From: MystPhile@aol.com Date: Fri, 5 Nov 1999 13:28:11 EST Subject: xfc: NEW: (Ellen) Fine Arts (1 of 2) by MystPhile, MSR--R Source: xfc From: MystPhile@aol.com TITLE: (Ellen) Fine Arts 1/2 AUTHOR: MystPhile@aol.com Distribution: Gossamer, Ephemeral, Spooky, Xemplary. Others, please ask. Summary: Scully and Mulder visit an art exhibition of male nudes. Continuation of (Ellen) Naked Truths. Classification: S, H, MSR Rating: R Spoilers: Slight for Bad Blood Disclaimer: Not mine Feedback: Yes, please Webpage, courtesy of Beaker: http://members.xoom.com/MystPhile/ NOTE: This is for those who requested a sequel to Naked Truths. It is not a part of my "normal" Ellen universe, which follows canon. (Why should I follow canon anyway? This way I can be like CC.) Further notes at end. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< Dead Woman Walking, Scully thought. That's what pedestrians should be calling out as she marched down the street beside Mulder, growing ever nearer to the art gallery. The one with the exhibit of male nudes she and Ellen had drooled over at lunchtime. And impulsively, in a quasi-dare, she had invited Mulder to see. She might have known he would accept the challenge. Didn't he always? Scully interrupted her glum thoughts to ponder what Ellen would say about this. Her friend's words, arriving immediately, echoed through her mind so clearly that she glanced around to make sure Ellen wasn't tailing them, darting from mailbox to wastebasket, hissing out nuggets of wisdom whenever she swooped close. Sometimes, Ellen was like the voice of God to Scully. Whatever nonsense she was entertaining, Ellen, in 25 words or less, would lay bare her foolishness and send her hurtling back to reality, head once again screwed on straight. Ellen did not disappoint; she seldom did. Hey, Dana, Scully heard her hiss, in a voice that combined equal amounts of amusement and concern. You are not marrying the guy. You're looking at a few pictures with the same man you spend most of your waking hours with. So what's the big deal? That they're nudes? Scully answered her timidly. That we're going to stand around staring at penises. That we could get into a discussion of sexuality? HOW old are you? Ellen's voice pounded into her head. Scully cringed, realizing that, as usual, the Ellen Inner Voice spoke the truth: She had regressed to adolescence. Maybe that was one of the effects nudes had on people. At lunch, she and Ellen had acted like two snickering teenagers--young ones--at a dirty movie rather than a forensic pathologist and a long-married woman. Mulder, in the meantime, had noticed Scully's cringe. "What's wrong?" Scully resolved to act like a grownup. After all, in her initial panic, she'd rationalized that viewing unclothed people might somehow bring more openness into her relationship with Mulder. "Nothing's wrong, Mulder. I was just thinking about nudity." He looked down, then took her arm as the light changed. "What about it?" Scully shrugged, then told herself that was the act of an inarticulate teenager, not an overly articulate pathologist. "I spend maybe an average of six days a month dealing with unclothed bodies. And a lot of the time, when we go to a crime scene, the victim is exposed." She glanced up at Mulder. "I was thinking of the differences between nudity as part of our work, and the naked body as a work of art." "There are other functions for naked bodies, Scully." Scully shot him a glance. "You mean keeping people warm in sleeping bags?" she temporized. She wanted them to move things along, but when things moved too fast, she panicked. Maybe, she reflected, that's why Mulder chose mothmen over my wine and cheese. We can't spring these things on each other. We have established patterns, and if we try to change them without warning, the other one runs. Maybe we're more alike than I thought. "Warm, yeah, and other things, *Doctor* Scully." He waggled his brows at her, bringing a smile in return. For once, they appeared to be on the same page. Amazing, she thought. "Here it is," she gestured. They stood outside for a moment, peering through the windows. Now that it was after six, both men and women milled about--many couples, but also what appeared to be unaccompanied men. "At noon," she told him, "there wasn't a male in this place." "We come out after dark," he murmured, guiding her inside. "Like vampires. Wait," he said. "Strike that. I don't want to get into that case again. I've had my fill of them for a while." He gestured toward the displays. "Which ones did you like?" "We just looked at a few, actually. We were on our way to lunch." Scully, taking a different route than she'd taken at noon, stopped so suddenly she left toe tracks in the expensive carpet. Transfixed at the sight of a sculpture she hadn't noticed before, she studied it for a moment, then burst into laughter. It was about six feet high and six feet wide, composed of a gleaming black material. A figure straddled a horse-like creature, although it was a somewhat abstract horse with a stubby tail, a hint of a mane, and a skinny, ill-defined head. The figure was also devoid of much detail. He was of short stature, his gaze-- though his head too lacked definition--was directed upward, and he was sporting an enormous erection, given his other proportions. His stiffly-sculpted member nearly paralleled the back of the horse, although it had a slight upward slant while the horse's back was horizontal. The tip of the penis was quite thick and slightly more defined than the rest of the statue. "I didn't see him until now," Scully said. "He's really, uh, something." "This is a copy of a piece that's outside a museum in Venice. This guy actually spends all his time overlooking the canal." Mulder laughed. "Maybe that's what gives him the hard-on." "There's something so . . . exuberant about him," Scully said. "With everything pointing skyward, as it were." She looked around and noticed that everyone looking at the statue was smiling. "He makes everyone happy." "And all he's got is his horse and his hard-on," Mulder commented. "Wonder what he has to be so damned turned on about." "Well, these are all lone male nudes, as far as I know." She gestured to the right. "This is the stuff we looked at earlier. I liked the one in the David pose." She led him through the crowd. "Michelangelo's David, I suppose," Mulder said into her ear. "I somehow doubt that Donatello's David is exactly your thing." Scully swiveled. "Who are you and what have you done with my partner? Suddenly, you've switched from porn king to art critic? And I thought you didn't like to look at male nudes." Mulder placed a soothing hand on her shoulder. Unfortunately, that wasn't quite the way his touch affected Scully. It carried the charge of a cattle prod. Surrounded by nudes, he had to *touch* her? Cruel and unusual punishment. Oblivious to his effect, Mulder said, "I didn't say I didn't like to look at male nudes. I said that a straight guy feels awkward looking at them in public." "You? Who will sit in front of official panels and set forth the most outlandish theories? 'So, sir, the alien extracted the liver from the man in the moon and that's why we never see a full moon any more.' Please, Mulder." Show him his touch is not curling your hair, Scully told herself. Keep arguing so he won't suspect the effect he's having on you. And why now? she wondered. Because of their surroundings? Because the air around them seemed charged? "I have no professional embarrassment," he told her. "You know that all too well. But allow me some personal feelings. Won't you?" His pleading expression stopped all further arguments, sending her into a rumination about what personal feelings he might be referring to. His gaze--the intense one usually reserved for information about the paranormal--branded her. She wondered if its mark was burned into the soft skin of her face. "Besides," he continued, "classic art falls outside the. . . what did you call it? Statute of limitations. I can look at classic nudes all I want to. Just shows that I take an interest in art. That I'm kull-churred." He gave it a New York spin. Without pausing for breath, he continued. "And porn." Oh, God, she thought, he's on a roll. "What's wrong with looking at naked bodies in the process of enjoying other naked bodies?" he asked. "It's somehow virtuous to study centuries-old nudes, yet it's disgusting to look at real people, actually having a good time? We live in a sick society, Scully." Ignoring his speechless partner, still dazed from the onslaught, he briefly studied the nude posed like David, then turned to the one crouched on hands and knees, lengthy penis dangling. "What makes this one," he gestured, "art instead of porn? Any ideas?" Whew. Cyclone Mulder had hit her hard. Apparently, he hadn't come here to gaze self-consciously at the nudes or surreptitiously check out their lengths. Or even to watch her check them out and try to determine which kind of body she might be interested in. He was primed for an. . . intellectual discussion. As usual, she sighed to herself. We have too much intellect happening here, never enough hormones. He really seems to have come here with me to . . . to talk about art. Shit. I thought maybe we could talk about . . . us. Desperate, she summoned her friend. Ellen, help. I hoped we could draw closer. Expose ourselves to each other a bit in the midst of all these naked men. Instead, we are entering a porn debate. What should I do? Her thought ended on a mental wail. Don't debate, Ellen's voice told her succinctly. You spend your whole fucking life debating with this guy. Forget all this shit about ideas. Make it personal. Go on. Do it, damn it. Speak! Scully focused on the crouching man with the prominent penis. "I think he's beautiful," she said simply. "I don't care what he is. I care how he. . . affects me. And he makes me look and wonder and. . . and study him, and appreciate the perfect form, the beautiful muscles. Earlier, I was thinking of these guys more anatomically, actually naming the muscles that were especially well drawn. But they're much more than muscular guys, at least the ones I like to look at. They're objects of beauty, fit for contemplation, as surely as Venus Rising." Mulder nodded absently and stared at the portrait. "The way it's lit, though. The focal point. It's designed so that all eyes go directly to the dick. Didn't yours?" "Yeah, they did. But then I looked at the totality of him." Ignoring Ellen's words, the real Scully burst forth. "And that's what I think's missing from most porn. An appreciation for the whole person. We're not just a bunch of sexual parts and there's not anything inherently interesting about tab A fitting into slot B. The fascination rests with. . . whose tabs and slots they are and how those people feel about what's happening and who it's happening with. I dislike porn precisely because it's impersonal." Sorry, Ellen. I can't stop myself from arguing. Sorry, hell, the words bounced back. You told him how you feel. Way to go, girl. "Funny," Mulder said. "I like porn precisely because it *is* impersonal." Oh, boy, Scully thought. New territory. Am I about to actually find out something about the inner Mulder? "What do you mean?" "Personal connections haven't worked for me. I've been too tied up with . . . all those past events, the stuff that consumes my life. If I can't manage to have personal, actual entanglements with real women who have needs. . . they've gotta have attention, consistency--shit, they take up so much *time*. . . I've had to switch to the impersonal. If I'm to have anything at all, any physical. . . aspect to my life." Mulder stared away from the painting, his eyes as blank as a classic Greek statue. "It comes down to porn or whores. Which do you think is safer?" He met her eyes. She tried to read his. She encountered sincerity. Her earlier conversation with Ellen came back-- his libido was indeed alive. He just wanted to service it efficiently, with the least hassle. How practical of him, even. . . sensible, given his obsessions. And how depressing, that for all his energy and enthusiasm, he didn't make the time to experience meaningful sexual connections. Of course, she admonished herself, she was no better. She nodded. "Porn is safer," she conceded. "And sad." He took her arm and turned her away from the pictures. The crowd milled around them, well-dressed and chattering. "What about you," he murmured, his breath warm on her ear. "I don't see you leading a conga line around the room." He paused, looked solemn. "Although I did notice that you were attracted to the sheriff. . . the vampire. I tried to give you a shot at him." He looked sad. "Just because the work consumes all my life, I don't see why you shouldn't lead a normal life." Oh, shit, she exclaimed inwardly. Ellen, where are you? I can hardly tell him that the real vampire that's sucked the possibility of normality from my life is the work he loves so much. Help! Yes, you can, came the response. Just don't blame him. You know you don(tm)t. None of it is his fault. The bad guys did it, not him. Okay, she thought. Ellen, fount of all wisdom, has spoken. She looked up at Mulder. His eyes held sincerity, yes. They were also sad. He was aware of her losses; she knew that. Probably even blamed himself for some of what'd happened to her. And hope--did she see a gleam of hope lurking in the warmth of his eyes? For them? He'd been pretty open, surprisingly so. Exactly what she'd hoped for. Now, it was her turn. And it wasn't going to be easy, even with Ellen's coaching. "Sheriff Hartwell was a good-looking guy," she told him. "Just like these portraits. But the fact is, our work consumes all my time too, and most of my interest. And I may be shallow enough to find someone attractive because of a handsome face or a good body, but. . . . I told you before, it's not a matter of body parts. It's all about who they're attached to. And how I feel about him. And how he feels about me." His intense eyes studied her with total concentration. As if she were an ancient rune that held the key to the mysteries of the universe. Maybe you are, Ellen's voice told her. The key to his universe. But he's a man, remember. They're slow readers. Give him a hint, for God's sake. "You're the only man in my life, Mulder. Like you, I'm safe from sexual disease because I'm leading a life with no sexual connections." She shook her head. "I don't even like porn." He studied her some more. "Fantasy," he speculated. She nodded. "About what?" She stared meaningfully into his eyes. The penny, hovering at the edge of the coin slot, stuck for a few seconds, then finally dropped, and his smile broke out, wide and joyous. He leaned down to kiss her lips. It was a quick kiss, not a peck, but a greeting, a beginning, a promise. The lips that brushed hers were warm and friendly. And still smiling. Then, his smile disappeared. "I didn't misinterpret what you said? You're not just being kind or trying to figure out how to let me down easy without embarrassing us both?" She shook her head no. "Let's get out of here." <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< From: MystPhile@aol.com Date: Fri, 5 Nov 1999 13:28:31 EST Subject: xfc: NEW:(Ellen)Fine Arts (2 of 2) by MystPhile, MSR, R Source: xfc From: MystPhile@aol.com (Ellen) Fine Arts 2/2 Disclaimed in part 1 <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< Being civilized people, they did not go to his place, her place, or the nearest hotel. Instead, they sat in a dark restaurant doing something they seldom did: talk. Scully found out how Mulder came to know so much about Italian art. He and Phoebe (groan, commented Ellen, still present) had toured Italy on one of the Oxford holidays. He in turn discovered that she and her family had been in Greece when she was 12, when the Captain was stationed there. All those years as partners, and there was still so much to learn. As modern people with sex in their future, they tried to discuss their sexual activities--until it became apparent they had nothing to talk about. Sexual contacts, for both, were ancient history. "Pathetic, isn't it?" Scully commented. Mulder smiled, the genuine smile that wiped the worry lines from his eyes and erased years from his face. "Not at all. I was saving myself for the right girl." Scully retracted her feminist claws and let him get away with calling her a girl. Jesus, Ellen confided, voice growing fainter as Mulder grew ever larger in Scully's consciousness, crowding out just about everything else, it must be love. Enough from you, Scully told her. I'm on my own. Give me a little privacy. Thanks for your help. See you. They discussed their mutual blindness, how each had refused to see the other's deep devotion as anything other than partnerly regard. "Do you think we both have. . . strange as it may sound, inferiority complexes?" Scully asked him. "We were so reluctant to recognize anything more than simple affection. Do we feel. . . unworthy?" Mulder shook his head. "I think we may have hoped so hard that we feared. . .disappointment. Rejection. We can't lose each other, so we needed to protect the status quo. If I made a pass at you, and you had to say, 'but we're just friends, Mulder,' it'd affect our whole working relationship, the trust we count on to stay alive." She gave him a sober look. "The work is still the main thing, isn't it? A couple days after we met, you said it was the only important thing to you. It's kept you virtually celibate for years. It's. . . overwhelming." He got up and slid into her side of the booth, pushing back the dishes. "Somewhere, somehow, you became as important to me as the work. Last year, when you . . . had the cancer, I realized you're more important. I. . . I would have walked away from the X-Files for good in exchange for your cure. That's when I realized how much you mean to me. I almost made a deal to work for the Black- Lunged Bastard in exchange for a cure." He leaned in, kissed her lips softly. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, feeling little prickles of sensation all over her body. As he reached behind her to pull her against him, she felt her nipples harden against his chest. What a sensation, she thought, opening her lips and tasting his tongue. She floated on a wave of longing, ecstatic that after all her fears that her affections weren't reciprocated, here they were, exploring each other's mouths with the kind of thoroughness and passion they usually brought to their work. Mulder was an intense man, single-minded. To be the object of his single-minded intensity was a dizzying prospect. Their breaths quickened and mingled as their heads shifted, seeking new angles. "Tonight," she told him, breaking away to catch her breath. She leaned forward to murmur into his ear, "I want you," then nipped his earlobe. He leaned down to kiss her neck, ran his tongue across the soft flesh behind her ear, let his hand brush her breast, feeling the swell of her nipple thrusting against him. "Thank God we found a dark restaurant," he said, returning to her lips. "But I think we've got to get out of here while I can still walk." She returned his kiss, then pushed him away and tried to smooth her hair. "If men wore skirts," she said, "they'd have less occasion for that kind of embarrassment." He slowed his breathing and searched his pocket for his credit card. "And why would I want to wear a skirt?" "See, that's part of the sex role thing," she said, tucking in her shirt. She reached up to wipe a trace of lipstick from Mulder's face. "I can go look at nudes of any gender without taking a member of the opposite sex with me. On the other hand, you can go to a sex shop while I couldn't do that unless it was part of a case. I could do it professionally, but not personally. Yick." The waiter took away the card as Mulder tucked in his shirt and tried to maneuver his trousers into a more comfortable position. "Your point?" "I was getting to it," she told him. "I can wear pants and no one will think I'm trying to dress like a man. Wearing pants doesn't affect my femininity in the least. But you can't wear a skirt." "Unless I'm a Scot," he said, signing the receipt and tucking his card away. Scully ignored him. "To men, there's something wrong with being. . . thought to have feminine qualities. They don't want to be seen in women's clothes, wear makeup, nail polish, or have long hair, unless they're in some sort of artistic or creative field. They dread appearing to be like a woman in any way." Mulder thought over her words. "Okay. You're saying we desire women, spend half our lives figuring out how to get them, but we're scared shitless, unless we're gay, of being perceived to be like them. And that means what?" "I'm still trying to figure it out," Scully admitted. "It suggests that, despite all that desire, men don't really like us since they're afraid they'll resemble us. Look at all the standard insults: He runs like a girl. He thinks like a woman. He throws like a girl. Yet it's supposedly a compliment for a woman to be told that she thinks like a man." Mulder leaned down to give Scully a borderline chaste kiss. "Do I have to join NOW to get you into bed tonight?" Scully laughed. "No. You'd have to get a gunshot wound, a major one, to avoid getting dragged into bed with me tonight." "Please," he said. "Don't jinx me." She recalled the many times she'd sat by his bedside. "Right. Your place or mine?" <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< Being civilized people, they chose Scully's place, which had a big bed, clean sheets and a roomy bathtub. In uncivilized fashion, they made love until 2 a.m., in and out of bed and bathtub, then curled up in each other's arms. They couldn't stop talking and touching even while falling asleep. "This isn't a one-night stand, I hope," Mulder said. "I think I'd leap off a building if you said yes." "I'm hoping for a three thousand and one-night stand." She kissed his chest, licked, nipped, sucked at his flesh. "You taste good, Mulder. If it weren't so late, I'd come up with some kind of poetic analogy, but you've worn me out." "Oh, you're waking me up again," he groaned. "Here's what I have to say to you." He pulled her head up for a long, deep kiss. Her thigh slid over his hip again, and he rubbed his penis against her entrance. His erection wasn't exactly the quality of the little guy's on the horse, saluting the skies for all to see, but in another minute, it'd do. She rubbed her thumb across the head, then ran her hand up and down several times, squeezing gently. Yes, he was firming up nicely. Good work at his age, but then, after all that celibacy. . . His breath was coming in little huffs. "You taste and smell and. . . sound and feel. . . and look like a. . . work of art. A classic. My Venus." She guided him in, her breath catching and her voice turning hoarse. "Thank you. I love this." "Me too. And you." END Other (Ellen) appearances: (Ellen) Lady Lazarus, (Ellen) Fire and Ice, and (Ellen) Naked Truths. She also appears in segments six and eight of No Regrets. All the other Ellen appearances are in accordance with canon, i.e., sexual tension but no resolution between Scully and Mulder. Works available at these websites: http://www.xemplary.com http://members.xoom.com/galias/mystphile.htm http://members.xoom.com/MystPhile/ Thanks to all who fedback and asked for a conclusion to the art gallery tale. This one's for you, with gratitude!