nah. You're way easier than Scully."
The nausea launched itself past his tonsils, but carried no substance, so he was left sitting stock-still, becoming slowly aware that the bubbling in his gut was really shame. There was nothing he could say to that. He could get up and walk out, but his shoe was still untied. His hands seemed dead, resting on his leg. They wouldn't move. The squish-flop thing hardened inside him and rocked back and forth painfully. It hadn't meant anything. Mulder had...what? Seduced him? And it meant nothing.
Seeing that Doggett was having trouble re-joining the living this morning, Mulder said gently, humourously, "That was another joke, John. Are you sure you don't want anything? Coffee, maybe?"
The everyday words brought him back to reality. A cold reality in which he'd done something very wrong and very stupid. "It wasn't funny."
"I gathered that," Mulder replied, bringing a mug of black coffee to him. He stared at the hand that held the mug, so lean and strong and--"You're cute when you're quiet, John, but--"
"Stop saying my name like that," he spat, taking the mug preemptively, splashing some of the hot beverage on his lap. He stoicly took the pain, refusing to even hiss a curse or put a hand over the spill.
Mulder grinned that lopsided grin again. The squishy thing inside him unhardened and somersaulted. "Like what?"
He tore his eyes away from the endearing smile and put his coffee on the table, tapping fingers beside it, trying hard not to cry from the pain of the burn on his leg. "Like--like...like we're lovers."
An incredulous silence filled the apartment. Only the harmonized hums of the fish tank and griddle broke it. There was not even the sound of traffic outside the window, or an altercation from the neighbours next door--who were understandably cranky this morning, seeing as they'd had no sleep. Again.
Finally Mulder cupped a hand around his chin and forched their eyes to meet. Still smiling, he said affectionately, "We are, moron."
The nausea flinched and died. Doggett closed his eyes and pulled away. He wasn't sure if he wanted that dubious distinction...what about his psychological explanation? Maybe he was just settling for the person closest to her...coupled with an unhealthy amount of frustration, and the book. It wasn't his fault. It was Mulder's fault. He took advantage...
"I didn't mean what I said about you being easy," the villain confessed, crouching in front of him. "If I asked, Scully would smile and say something witty about waiting until we're older on the way to the bedroom. You...months. And months. I kept thinking I'd made it clear, but I guess I'm more subtle than I thought."
He wanted to pretend he didn't hear, but the words were feeding the squishy thing, and it flopped again, sending a ripple of cautious acceptance to his brain. But he forced himself to think with a pang of Scully's devotion. The squishy thing rolled over the twinge of jealousy, killing it entirely. He couldn't have her. Another ripple of acceptance soothed that ache. "Yeah, right, subtle," he said, in an almost-joking voice.
Peering into Doggett's closed face, Mulder's smile turned tentative at the quip. "The last resort of a desperate man--porn."
A hesitant laugh escaped Doggett.
"You like that, eh?" he asked, gesturing toward the book, which was sprawled open on the floor near the coffee table, both covers lit in glorious technicolour by the early-morning sun.
Doggett shrugged non-committally, but Mulder knew somehow that his choice of reading homework had been well-received. He leaned back with a satisfied smile and tied Doggett's shoe deftly. "There. All set," Mulder said, patting the other man on the thighs when he was done.
Looking down into Mulder's warm, accepting, expecting eyes, he felt the squishy thing swell. He uncrossed his legs and waited for Mulder to get out of the way so he could stand up. But he stayed there, mischief adding an edge to his gaze when he realized Doggett's predicament. "Better get to the office, or Reyes will think you've been out somewhere you shouldn't be."
"No," Doggett replied, pushing the chair a couple of feet back and standing triumphantly. "She'll just think I'm dead. I don't go where I shouldn't be." A wide smile lit his normally cold features. He thought of the wounded feelings he'd had whenever Mulder and Scully were together around him...and decided it didn't matter who he was really jealous of, her or him. The squishy thing had made its choice.
Rising as well, Mulder put an arm around his shoulder and drew him close. "It's about time you realized that."
The End