Pick Up and Walk Away (1/1--NC-17) by Jayel (mlifsey@mail.infoave.net) Disclaimer: The character of Fox Mulder was created by Chris Carter and belongs to him, Fox and Ten-Thirteen Productions, but I think maybe I like him better . No copyright infringement is intended. Summary: The title says it all--Fox gets laid, it's a she, and she ain't Scully, although there is some implied relationship angst. The action is fairly straightforward R-rated sex, but the language used to describe it is a bit raw. Comments of all kinds more than welcome at mlifsey@mail.infoave.net ********************************************************************* Mulder stared into his drink with Zen-like concentration, watching the redhead's approach out of the corner of his eye. A blur of curls the color of autumn foliage on an insurance company calendar; white, white skin; black, black clothes. Whisper of patchouli perfume as she made it to the stool at last. "Nice tie," she remarked, gesturing to summon the bartender. "Nice pick-up line," he responded. "Use it a lot?" "In this place?" she laughed--whisky voice; southern accent; very nice; very, very wrong. "Somehow, it rarely seems to come up." The bartender loomed, his shadow blocking Mulder's light. "Jack and ginger, Larry," Red ordered. "That's Jack *Daniels*, okay?" "Yeah, right," Larry muttered through the tinkling of ice. "Who's paying?" "I am," Red answered. "No," Mulder interrupted, taking a five from his wallet and dropping it on the bar between the puddles. "Hey, forget it," Red demurred, a slender hand with grayish-lavender painted nails picking up the bill and holding it up before his nose. "If you can't even look at me, why bother buying me a drink?" He closed his eyes for a moment, bracing himself for the shock, the inevitable disappointment. Even if the hair was perfect, the skin, the smell, the eyes were always wrong--brown or hazel or emerald. Meeting the gaze of his own reflection in the half-obscured mirror behind the bar, he lifted his head and turned . . . The eyes were blue--vividly, entrancingly, perfectly blue--blue enough to make up for the curls in the hair and the funky clothes and even the silly fingernails. "Hi," he said, smiling. "Hi," she responded with a laugh, feigning shock with a hand pressed to her chest. "How are you?" "Terrific," he answered, recovering the five and handing it to their mutual best friend. Her name was Sarah Mahaley; she was a writer; she drank Jack Daniels; she smoked filtered Camels; she thought Derrida was the Anti-Christ and Tom Robbins a "brilliant clown." Mulder collected the tiny, pointless facts of her into a daisy chain of trivia, a hoard of personality to be admired for the moment, fading as it bloomed. "You don't talk much," she observed with a smile, taking out another cigarette. "For example, I'm assuming this doesn't bother you." "It does, actually," he answered, taking the lighter from her hand and igniting the flame. "Oh for pity's sake," she laughed, dropping the cigarette and snatching the lighter back. "Why didn't you--you know, if you'd learn to open up those pretty lips, you might not die of cancer." "Could be," he conceded, smiling back. "You think I have pretty lips?" "Gorgeous," she replied without hesitation. "Especially this bottom one . . .. " She leaned across the table to trace the curve of his mouth with her fingertips--faint taste of tobacco and nail polish and woman-scent that made even these seem sweet. "It almost makes up for the nose," she teased. "Excuse me?" he demanded, mock-indignant. "You heard me," she retorted with a grin. "Hey, if you're going to eschew the superficial niceties of interpersonal relations, you're bound to get insulted eventually." "Eschew?" he repeated. "Who actually says eschew--who can even *pronounce* eschew?" "I can and I do," she laughed, blushing. "But only when I'm nervous." He reached down the bar and barely brushed the delicate bones of her wrist. "I make you nervous?" "You know it," she answered, letting him touch her, making no move to touch him back or withdraw. "I'd even go so far as to say you're doing it on purpose." He met her perfect blue eyes and smiled. "Some people say eschew, other people . . . " "Other people say as little as possible and let the other party swing in the wind," she finished for him. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely, taking her hand--small, fragile bones, soft palm, gentle pressure in return. "I guess I just don't consider myself very interesting." "Now why don't I believe you?" she laughed, easy again. "I think you consider yourself way too interesting for mass consumption." She turned their joined hands over on the bar and looked at his watch. "Ten minutes 'til closing time," she remarked, her drawl suddenly more distinctively Southern. "Am I lookin' any better?" "You look great," he answered, half-teasing, half-truth. She laughed, a fetching yelp that made Larry look up and almost smile. "I tell you what, Fox, you are just sweeping me off my feet," she shot back. "I don't want to make a scene," he explained, mock-serious, making her laugh again. "No danger of that . . . " She reached down with her free hand and retrieved her purse. "So okay, one question, then we're out of here, one way or another." Yes, I like you very much, he thought. "Fair enough," he said aloud, finishing his drink. "What's the question?" "What's a nice, button-down guy like you doing in a dive full of pseudo-deviants like us?" she asked with a smile as fragile as the bones in her hand. "What are you looking for?" A clever retort rose to his lips and died there. "Something very different from what I'm used to," he answered honestly. "And something at least somewhat the same." The blue eyes narrowed slightly, searching his face--perfect perfect perfect--forcing him to struggle to keep his hold on her light and casual, anything but desperate. "Did you find it?" she asked. He smiled. "That's another question," he pointed out. "You promised me only one." "Time, gentlemen, please!" Larry shouted, ringing a bell behind the bar. Mulder and Red looked at one another for a single, shocked beat before she dissolved in laughter. "This joint must be classier than I thought," Mulder mused, smiling more at her than the joke. "How English . . . " "Or something," she agreed, getting up from her barstool. "Come on." Her apartment was so much what he had expected he felt a sense of deja vu as she led him through the door--aggressively beautiful pre-Raphaelite art prints in cheap frames or no frames at all, lots of candles, seedy elegance of worn English floral print furniture--soft upon soft upon soft, with books and magazines scattered over all and a computer squatting friendly in a corner. Even the air seemed artfully created to comfort, alive with the dusty scent of dried rose petals and vanilla. "It smells good in here," he remarked as she took his jacket. "Thanks," she replied, bemused. "I baked my godson a birthday cake this afternoon." She moved into the tiny kitchen and started cracking ice. "You want another drink?" "No, thanks . . . " He picked up the gray stone wolf fetish guarding the counter and weighed it in his palm. "Well, if you don't mind, I think I'll have one," she said, splashing whiskey on her ice. "I haven't figured out what to say to you next, and I'm hoping maybe this will help." He looked up, genuinely surprised. "You don't need it," he promised, going to her. "You don't have to say anything, Red . . ." He bent and kissed her, steadying her drink with one hand as the other arm pressed her close. Holding her, tasting . . . like walking into her apartment, sinking into an almost unbearable softness, cool relief so sweet it felt like dreaming . . . virtual comfort, a pantomime of peace . . . "Red?" she asked archly, breaking the kiss but leaving her drinkless hand draped around his neck. "That's cute, Fox. Or does it just mean you've forgotten my name?" His answer was to kiss her again, deeper this time, bruising her tender mouth . . . Fox--something in the way she said it, her Alabama diphthong twisting the vowel out of proportion--nails on a chalkboard with nails on his back, excruciating and exciting at once. Her tongue tasted like her voice, whiskey laced with sugar and lemon . . . fascinating, delicious, but he couldn't help dreaming of toothpaste or root beer. Come on, Mulder, if you can't take it for what it is, don't take it . . . He took the drink from her hand and set it aside, and both her arms came up around him, enfolding him in that softness . . . hard not to devour her, sink into her on the kitchen floor. "Come on," she murmured, kissing behind his ear before moving out of his arms. "Let's go." * * * * * * Mahaley, you've lost your mind, she thought, taking his hand again to lead him down the hall. To hell with what he needs and how can you be that--what do you need? Not this, I can almost promise. She paused in the bedroom doorway and turned to him. "Are you sure--?" His face wore a look of such intense wanting she couldn't have begun to resist him, those sleepy eyes open wide at last, focused on her so tight. Lovely . . . She dragged him close to her, wrapping her arms around him as that look melted into another hungry kiss . . . Sarah Mahaley, the human cupcake . . . oh my sweet baby . . . what is so fucking bad you can't stand it another minute? That's all right, angel . . . I'm here . . . She slid her fingers into the soft, short crop of his hair as he leaned her back into the doorframe, lifting a leg to twine it around him, press the hard insisting of his cock tight into her soft while she petted him the way she would a weeping child. When they're little boys, they cry, but when they grow up they'd rather fuck something. Maybe they could carve that on her gravestone--Here Lies Something. Preferably On Her Back. "It's okay, angel-boy," she murmured against his cheek, kisses turning words to gibberish . . . prickle of stubble on her lips--he only looked clean and smooth and perfect. "Every little thing is just fine . . . " He nuzzled her throat, his hands sliding under her shirt, snuffling, searching, looking for the way inside, making her desperate, too--ooo how we want to be wanted. "Hey," she teased, sliding free, the latch plate of the door lock catching at her skirt as she tugged him into the room. "Four more steps that way and this whole party goes horizontal." "And horizontal is better?" he asked, closing the gap again with his irony intact. "Yep," she answered dreamily, working the knot of his tie loose, concentrating so carefully to keep her mind clear enough to perform this simple mechanical function . . . in books and movies, clothes could simply disappear if need be, and wasn't that convenient? "You're a wee bit tall for me, Fox," she continued, smiling up at him as the tie slid free--mission accomplished. "And I'm more than a wee bit tired." "It's late," he agreed, kissing her again as she wriggled out of her skirt, baby kisses all across her face as her movements dragged her lips out of reach. She pulled away for a moment to tug her camisole and t-shirt and sweater all over her head in a thick-wadded roll, emerging to find him still just watching, his shirt collar open but otherwise completely dressed. Only his face was naked, vulnerable, hair falling over his forehead, mouth slightly open, slightly bruised-looking and burning with kisses, and those hungry eyes that slid over her skin like the most delicate finger- touch. "You're really pale," he remarked, reaching out to touch her upper arm, tracing the geography of freckles scattered up to her shoulder. She took a step toward him, close enough to feel warmth radiating through his clothes, her freshly-bared nipples brushing the slightly scratchy white of his shirtfront. "I don't tan," she explained, working the buttons free, smiling at the pristine white cotton of his t-shirt underneath. Her mama would love this boy . . . "I just burn, peel, and turn white again." She tugged his shirttail out of his pants, then leaned closer as she reached for his fly, her head resting and nuzzling against his shoulder as his palms caressed her back. She caught him by the elbows as she tilted up into a kiss, steering him around to push him back on the bed. "That was interesting," he teased, kicking out of his shoes as she tugged his pants down and away. "You should see me do the tango," she shot back, crawling over him as he slid back on the bed, his hands coming up to encircle her waist before sliding up to her breasts. "Although ordinarily I prefer not to lead," she added through a gasp as he gently squeezed. He grinned. "Should I take that as a hint?" he asked, pulling her down and close to baptize her eyes and nose and cheeks and chin with soft, wet kisses between his words, barest touch of his tongue on her skin, tasting her face. "Take it however," she answered, purr of breath and voice against his throat as she positioned the tingling itch between her legs against his cock, rock hard and hot against the concave-curving muscle of her inner thigh. "Just take it . . . " She arched her ass up and back for a long, thrilling moment of anticipation before sliding her cunt down over him, drawing him deeper as gravity drew her down, her breath escaping in a slow, sighing hiss of momentary contentment . . . the second best time of the night . . . His arms closed around her so tight, need expressed in power, hard muscle pressed to the softness of her breasts, hard cock bushing deeper into the soft inside . .. . love you, baby boy, whoever the hell you are . . . His hands slid down her arms as she rocked slowly over him, delicious friction stretched out thin, and he clasped each of her hands in his, lacing his fingers with her, hands of a poet, callous on the thumb that brushed the fleshy mound that curved into her wrist . . . astounding and lovely, the bone-shattering thrill of this one tiny touch in the midst of everything else. She lifted her head to capture his mouth with hers, fevered breath almost panting into her as he shifted her closer, demanding, faster . . . yes, angel, I want it, too, want you . . . She caught his lower lip between her teeth and sucked it into her mouth, tender flesh for such a hard lover . .. . Want you very, very much . . . "You feel so good," she murmured into his ear, closing in tighter around him, the ache inside her deepening, rising sharply toward a peak. "Now?" she asked him, trusting the creature inside her to know what she meant even if the brain that fed it didn't. "No," he answered, a rough growl against her ear, an order, not an answer. Grabbing her tighter in his arms, he flung her over on her back, rolling with her, his cock pulling almost free before plunging hard to what felt like her spine, his hips slamming hard against hers, a crash of flesh- crushing bone on bone that made her scream with indignation and gratitude all mixed up into want too intense for thinking beyond a simple, heartfelt yesssssss . . . * * * * * * Mulder blinked into the faded gray of new light, the world reduced to the delicate thudding of a heartbeat and the gentle rise and fall of breath . . .. sleeping soft under his head, heavy arms draped limp around his shoulders .. . . pretty, pretty girl he barely knew . . . He eased himself from her embrace as gently as possible, kissing her cheek when she stirred. Don't open those big, blue eyes, Red, or we're both lost. Turning his back on the bed, he reached for his clothes. He almost made it--dressed, with cell phone in pocket, headed for the door. Then the big red numbers on her digital clock flipped over to 7:00, and the sweet strains of Aerosmith roared out into the dawn. * * * * * * Sarah rolled over and slapped the snooze, her bare knee finding a little spot of damp on the sheets . . . oh hell. Looking up, she found a fully dressed Fox standing over the bed, looking way more like a deer caught in headlights. "Busted," she teased, sinking back again. "I didn't want to wake you," he explained. "So I gathered," she answered, turning her face back into the still-warm, boy-scented pillow. "Have a nice day at work, honey." She could feel him feeling guilty and sad for her, the perfect prick--one of the many mystic joys of fucking a stranger, the nerve level intuition of emotional response from a mind like a closed steel trap. "Hey Red," he said at last. Can't you just shut up and let me sink back into last night? she thought irritably. You want to go away, so go away . . . "Yeah?" she said, rolling back over to give him her best come hither smile like she didn't know she was a morning after wreck. He just stared at her for so long she began to think he'd los this train of thought or something far more vital. "You know how last night you asked me what I was looking for?" "I seem to remember something like that," she allowed, sitting up. "Did you find it?" "Not exactly," he admitted with a sheepish grin that made him look about nine again--a nine-year- old kid with the eyes of an ancient ancestor. "But .. . . I'm glad I found you." And what, pray tell, was she supposed to say to that? Was she supposed to be touched, intrigued, satisfied, hopelessly in love? She got out of bed and kissed him softly on the mouth. "Me, too," she answered truthfully, patting him on the ass and backing away when he leaned down to kiss her again. "We ain't much, Fox, but we're something." Finis.