From: ANGELA WARD <tapw63@hotmail.com>
Date: Fri, 1 Nov 2002 11:23:59 -0800 (PST)
Subject: Fanfic submission
Source: direct

Title: "Birthday Bash"
Author: Angela W.
Category: MSR
Rating: Strong R
Summary: Mulder and Scully celebrate their daugther's
birthday. Told in first person, Mulder's POV.
Timespan/Spoilers: This part of my "married' series,
which divereged from the "real" X-Files about midway
through season seven; assume that everything up
through "Closure" has happened but that Mulder was
never abducted and the conception and birth of their
child were different from the events depicted in late
season seven and beyond. In my series, this comes
after "Undercover Lovers".
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me. They
are the property of Chris Carter and 1013 Productions.

Feedback: If it's nice or contains *constructive*
criticism, feedback is valued.
Archive: Feel free to archive anywhere

***

As a child, I always associated autumn with birthdays.
It's when my birthday is and when Samantha's was. So
it seems fitting that it's when my daughter,
Melissa's, is, too. Scully, with her February
birthday, is odd man out in this equation.

Melissa's second birthday is actually Tuesday, but
we're having the party today -- Sunday -- because it's
the day when all the family and friends we've invited
are free to come to our house and when we have time to
bake a cake.

We got up early and went to Mass. I now attend Mass
regularly with my wife and daughter, as well as
attending weekly inquiry classes when my schedule
permits. I haven't made a decision to become Catholic
yet, and Scully assures me I can take all the time I
need before making a formal comittment, but I know
she's happy that I go to church with her.

As soon as we get home from church, Scully begins
baking the cake, with some "help" from Melissa. Early
in our marriage, when I told Scully that I'd never
actually had a homemade birthday cake, I thought was
either going to cry or faint. Up until my twelfth
birthday, I always had a cake, but it was purchased at
a bakery rather than baked and decorated at home. From
then until I turned 39 -- my first birthday as a
married man -- I never had a cake. Now I get one
lovingly baked by Scully every year. 

Scully's such a funny contrast of well-educated
professional woman and devoted wife and mother. She
still retains her own last name and still teaches at
Quantico three days a week but, at the same time, she
honestly seems to feel I'd have legitimate grounds for
divorce if she didn't make me and Melissa homemade
birthday cakes each year. Yet haven't the contrasts
within her petite frame always been part of what
attracted me to her? She's a rational scientist and
devout Catholic, a by-the-book agent and my partner in
investigating the paranormal, a bit of a tomboy and
the most deliciously feminine woman I've ever known.

We put Melissa down for a brief nap once the cake is
cooling on the counter; can't have her falling asleep
face down in her own birthday cake. As soon as she's
asleep, however, I find myself getting horny. Sunday
afternoon sex has become sort of a family tradition
around our house. It's far from being the only time we
ever make love, of course, but it's usually the one
time of the week I know, without a doubt, that I'm
going to get lucky.  Today, though, Scully pulls out
of my embrace after a brief kiss and says, "Not now,
Mulder. We've got cleaning and decorating to do. And
she probably won't sleep as long as she usually does,
anyway."

Later, just a few minutes before the guests are due to
arrive, we're icing the cake. I bite back a moan when
Scully licks a bit of icing off the tip of one finger.
She flashes me a "behave yourself" look and I grin
back at her. I've had to work on controlling myself a
bit lately. Melissa is picking up on more and more
and, while I certainly think seeing normal displays of
affection between her parents is probably good for
her, blatant sexuality and flirting might warp her for
life or something. Luckily, I have seven years of
pre-marital experience to call on in not giving in to
my instincts around Scully.

We'd invited a little girl a couple of months younger
than Melissa, who lives catty-corner from us, to the
party, but she has an ear infection and can't attend.
So the only child guests will be her cousins, Matthew
and Patrick. "Paddick" as Melissa calls him is a
couple of months older than she is and he's her
favorite playmate. 

Bill Junior, Tara and their boys are the first to
arrive, as I'd guessed they might be.

"Sorry, I know we're a few minutes ahead of the time
you put on the invitations, but the boys were driving
me crazy," Tara says. "All I've heard from the moment
they woke up is "When are we going to Melissa's
birthday party?"

"That's fine," Dana replies with a smile.

Maggie shows up next, followed almost immediately by
Skinner. Melissa is practically in ecstasy. She's
never had "Kinner", Paddick and Grandma all at her
house at the same time.

"Is he Melissa's Grandpa?" Matthew asks me. "I've got
two Grandmas, but Mama said Melissa only has one. She
didn't say about Grandpas."

"No, he's not really her Grandpa, but I think maybe
Melissa feels about him the same way you feel about
your Grandpa," I explain gently. Matthew takes a
moment to ponder this, then nods and wanders off.

Finally, our last guests arrive. I'd expected the
whole Lone Gunmen crew, but only Yves and Jimmy Bond
show up.

"The other three said to tell you they're sorry,"
Jimmy said. "They're out investigating some sort of
major story."

I nod. The guys love Melissa, but they're major league
uncomfortable around Bill Junior and the feeling seems
to be mutual. They knew he'd be here and probably
didn't want to intrude. 

"Frohike also *swore* to me that he'd gotten your
permission for their present for Melissa," Yves says,
looking directly at Scully.

"He did. Where is it, Yves?"

"Right here," she says, opening up the door of their
car. She prods Jimmy and he pulls a large box from the
backseat. It has holes in the sides and a ribbon on
top.

As soon we're all back inside, we sing and let Melissa
blow out her candles. After we've eaten the cake and
ice cream, I take the large box Jimmy brought in down
from the counter. "Why don't you open this one first?"
 I suggest.

Melissa tears off the ribbon with some help from her
cousins and then reaches into the box.

"Kee cat!" she screams.

"Gently, Melissa," Scully says, crouching down in
front of her as she cuddles the kitten. "This kitty
cat is just a baby. You have to take good care of it."

"Lissa kee cat?"

"Yes, Melissa. It's your kitty cat," I assure her.

"What are you going to name it?" Matthew asks.

"Melissa, what do you want to name the kitty?" Scully
asks.

"Kitty!" Melissa repeats joyfully. Apparently she's
still a bit too young to understand the concept of it
needing a name other than kitty. And I suppose we
could just call it that, but that seems a bit
unimaginative. And, while I've been called a lot of
things in my time, "unimaginative" has never been one
of them.

"How about Buddy?" Bill Junior suggests. "You know,
like Buddy Holly? It would be in keeping with your
theme of naming your pets with singers from the early
days of rock and roll." He's referring to our dog,
whose name happens to be Elivis.

"Melissa, do you want to name your kitty Buddy?"
Matthew asks seriously.

"Kitty buddy," she agrees. 

We try to get Melissa interested in her other
presents, but she mostly just wants to play with
Buddy, her cousins and the big box Buddy came in.

"Don't push her," Maggie says. "She's having fun,
that's what her birthday should be all about. Small
children can get overwhelmed if they get too much new
stuff too quickly."

"Would anybody like another piece of cake?" Dana asks.

"Sure, I'll have some," Jimmy says. The man is huge
and he's only in his mid-20s, which means he hasn't
quite yet outgrown the adolescent male habit of eating
everything in sight and then looking for more. I think
I was about 27 before I realized that it was not up to
me, personally, to consume the entire agricultural
production of New England.

"Want a bite, baby?" Jimmy says, offering a forkful of
gooey icing and crumbly cake to Yves. 

"No thanks. I," she stops in mid-sentence and then
looks at Scully with wide eyes. "Where's your
bathroom?"

"Right around the corner," Scully says, pointing in
the appropriate direciton.

Yves sprints from the dining room and we hear the
bathroom door slam a moment later.

"Is she sick?" Tara asks.

"Not exactly," Jimmy replies. "She doesn't like people
fussing over her, though. She'll be back in a minute."

It's not much more than that when she returns and
says, "I'm so sorry. Please forgive me."

I would be willing to swear that Dana has been busy
with the cake, Maggie has been busy playing with her
grandchildren and the kitten and Tara has been engaged
in an antimated conversation with her husband and
Skinner. . .that the three women haven't so much as
raised an eyebrow at each other in the time Yves was
out of the room. But as soon as she returns, they ask
with one voice, "When are you due?" And people say
*I'm* spooky!

"I'm not sure," Yves replies with a smile. "Sometime
in June, I'm guessing, but I haven't been to the
doctor yet. We just did the test a few days ago."

"Congratulations, Jimmy," I say.

"Thanks," he mutters, looking vaguely embarrassed. I
did that when people offered me congratulations while
Scully was pregnant with Melissa, too. 

Melissa finally gets momentarily distracted from the
kitten and wanders over to the other presents. She
selects a polka-dotted gift bag and begins to rummage
around in it's tissue-paper filled interior.

"That's from us," Yves says. "I'm not sure what it is,
though. I was so tired, I just told Jimmy to run up to
the toy store and pick something out and then I forgot
to look at it."

Melissa triumphantly produces a purple and pink,
junior-sized Nerf football.

"Jimmy!" Yves wails. "Please tell me you didn't buy a
two-year-old little girl a *football* for her
birthday?"

"Why not?" he asks, looking puzzled. "All kids like to
play ball."

"Seems like an excellent choice to me," Bill Junior
says. "Somebody," -- he pauses to stare at Dana, so we
all  know who he's talking about -- "always used to
'borrow' my football when we were kids."

"That was Missy," Dana says with a grin.

Bill snorts. "The only thing Missy would have done
with a football was dress it up in a tutu or
something. It was you and Charlie."

"I think the statute of limitations has run out on
those sorts of things, son," Maggie says gently.

"Let's go outside and play," Matthew suggests.

So we grab jackets and sweatshirts and move the party
outside. The day is gorgeous, clear and breezy but
slightly warmer than early November in Maryland
usually is. Our main present to Melissa was a
swingset, which bought and paid to have somebody else
construct -- my supply of free daylight hours and my
handyman skiills both being in somewhat short supply
-- this past week. Melissa and the boys run toward it
and began climbing, sliding and swinging, under the
watchful supervision of their mothers and
grandmothers. Yves just sits in a lawn chair with a
dreamy expression on her face and watches them play.

Jimmy is still holding the football. "You guys up for
a game?" he asks glancing looking at me, Bill and
Skinner.

Before long, Skinner has removed his glasses and we've
divided up; Skinner and me versus Bill and Jimmy.
Jimmy and Skinner are the same size but, of course,
there's an entire generation of age difference between
them. Bill Junior and I are about the same age and
we're both in good shape although our build are the
exact opposite of each other; short and stocky versus
long and lanky. So we're pretty evenly matched.

We've been playing for a while before we realize we've
got an audience. The two younger children are still
chasing each other up and down the slide, under
Grandma's watchful eye, but Dana, Tara, Yves and
Matthew are all watching us with the same sort of
intesity most people reserve for professional games.
Actually, Dana is paying *more* attention to this game
than she has to the professional sporting events I've
taken her to over the years.

One thing I've noticed since our marriage is that
Scully has some sort of primordial
athlete-and-cheerleader type fantasty buried deep in
her subconscious. She loves to watch me compete in any
kind of sports and I'm always suitably rewarded
afterwards. I think she's never really gotten over the
fact that it was her sister, not her, who attracted
all of Bill Junior's jock buddies when they were
teenagers. What all this adds up to is that, if the
Consortium doesn't get to me first, I'll probably end
up killing myself by showing off for her when I'm 60
or so. . .but I'll die happy.

The funny thing is, Yves and Tara are looking at their
spouses with the same expression on their faces as
Scully has on hers. Yves doesn't suprise me; she and
Jimmy haven't even been married a year yet. Somehow,
though, I'm almost shocked by the expression on Tara's
face. I don't  know why I should be -- she and Bill
Junior have two young children and a happy marriage,
facts which certainly imply a satisfactory sex life --
but I've just never seen this sort of evidence before.

"Daddy, can I play?" Matthew asks.

"We can toss the ball around in a minute, son," Bill
answers. "We can't put you on a team, because then
they'd be uneven."

"No they won't," Scully says. "I'll play, too."

So now Scully is on the "FBI team" with me and Skinner
and Matthew is on the "Navy/Journalist team"  with his
Dad and Jimmy. Before long, though, Melissa and
Patrick run out into the middle of the field and from
then on things just get silly. Eventually Bill Junior
gets tackled by his entire family -- it takes Tara and
both boys to bring him down -- and the four of them
lie on the ground laughing. Scully, Skinner and I are
now playing some weird version of human football in
which we  run around holding Melissa, who is clutching
the ball, and passing her off to each other. Jimmy,
Yves and Maggie are on the sidelines.

Finally, Yves yawns and says, "I think we'll go now.
Thank you for inviting us. Happy Birthday, sweetie."
She kisses Melissa lightly on the cheek.

"And here I thought it wasn't going to be 'til *after*
the baby was born that our schedule would have to be
organized around a daily naptime," Jimmy quips. But
his smile is tender and protective as he wraps his arm
around Yves and walks her to the car. She'll probably
fall asleep on the way home and he'll have to carry
her in. I remember doing that a couple of times in the
early days of Scully's pregnancy. You hear a lot about
morning sickness but, in my admittedly limited
experience, extreme fatigue is actually the most
noticeable symptom of early pregnancy.

"I think I'll head home, too," Maggie says. We nod and
kiss her goodbye. Maggie loves us but she watches
Melissa on the three days a week that Dana and I both
work and even the most devoted Grandma can want  a
little time to herself.

"I also need to be going," Skinner says. He leaves
quickly, as if he's just made contact with an
informant or something.

"I guess we should go," Tara says. "We were the first
to arrive and now we're the last to leave."

"No hurry," Dana says.

"Melissa hasn't opened our present yet," Matthew
points out.

So we go back inside and Melissa opens their present.
It's the polar opposite of the one from the Bonds; a
pretty baby doll dressed in a flowered dress.

"I couldn't resist," Tara explains. "I get my fill of
buying balls and action figures with these two."

"It's beautiful," Scully says.

"Lissa baby," Melissa says, snuggling it close.

***

When we put Melissa to bed that night, she insists on
sleeping with her doll, her kitten and her football.
The doll and the kitten I can understand. The football
is weird, but when I try to remove it from her crib
she cries and I return it. I'm hardly one to make
judgments about nonconformist behavior.

Once she's asleep, I settle down on the couch and
flick on the Sunday night football game on ESPN.
Scully's   
in the kitchen, tidying things up.

"Fox? Could you come in here and give me a hand,
please?"

I bite back a sigh and haul my ass off the couch.
Scully does the majority of the housework, so I really
don't have room to complain on the occasions when she
asks me to pitch in and help.

When I enter the kitchen, though, it's spotless.
Unless we're going to organize the spice rack or color
code the breakfast cereals, I have no idea what she
wants me to help her with.

That is, until I spot the can of icing in her hand and
the mischievous gleam in her eye. Then I realize
Scully didn't call me in here because she wants us to
work, but because she wants us to play. This has the
potential to be *way* more entertaining than football!

"There's some icing left," she says in a decpetively
innocent voice. "What do you think we should do with
it?"

"Maybe I should taste it to see if it's still good," I
say, playing along.

Scully scoops out a finger full of icing and offers it
to me. I wrap my hand around her wrist and guide her
finger to my mouth, where I proceed to slowly and
thoroughly lick and suck ever last bit off. She starts
to whimper while I'm flicking my tongue around her
finger and snakes her other hand up under my
sweatshirt and into the sparse patch of hair in the
center of my chest.

One thing that I still, after all these years,
sometimes have trouble processing is the fact that
Scully is incredibly easy to arouse. I never bought
the "ice queen" image, but even during my frequent
premarital fantasies of her, I always assumed she'd be
slow to warm up. The actual fact is, saying "Let's
make love" is pretty much all the encouragement she
needs to get turned on. On more than one occasion I
have, literally, phoned in the foreplay -- talking
sexy to her on my cell phone from the time I left the
office 'til the time I arrived home -- and had her
practically attack me the moment I walked in the door.

When I finally release her finger from my mouth with
an audible pop, she drags my mouth down to hers. We
kiss for a long time. I'd be ready to haul her off to
bed right then, but she's not finished playing.

"Mulder, maybe I should have a turn to taste the
icing. You know, to make sure it's still good."

I nod and scoop some out. She draws my finger into her
mouth, nibbling lightly as well as licking. I want
that done somewhere else and I tell her so in a low
growl.

"I'm getting there," she murmurs. "But it's your turn
next."

I know Scully expects me to go for her breasts next
but, in an effort to maintain my reputation as an
unpredictable guy, I dab the next bit of icing on the
pulse point of her wrist, like perfume. Then I slowly
suck it off. Her opposite hand now slides to my back,
where she scratches lightly, running her nails from
the top of my spine all the way down to the waistband
of my jeans.

Scully's second target is the side of my neck, right
at the juncture of my throat and shoulder. She has to
stretch up on tiptoes to reach and I help her maintain
her balance by molding my hands to the curves of her
ass. I'm vaguely aware that I'm likely going to be the
only middle-aged, married man in Washington to show up
at work on Monday morning with a hickey on his neck,
but also aware that I don't give a damn.

When I'm thoroughly cleaned -- and also probably
marked -- Scully reluctantly removes her mouth. I
decide the time for subtly is over and unbutton her
shirt and flick open her bra. I dab tiny specks of
icing on several  strategic spots; the center of her
nipples, the undersides of her breasts and the
midpoint between them. I hesitate for a moment
debating exactly how I want to accomplish this. She's
so tiny that I'd have to bend almost double to get my
mouth to her breasts if we both remain standing. I
could kneel but decide, instead, to sit her on the
counter. I lift her up, then stand between her parted
legs.

As I gently lave first one breast, then the other, I
began to pick up on some clues that Scully is quite
aroused by this point. For instance, there's the fact
that she's moaning so loudly that I'm half afraid
we're going to wake up Melissa. Then there's the death
grip she's got my biceps clutched in. But the most
obvious signal is that she's got both legs wrapped
tightly around my waist and is rubbing her crotch
almost frantically against my belly.

When I'm sure that every last molecule of icing has
been cleaned from her breasts, I lift my head and kiss
her  again; slowly, throughly and deeply.

"I think there's just enough icing left for me to put
it one more place," she says in a breathy voice when
our lips part.

Scully slides off the counter and gently pushes me so
that I turn around. She gets the remaining traces of
icing out of the can and with one hand and unbuckles
and unzips me with the other. She tries to draw my
cock out through the fly of my boxer-briefs, but I'm
so engorged that it's tricky. With a murmured, "Let
me", I simply shove both my jeans and my shorts down
to mid-thigh. She smears the icing on me, then kneels
down and proceeds to suck it off. 

Holy crap! The mere touch of my wife's tongue on my
erection is erotic enough in its own right to almost
trigger an immediate orgasm. But the position she's in
-- kneeling in front of me with her hands on my ass
and her bright red head bobbing up and down as she
draws me in as deeply as possible -- is a turn-on in
itself. The psychologist in me acknowledges that
there's something faintly kinky in the fact that
having her perform this while in a subservient
attitude makes it an evenly more intensely
pleasureable experience than it ususally is, but the
rest of me is too busy groaning my approval to take
the analysis any further.

Finally, just when I'm almost to the point where I'm
going to have to either ask her to stop or inquire
whether she intends to spit or swallow, Scully
releases me. "Ready to move onto the main event,
G-Man?" she asks with a smile.

"Yeah," I agree. "Here or the bedroom?"

"Will I sound disgustingly mundane if I say I'd rather
adjourn to bed for the rest of the festivities?"

"Not at all," I assure her. While I'd do it here if
she wanted us to, I think I'm a bit past the age of
getting any real thrill out of making love on the
hardwood floor of our kitchen. Prosaic though it may
be, there's something to be said for the comfort of
our bed.

I do go ahead and strip there in the kitchen and
quickly remove her clothes as well. Then I scoop her
up in my arms and mount the stairs.

"God, Fox, you're so big and strong," she whispers in
my ear as we near the top. I smile down at her. I know
it's only Dana's absolute trust in me that allows her
to feel free to come out with such an occasional
coquettish remark while were making love.

When we reach our bedroom she whispers, "Can I be on
top, please?"

"Sure," I say, pulling back the covers with one hand
and crawling in, then settling her atop my body. She
quickly eases me inside her dripping heat and wiggles
ecstatically to engulf me fully.

When I was about eight or nine, the first time my
father sat down with me and one of those illustrated
"teach your son about sex" books, and I saw a highly
stylized version of a couple making love in the
missionary position, my only question was "Why is the
man on top? Shouldn't the lady be on top, since men
are bigger?" My father had blushed and stammered, and
muttered something about that being the usual way. 

As I grew older, I understood that it was far from the
only option, but also understood that for a variety of
reasons -- from the desire for dominance, to the
increased likelihood of conception, to a simple desire
to conform -- that it *was* the usual way. However, I
also never quite got over my initial idea that it
would actually make more sense for the woman to be on
top when a couple made love. Scully seems to share my
feelings. While we make love in a variety of
positions, having her on top is most common for us.

Scully rubs her breasts against my chest, arches and
moans and wiggles her butt in little circles while I
thrust into her. It doesn't take long before she
climaxes and I follow not long afterwards.

As she crawls up to nestle her head against my
shoulder she whispers, "I hope Melissa has half as
much fun on our birthdays as we have on hers!"


Author's e-mail addy: tapw63@hotmail.com