From: Jaime Lyn Date: 5 Apr 2003 15:34:40 -0800 Subject: NEW: Anti-Domestic Disturbance Source: atxc Title: Anti-Domestic Disturbance Author: Jaime Lyn Keywords: UST Spoilers: Post-Arcadia Email: UCFGuardgirl@aol.com or Leiaj21@hotmail.com Disclaimer: I own everything - seriously, including Chris Carter. That's right. I made him up. What, did you think he was real? Oh, okay okay, I own nothing. Jeez. Tough crowd. Author's Note: Short meaningless fluffy UST. Thanks to Sybs at the Haven for challenging us authors to get up off our asses and write from time to time. ----- Anti-Domestic Disturbance By Jaime Lyn ---- She was asleep. Asleep, with green slime smeared over her face. And a terrycloth headband pressing hair back from the slime, and that thing over her eyes - what the hell was that? Captain Hook's eye patch from the Victoria Secret's catalogue? - and she looked like some mutant housewife from Planet Zurgtron, where the olive skinned people lived and snored and slept with unattractive eye patches. And yet. And yet and yet and yet... Mulder still wanted to kiss that slime off his partner's face - snap back the headband and toss off the eye patch, and just…just fuck her until her toes curled like brightly colored elvish shoes and her skin went all pink - scarlet all the way up to that ugly headband - Jesus. Fox Mulder: the official poster boy for criminal dementia. Gun hanging at his side, Mulder watched his stilled partner, head cocked, as if he'd never before seen a human female. With shattered rectangles of light cutting across her face, the facial goo took on a life of its own - the bumpy, alighted plane of Mars, or the uneven slope of a mossy hill at twilight. Bizarre, that. One hand splayed above her head, palm up. The top button of her pajamas teased the skin of her collarbone. It was sexy in a twisted, wicked witch of the west sort of way, and slightly terrifying because her face seemed to have its own land elevation. Mulder wondered whether the goo had hardened, cemented, like clay. What if he were to poke at the more mountainous regions and - "For crying out loud, Mulder, you're annoying the hell out of me." Startled, Mulder jumped - knocked over a perfectly good lamp. "Christ, you're awake?" he said, balancing himself between a chair and the night table, holding the lamp with one hand and his bruised thigh and half-loaded gun with the other. "How did you know I was in here? You've blindfolded yourself." Scully rubbed her forehead. "The correct term is comfort mask." "Comfort? Don't they put those things on inmates before a firing squad?" "It's five am, Mulder. Did you need something?" Oh...nothing. He was only watching his goo-glamoured partner snoring at five in the morning and imagining fucking her and this had to be a crime in at least forty-eight states and perhaps somewhere in the Bureau Regulations Handbook... What was he going to say again? "Mulder? You've been standing there for ten minutes." Good grief, the woman had inhuman radar. Mulder stuck out his tongue, pleased that she couldn't see. Damn it, what was he going to say? Ah, yes. "I heard a noise." Which sounded so much better in his head. "You heard a noise," said Scully, dully. "And you came in here to what? Hide under the bed?" She snorted to herself, as if pleased with this tease, and turned over without removing her blindfold. "It was just the dryer. You heard the dryer, Mulder. It apparently makes some sort of groaning noise. I washed your shirt. Now go to sleep." Scully did what? "You put my shirt in the dryer?" Mulder groaned, and set the lamp down on the table. "But it'll shrink. You're going to shrink my shirt. " With a melodramatic sigh he turned to the door, disgusted for having gotten up in the first place, and annoyed for entertaining the idea of fucking her cross-eyed when she'd been busy shrinking his best shirts. He added, "If I wanted my shirts shrunk, I'd wash them myself." "I'll keep that in mind next time we're fake-married," she said. "Go to sleep." Mulder shook his head, remembering suddenly what was stranger than his shirts being shrunk. "Why would you wash my shirt?" "It was just something to do, I guess. I don't know. You were asleep, and your shirt was on the floor. I didn't want to wake you." Mulder gazed at her - well, gazed at her backside, and frowned, confused. "You got up in the middle of the night to wash my shirt?" She shifted slightly, strained her neck so he could see her face. Her eyes were covered. That damned eye patch. Her lips gave nothing away, nothing beyond the words, "I couldn't sleep." "It's a strange thing to do when you can't sleep, Scully." Finally, she smiled. "It is, isn't it?" A pause. Her green slimy skin shone under such mellow light. The bumps and crevices were starting to creep him out. "I got up, sat with you for awhile," admitted green-coated Scully. "You'd lost your blanket. You looked cold…" She'd sat with him? He tried to remember, but couldn't. "You and your shirt," she went on, affectionately, "both of you just lying there in a heap." "You're a shirt murderer," he said. "You do realize this. It's a good thing you didn't put me in the dryer." "I'm not good with laundry," she admitted. Her red hair glistened, skittered across her forehead in pieces. God, that red hair. Mulder nodded. "Me neither." Satisfied - although with what, exactly, Mulder had no idea - he grabbed the doorknob to leave. "Sorry I woke you," he said. "Goodnight, Scully." "Do you want it ironed, too?" Mulder turned, and found Scully grinning madly. The hardened slime at the corners of her mouth crumbled, and the craters on her cheeks split in two. He was both amused and disturbed to realize he still wanted to fuck her, headband and goo and eyepatch and sixth sense and all - and mainly because of, and not in spite of, her beautiful wickedness. His left eyebrow rose. "You mean, do I want you to burn my shrunken t-shirt?" "Oh, I wouldn't burn it." She shrugged. "Put a hole in it, maybe." Mulder smiled. "You suck at domesticity. You really do. The level of suckage is simply abysmal, Scully" A spurt of giggle from her - staccato, genuine, beautiful. "Believe it or not, I suck at a lot of things, Mulder." "Promises, promises." Mulder felt warmed, and hoped to God Scully would be unable to sleep again. Scully - his green-faced, shirt murdering, wickedly non-domestic goddess of scalpels and semi-automatics and everything hell-cat, her melodic voice never staid, never boring, never, "Mulder, dinner's ready," but rather, "Mulder, you're parked in my space again, and if you don't move your car I'll fucking shoot a hole through your tires." Who needed a wife when you had that? "I'll be on the couch," said Mulder. "If you feel like shrinking any more shirts...or, you know. Whatever." "I'll keep that in mind," she said, softly. Mulder took a deep breath, opened the door, and shut it back behind himself without another word. He paused in the dark hallway, and smiled, thinking of Scully covered in slime, each and every night for the rest of his life. "I hope so," he said, imagining the two of them stuck together on the couch, clinging face to face by the goo on her chinny-chin-chin. "God, I hope so." Eventually, he thought, in that five-am sort of insane sleeplessness, they'd both have to get out of the car. --- END Fun stuff? Yes? No? let me know!