From: Anjou Date: Sat, 16 Dec 2000 12:08:12 -0800 (PST) Subject: Direct submission: The Matter at Hand by Anjou Source: direct The Matter at Hand by Anjou Title: The Matter at Hand Author: Anjou (Anjou@rocketmail.com) Posting Date: November 2000 Rating: NC-17 for sexual situations Classification: MSR, H Keywords: None Archive: Gossamer, Ephemeral, Haven, Galia, Hidden Gems; Others please do ask Disclaimer: M & S have sex in this story. Therefore 1013 had nothing to do with it. Spoilers: post 'all things' Summary: Why was Scully in such a happy, confident mood the first time we saw her in Je Souhaite? ~*~*~*~ Dana Scully made a circumspect inventory of the laboratory before making her way quietly to the communal desk that was tucked into a secluded alcove. At the other end of the laboratory, a lone tech named McBride was pipetting under one of the closed hoods installed in the wall. The other benches were filled with testing in various stages of progress, but were empty of personnel. It was after 5:00 p.m.; this was the government. She pushed aside the stack of entertainment magazines and scientific journals that cluttered the surface of the desk to make a clean space for herself. She tore a piece of paper out of her day planner, then cushioned it on an issue of Sports Illustrated so that none of her thoughts would be recorded on the desk blotter. She would bury the magazine in the recycling bin on her way out of the lab. She would tell herself that she was not paranoid, but merely wanted to safeguard her privacy. She tapped the paper thoughtfully with the end of her expensive fountain pen, one of her few true indulgences. She told herself that the weight of the pen forced her to slow her writing down, allowing her the time to gather her thoughts before she committed them to the page. It was not merely an object of beauty; it was an instrument of control. She frowned at the pen as it yielded no ready answers, didn't jump to attention in her hand and point her in the right direction. Perhaps her lack of insight was due to her unfortunate regression via this activity. It was counter-intuitive that she should attempt to reason out emotional matters. If the events of the recent past had taught her anything, hadn't they taught her that insight into her own desires would come to her whether or not she was looking for it? She needed only to open her senses to the world around her. She glanced around cautiously to ensure that she was still unobserved before she closed her eyes attempting to cast herself out into the metaphysical universe. After five minutes of communing with the unseen world, she had only confirmed that she was a little hungry and that she was definitely sexually frustrated. She sighed and contemplated the stark whiteness of the blank page. Scully wasn't particularly envious of Mulder's intuitive ability, but she did sometimes covet his swift, incisive leaps of logic. Especially in matters of romance, she associated impulsivity with disaster in her own life. Leaping before she had truly looked had led only to unpleasantness. It was better to know what one truly wanted before one leapt, she told herself. It was better to have a plan. She busied her hands with tearing the ragged edges of the page off so that it was neater. This wasn't a perfect system for finding answers but it did give her a measure of comfort to engage in the ritual of problem-solving that she had always followed. Her childhood diaries were littered with lists full of her observations and evaluations based upon them, her earliest training as a scientist. Experience had taught her that analysis was often the best means to evaluate the matter at hand. She took a deep breath and plunged in. "Regret." She chewed her lip thoughtfully as she pondered the implications of that word. It was so stark and accusatory on the empty page. Her handwriting was cramped and hurried, as if she'd attempted to discard the most upsetting explanation first. She forced her mind to focus on the possibility. Mulder's actions of the past few days did not seem to constitute regret, although he did seem to have trouble meeting her eyes for longer than a few seconds at a time. He seemed almost painfully aware of her. Although he hovered nearby her, he floated just out of the range of her personal space. Perversely, that thought conjured the image of his easy grace as he rose above her while they were joined, bowing away and then bending back down to kiss her. She shivered at the memory, then drew a thick line through the word. She'd not believe it. "Indifference" appeared on the list and she stared at the pen for a moment. Where had that come from? Automatic writing? She rolled the pen around in her fingers and gave the concept due consideration. Had the event itself been the culmination of all the tension that had existed between them for years? The question of 'how it could be' had been answered. Was that all there was to it? She underlined the word once; she allowed that it was a shallow idea and one that didn't give Mulder a great deal of credit. Her mind searched for evidence of his indifference to her these past days. She realized that Mulder had acquired a new tic in his vast repertoire of activities, but it seemed more of a self-soothing gesture than anything else. He had taken to stroking a spot on his neck when he read, touching it lightly with his fingertips, a small smile on his lips. The spot lay under his left ear, in the tendon next to his jugular. She hadn't left a mark on the rough skin of his neck, but that was the exact place where she had fastened her mouth when he'd gotten to the breaking point. No. The case for indifference was not proved. "Insecurity" she wrote, then frowned at the word. She placed the pen on the surface of the desk and ruffled the pages of an issue of Science. Mulder was insecure about many things; there was no doubt about that. But in what context was she using the word insecurity? Did she think that he felt insecure about his performance? Study after study had shown that men were very anxious about just this sort of thing. And Mulder had been celibate, or at least sexually solitary, for a long time by his own admission. Yet, just behind her eyes, Mulder's hips kept an easy, loose rhythm with the beat of the music from his boombox as he set up a slideshow in their office. The unselfconscious promise implied by his fluid motion had not been overstated. He had been almost shockingly comfortable being sexual with her, eager to provoke a response in her once he was certain that she truly wanted him. Her breath caught as clarity washed over her. "Uncertainty," she wrote on the list, her hand trembling. The first two times that Mulder had approached to kiss her, he had moved in slowly, giving her every opportunity to anticipate what he was doing, giving her every chance to stop him. But when she had approached him ... the pen dropped on the desk and Scully rolled the rickety seat backwards, propping her feet on the desk's edge. When she had approached him, there had been only certainty in his response. She smiled fondly at her now discarded list and crossed her ankles, lacing her fingers behind her head. If she could have, she would have whistled a happy tune. She was flushed and triumphant, warm with the success of having figured out a problem. How could she ever have doubted a system that had always worked so well for her? *~*~*~*~ Figuring out what the problem was and fixing the problem were two entirely different things, Scully reflected grimly. She was completely at a loss as to what to do. How was she to start this conversation? "Mulder, I want to make love to you." That sounded so formal, not to mention all the pressure that such a declarative statement implied. It wasn't that she wasn't a bold and forthright woman in many ways, but she was also repressed. It was easier to allow herself to be swept away by someone's else passion than to attempt to provoke passion in another. Of course, yielding to passion also sounded easier than it was, at least for her. More than once, she'd found herself becoming dispassionate during sex, feeling as if any woman could fill the role that she was playing for her partner, that on some level all that was required was a warm and yielding body to grind against to attain pleasure. Melissa had been appalled when she'd espoused this belief, had hastened to assure her that this only meant that she hadn't had sex with the right men, or that she wasn't in the right relationship. Dana had discounted this thesis as a possible explanation. At the time of the conversation, she had been sure that Daniel was the love of her life. Yet, she had begun to experience that disconnection from him when they had sex, wasn't sure who he was seeing as his eyes glazed over. Her experience with Mulder had been singular. Mulder had seemed to know exactly who she was while they had been together. He had even seemed to know when she began to question the wisdom of what they were doing, whispering to her "Just kiss me, Scully," until he swept her back up with him. She wanted to see if he still knew her that well, but wasn't sure just how to begin. In fact, she wasn't sure she actually knew how to make love to a man, beyond the crude mechanics of the situation. It didn't help that there were no really workable tips she could refer to on how exactly one seduced a man. Or at least, the blueprints of such a scene as they were represented in "women's" magazines had never appealed to her. Lace was scratchy and she was most emphatically not buying a bustier. It had been so much easier that night when she had slipped into his bed while he was sleeping. Being herself, she'd left her underwear on, on the off chance that if Mulder rejected her overture she could try to suggest that sleep, not seduction, had been on her mind. He had twitched when she finally pressed her cool flesh next to his warmth, mumbling something and seeming to rouse a bit. Then he had taken one deep breath in through his nose and snuggled next to her, a smile on his sleeping face. He had murmured her name and her heart had clenched in her chest. She had kissed him awake. There had been no doubt, no confusion, no discussion other than his ardent professions of love. Perhaps she could sedate him and recreate the scenario that had worked so well for her. It really was much easier to deal with him when he was unconscious. She eyed the mug on her counter as she waited for the coffee to percolate. Mulder had driven her home from the airport after their latest case. It was late and, ostensibly, he was here in her apartment to have a cup of coffee before he made the drive back to Alexandria. Caffeine, however, was not what he needed. Didn't she have some Ambien left somewhere? Scully toyed with the idea as she heard Mulder prowling in her living room. He had already run through all of the channels on TV to his dissatisfaction. She had heard the thud of her remote hitting the coffee table after he switched the TV off. Now he was sighing over her record collection, which held too much classical and not enough rock for his taste. He was too restless to settle down for longer than a minute, as if he had picked up on her mood of discontent and imbalance. Knowing Mulder, he probably had. "Mulder, let's have sex." Well, didn't that sound clinical and detached. Why didn't she just say sexual intercourse? There wasn't anything remotely friendly about that sort of a statement, as direct as it was. Maybe she could say it in a sultry sort of way. She pictured herself leaning against the doorjamb of her kitchen, arm over her head, palm open and flat against the wall, kind of purring out the words. "Mulder, I want you to..." Her brain froze. Even in her imagination she could not picture herself saying what she wanted him to do. Maybe she could just walk out into the living room in her underwear. She imagined the scene, but for some reason in her mind's eye she was still wearing her trouser socks. Maybe she could try humor. "Mulder," she would say teasingly, "Are you doing anything important right now?" That seemed a little weak. "Mulder, I know it's late, but are you feeling up to (breathy pause) a little something extracurricular?" Her expression became sour. She knew better than that. One should never use the word little in any sexual context with a man. Talk about dampening desire! Besides, it was hardly the case. There was one last option, the one that people were likely to use in porn. "Mulder, fuck me." When exactly had her mental voice started to sound like Arnold Schwarzenegger? Not to mention the fact that lightning would more likely strike her dead before she would actually say that aloud. It just wasn't her. "Scully?" She whirled around from the coffeemaker, arms tightly crossed at her waist. She wobbled on her high heels, caught off-balance in more ways than one, and Mulder stepped toward her. His tone indicated that he might have said her name more than once already. "I'm really not that sleepy and you clearly need to get some rest, so I'm..." "It's almost ready," she blurted out, while her mind grasped at straws, trying to find the exact words she needed to say to make him stay. She wondered if her eyes were bulging out of her head cartoonishly. That's certainly the way they felt right now, not to mention that Mulder was looking at her oddly. He seemed to be focusing on her mouth as if he lip-read instead of hearing her voice when she spoke. He was still staring, even after she had finished talking. She wondered if her lips were still moving, like an out of synch soundtrack in a badly dubbed movie. When he glanced up at her eyes, she noticed that the tops of his ears were red and that he was bending towards her like a tree in a constant breeze. "Yes, Mulder," she chanted mentally. This would be perfect! If he made the first move, all she needed to do was to make him certain that she wanted him. She could do that. Besides, she had made the first move last time. It was only fair. He leaned infinitesimally closer. "Yes, Mulder, yes!" He blinked and seemed to snap out of his daze. Damn it. Wasn't he supposed to the mindreader in this partnership? "Well, it's late," he began again. He was doing that annoying thing he'd been doing all week, the one where he was sort of looking at her sideways, as if looking at her directly for too long made his eyes hurt. He began to back up, shuffling his big feet toward the door slowly. He was moving away from her! What was she supposed to do now? She was beginning to feel a little frantic. It was imbecilic that two people as intelligent as they were supposed to be should behave in this fashion. She was 36 years old, for God's sake. Shouldn't she be beyond this stage of adolescent fumbling? Why couldn't she just open her mouth and say something? "Mulder," she said, uncrossing her arms and stepping toward him until the distance between them was what it had been the minute before. God, her mind was a complete blank. "Yes," he said, "that's me." His face was completely still, without a hint of a smile on it, as if he was bracing himself for some sort of blow. It was his panic face, she realized miserably. He thought that she thought they'd made a mistake and that this was what she wanted to tell him. Why had she left without waking him up? She dropped her chin, feeling chastened by her behavior. Her own actions had made this situation more awkward than it already would have been. Then again, the fault wasn't hers alone. Not talking about things had become habit for them, and old habits were so hard to break. She truly didn't know how to begin the conversation. She had broken out into a light sweat everywhere, including her palms. She began to rub them nervously on her trousers to dry them, her brain searching for something to say to make him stay. "Mulder," she said, looking up and then stopped, drawn up short by the expression on his face. He was watching her hands rubbing against her thighs as if mesmerized. She felt hope for the first time that this situation was salvageable. She forced herself to keep moving her hands, slowing down their motions until it was less a nervous gesture and more of an erotic one. "Yes," he practically whispered. He glanced up at her face for a second before his eyes returned as if magnetized to the sight of her hands brushing against the dark fabric of her slacks. She felt infused with courage suddenly, felt the sense of surety that she had been sorely lacking returning to her. "I don't want you to go," she said calmly. This time when his eyes focused on hers, she wouldn't let him break the gaze. She stepped in a little closer and Mulder swayed, as if he wanted to move toward her but was holding himself back. "You don't," he said in that same quiet voice. "No." Her answer was firm and decisive. She took another step forward and Mulder's chest heaved, but he wasn't bending towards her as he normally did, damn it. He was too darn tall for her to kiss unless he would cooperate and he didn't seem to want to. Their bodies were mere inches apart. Mulder shifted restlessly, but maintained their separateness. He was looking down at her with an expression that she could only describe as wary. "What do you want?" he asked after they had stood there in suspension for a moment. She felt the air from his words caress her hair as they slid around her. "I want..." she began to say, sure that she was going to be able to vocalize her desires. She raised her head looked up at his burning eyes and felt her voice fade. Mulder was really good-looking, she thought with some astonishment. When had he become so familiar to her that she had failed to notice that? She swayed a little closer to him, feeling the smooth fabric of his suit pants on the backs of her hands. Mulder shuddered and his eyes closed for a second. "What do you want, Scully?" he asked for a second time, his voice sounding harsh and constrained. She shook her head, watching the lights in his really interesting eyes move as they followed her. She was beyond the speaking thing at this point, intoxicated by the nearness of him, the crackle and spark of heat that shimmered between them. She felt bold, predatory and possessive. Her knuckles brushed against Mulder's pant legs again and she felt the firmness of his thighs underneath them. It was too much temptation for her. She watched him attempting to remain impassive as she turned her hands over, placing them on the smooth muscles and sliding them slowly upward. Her hands were moving of their own volition, as she watched Mulder blink and breathe shallowly at her exploration. She took her time, moving her hands from the curved roundness of his quadriceps to the flat, narrow space of his pelvis. She curved her left hand up and over his hipbone as her right hand diverged from its parallel track and found the zipper on his pants. Without a word, she pulled it down and slid her hand in to grasp him gently but firmly through the slit in his boxers. Mulder jumped to attention in her hand as his back hit the door. She sensed, rather than saw, his hands come up to cradle her head from either side as his lips descended from above to kiss her senseless. Or perhaps he was kissing sensation back into her. She was aware of herself at every point in her body where they connected, the tips of his fingers against her scalp, the wet, firm warmth of his tongue in her mouth, the pull and press of his lips against her own. Moreover, she felt the rush of blood thrumming through his body, stretching the flesh that she was still slowly caressing. Thankfully, her normally cold hands had been warmed up when she rubbed them against her thighs and he was responding to her the way she wanted him to. She was not quite sure whose rules she was playing by right now, but for the first time in forever, she was not concerned with whether or not she was doing something correctly. Instead, she was doing what she wanted. Mulder's hands had crept under her jacket and he'd pulled her against him as he kissed her face, her ears, her neck. She couldn't do much more than hold onto him in this position, one hand around his back under his jacket tracing the dip of his spine, one hand wrapped around him as he pushed against her. "Scully," he choked out against her neck and she remembered sharply how much she loved the way he'd repeated her name when they made love earlier in the week. It wasn't just the name he had baptized her with all those years ago -- Scully was a separate persona from the Dana of her childhood years. Scully was fearless, forthright and bold. Scully was who she'd wanted to be when she was a girl, the hero in the fairy tale. Scully was who Mulder had always thought she was. She brought her left hand up to his head and caressed him, kissing his hairline where the scar he acquired last fall lay hidden. "Mulder," she named him with assurance, trying to convey her understanding that in those two names was the essence of their partnership. He straightened up at her words and sighed. He seemed as if he wanted to say something. She shook her head, silently telling him that now was not the time for speech. They weren't that good at talking anyway, but she was willing to bet that they could become excellent at this form of communication. She stroked him firmly, her thumb caressing the declivity on the underside of his penis where the head met the shaft. Mulder shuddered from head to toe and bent forward as if compelled to kiss her, his tongue caressing hers. When they broke apart panting, she wrapped her free arm around his neck and drew him down, stretching up out of her shoes. "Come with me, Mulder," she whispered in his ear and he jumped, straightening out of her grasp to look down at her. He was flushed and wearing what little lipstick she'd had on when she had started this seduction. His eyes were dancing with laughter and she knew that she should be blushing from head to foot at the leering double entendre in his glance, but she wasn't. She stood her ground instead, still holding onto him, her thumb tracing the ridge around the head of his penis as she stared into his eyes. She had never known exactly how one made a glance smolder before, but she seemed to know how now. She could see it in his surprised, appreciative glance. He knew with certainty, that what she wanted was him. She stepped backward out of her shoes and still holding him in her hand, gently pulled him toward her. For the first time in her life she felt truly grown up in a sexual situation. Not wanton but womanly, secure in the knowledge that the responses that she generated in him, while physiological, were just for her. Bent at an awkward angle, he stooped to kiss her as she began to walk backward to her room. He kept whispering her name, almost like a mantra, as she pushed at his jacket one-handed. He shed it behind him as they traversed the living room, his tie, shirt and T-shirt left in a trail as she ran her hands over the warm flesh he exposed, stopping to nip at the rill of muscles that ran over his ribs. In the bedroom, he toed off his shoes while she shrugged out of her jacket. She was loath to let go of him, having towed him all the way to her bedroom by his penis, but she needed two hands to dispense with her own clothing. They hit the bed hard, falling on their sides wrapped in each other's embrace. He had tried to gather her close at the exact moment that her hand returned to caress his rigid flesh; they had lost their balance as the shock of their joint nudity occurred to them simultaneously. Mulder regained his equilibrium first and wanted to spend some time exploring her flesh, but her firm grip on his parts prevented him from being able to reach lower than her breasts. She flipped over onto her back and he followed, covering her as she tried to wiggle into position beneath him. "Scully," he gasped, trying to lodge some sort of protest as he vainly tried to get a mouthful of her vanishing breast. "Not now," she hissed, trying to align their hips so that she could get him inside of her. "You can do that later." "When?" Mulder croaked, keeping his hips away from hers defiantly. So much for their silent communication. "Later," she moaned, wrapping her legs and arms around his back and trying to pull him down. "Tonight?" he demanded. He was stronger than he looked. He was resisting her. "If you're up to it," she said agreeably, putting more pressure on his lower back. His expression was pinched and he was gritting his teeth, but he still managed to hover above her. "Or tomorrow, if you'd prefer." She felt the resistance lessen sharply and used her strong thigh muscles to pull him down to her. "What about Sunday?" he asked. "What's wrong with now, Mulder?" she muttered, trying to get her hand back in between their bodies. If she could just get a hold of him, then she could get him inside her. He had pressed himself tightly against her, maddeningly close to where she wanted him to be, but tantalizingly not there. He was trapping her hand quite effectively. She glared up at him. "Catholics do have sex on Sundays, Mulder. That's just a myth." She could feel him throbbing against her aching labia. "What?" She was going to kill him if he didn't do something soon. "What about next weekend?" he asked quietly. He was braced above her on his elbows. He ran his fingers down the sides of her face to make her look up at him. "I don't have any plans next weekend, Mulder," she fumed. "But I did have some plans for tonight." "I noticed," he said earnestly. "I just wanted to know how I fit into those plans." She thought she could see a glimmer of fear in his eyes. Even though she felt like gnashing her teeth in frustration, she forced herself to focus on that. "You're in all my plans from now on, Mulder," she said sincerely. "I promise." He hunched over to kiss her and the friction of their lower bodies was almost enough to make her scream. "And no making plans with anybody else, right?" Mulder asked. "Absolutely not," she said firmly. Mulder rose up above her, pushing her knees up, then slid into her in one smooth stroke. "Ohhh..." she sang out as her eyes rolled back into her skull. She flung her arms over her head and arched her back as he surged in and out of her. This felt so good that she never wanted it to stop. "Mulder," she murmured and opened her eyes halfway. He was balancing his weight on his hands, hunched over above her, his eyes focused on her face. "Hmmm..." he hummed at her, questioning. "Don't stop," she requested. "Wasn't going to," he said in staccato fashion. He was speeding up already. She couldn't have that. "Make it last," she pleaded and he slowed down. She remembered an article she'd read in Rolling Stone years ago in which Sting had gone on and on about how he routinely had sex for four or five hours before achieving orgasm. At the time, she could only think of the potential for chafing and soreness and of the sheer annoyance factor of having sex with a man who refused to have an orgasm to prove his sexual prowess. But right now, she wanted this to go on for as long as possible. "I really missed you this week," she whispered to him as they pushed back and forth. "Scully," he said in an agonized sort of way and bent to kiss her. She smoothed her hands over his rounded back, feeling that its shape somehow was a declaration of love for her, of the way they had accommodated to each other over the years. She stretched to kiss the freckles on his shoulder as their rhythm picked up and he moaned low in his chest. She felt a sense of connectedness even more powerful than the first time they had made love. Every nerve ending in her body was alive and tingling. When she laid back down, he was watching her with his articulate eyes. She peered back from under half closed lids because it was too hard to keep her eyes wide open against the weight of all the pleasure coursing through her. He made her feel so much. She reached between them and he groaned, eyelids slamming shut as she grasped him at the root while he slid in and out of her. Her actions provoked the teeth-gritting tremble of lust from him that she had wanted and she smiled, pleased with her power over him. She wondered where the uncertain woman in the kitchen had gone as he surged against her harder. The friction built to its inevitable peak and she gave herself over to it willingly, pulling Mulder along with her for the ride. Every muscle in her body tensed, then relaxed into exquisite relief. Her back cracked. Her sinuses cleared and her ears were ringing from his hoarse cries. She cradled his limp, trembling body against hers tenderly. The girl who had always needed a list to analyze the situation had finally been transformed into the woman who could improvise, using whatever tools happened to be at hand. She ran her hands up and down Mulder's heaving ribs; there'd be no stopping her now. "Mulder," she whispered sweetly, "why don't you get some rest?" She kissed his ear gently and he turned in her embrace, a dazed smile on his face. Scully smiled in return and murmured, "You're going to need it." ~*~*~*~ Author's Notes: Well, it wasn't my normal rather angsty fare, was it? However, since Chris Carter seems determined not to amuse me during Season 8 (if the spoilers are to be believed), I've decided to amuse myself. I hope that you were amused as well. Feedback is always welcome at: Anjou@rocketmail.com. Website: http://www.stas.net/fanfic/anjou/ Thanks to Lauryn, Spookys Mistress 2001 and my patient webmistress. Special thanks to Miss Moe for putting up with my tirades of late. Extra special thanks to Suzanne, my sister, friend and editrix.