From: "Mandy Gerdes" Date: Thu, 21 Oct 1999 10:41:19 -0700 Subject: xfc: NEW: "Predictable" 1 of 1 Source: xfc Reply To: "Mandy Gerdes" From: "Mandy Gerdes" TITLE: Predictable AUTHOR: Amanda E-MAIL ADDRESS: Agerdes@prodigy.net DISTRIBUTION: Ask and ye shall receive... but please leave the header and stuff intact. Thanks! SPOILER WARNING: ummm... ova stuff... RATING: NC-17 (There's really no explicit sex - and don't think I didn't hear that sniffle! - but there are a few descriptions of it....) CLASSIFICATION: S, UST, MSR, a little A? KEYWORDS: none... well, not really. I guess this number has a smutty aura about it, but it's not REALLY smut... you'll get it, don't worry. At least I hope so. If you don't, e-mail me and tell me I'm retarded and why can't I write a good story?? =) SUMMARY: Okay, I wrote this at 1:00 a.m, but at this time of the morning it makes perfect sense to me. Hopefully it will make sense to you too. =) It's a Mulder and Scully get even with CSM/Save the World fic. AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is nothing like the stories I normally post (i.e. humor-based). And yes, I do apologize to those of you who are waiting for "Dreamland?" to be finished, but I needed a little break, assuming something a little more serious will stir up the overworked humor- generator. And also... I have no beta. I am betaless. So this means that all of you get to serve a beta-esque function by e-mailing me and telling me what I mis-spelled, what's totally incomprehensible, etc. etc.... =) 8:57 p.m. Saturday Location Unknown A Saturday evening. It was no doubt pleasantly cool and quiet in Her Anapolis neighborhood, he speculated as smoke billowed around him in a wispy caricature of a halo. She was certainly curled up in her easy chair, the strains of a Rachmaninoff piano concerto filling the room as She snuggled beneath the afghan her grandmother had crocheted for her years before. He settled into a chair himself and glanced at his watch. Nearly nine o'clock. Perfect timing. He flipped on the bug in her living room and then leaned back into the cushions, taking a long, slow drag from his cigarette. He was wrong about Rachmaninoff, he noted. It was Beethoven, as he should have predicted given that She always listened to the impassioned Old Master when awaiting Him, her own impassioned attendant. He heard the crackling of a small fire in her hearth; another sure sign that He was expected. When there was the unmistakable jingle of keys against her lock, he knew that He had arrived. He tapped his cigarette over the ashtray, listening. "You're late." Her voice was low and throaty, containing a husky promise of His impending punishment for keeping Her waiting. He could imagine Her slowly closing her book and setting it down carefully next to the lamp and folding her hands gently in her lap. "I was waiting." Ah, the voice again. Never in the basement office did he ever hear such sensual tones issued from her throat; never once in their rental cars or in their motel rooms during six years of their partnership had he ever heard such a lush, promising lilt. Only on the Saturday nights when They were not on a case. He had a faint wish to hear Her speak so more often and for longer periods of time. But the soft, silken tones would soon shift, rising in both volume and intensity as a direct corollary to her partner's ministrations... She would soon lose the smooth huskiness to a keening cry as She begged Him for release. He especially liked it when She begged. Such a vast and interesting dichotomy between the office and the bedroom; She commanded both respect and power in her pressed suits, heels, and aura of raw acumen... but She willingly released her claims to power as soon as He touched her in the privacy of her home. A beautiful, erotic dichotomy that he could only appreciate from afar. As far as dichotomies were concerned, He was one himself. A man bearing years of emotional baggage upon his overworked shoulders; a man conditioned since childhood to retreat into the sanctity of his own massive intelligence to escape the cruelties and indignities of the world which had taken his sister and his innocence... and yet that made seemingly no difference to his sexuality which was, by the sounds recorded every Saturday evening, perfectly healthy. No masochism or sexual reticence for this man, despite what had happened to Him. A truly strong character. He flicked a spray of still smoldering ashes into the ashtray. A scuffle. A low gasp. A muffled groan. He had no doubt sped across the room, shedding his omnipresent trenchcoat as He moved, pushed Her to the floor and had groaned deeply in muted satisfaction as He landed atop Her, cradled comfortably between her silken thighs. A faint smile plucked at his aged, tobacco- stained lips as he pictured the scene. "Mulderrr...." The smiled widened. He did love it when She moaned His name like that; it was a breathy utterance, almost as if She were holding on to the final vestiges of the self-control that so defined Her. Just as he loved the way He half-shouted half-grunted her name as He came, surrendering himself to Her completely and with total abandon. He enjoyed the sound of that blissful surrender, the innocent and almost child-like happiness denied Him for so long. But he was getting ahead of himself. Tonight he would savor their lovemaking as they did, for tonight was The Night. They had no idea that this, their lovemaking, was all part of the plan. As one of the many adjustments deemed necessary during her three-month phase, he had already had Her ova adjusted properly for this task... as he had already made the essential changes to Him at Ellens AFB so many years ago. As the sighs turned to whimpers and he felt the familiar twinges of arousal as he listened, he checked the calendar... and smiled, taking another deep, penetrating drag. This was the month... the night. The timing was perfect. He had patiently waited for the weekly joinings of Them to align with the most fertile part of Her cycle and though conception would have occurred much faster had the intrepid pair been less paranoid and had not limited their trysts to Saturday nights, the timing for this month was perfect... much better even than if he had allowed his comrades to use the chip in her neck to align her cycle earlier. Oh yes, tonight was The Night. The night The Project's last hope would be conceived. * * * * * 8:57 p.m. Saturday Scully's Apartment A Saturday evening, the cool evening air warded off by a thick crocheted afghan around her shoulders and a small fire crackling in her hearth. She was in the mood for a little Dvorak, but Beethoven would have to do. After all, He expected it of her. And who was she to stop being predictable? she thought darkly, absently flipping through a copy of the latest issue of JAMA. She looked at her watch. In just over two minutes, Mulder would let himself into her apartment. He would have left his apartment at seven-thirty, having skipped any semblance of dinner in favor of his ubiquitous sunflower seeds. Whether it was because packaged seeds were more nutritional - or God forbid more tasty - than anything he could prepare himself, or because he was as flutter-stomached as she was prior to these Saturday night rituals, she couldn't say. But she did know that it took forty-five minutes to get from his apartment to hers and that for an equal length of time, he simply sat in his darkened car across the street, his only movement flicking a sunflower seed between his lips or rubbing the bridge of his nose. For the first few months of their encounters, way back during the very beginning of their partnership, she had observed him from her bedroom window as he sat in his car, wondering what exactly was reeling through his mind and if it was at all similar to the whirling mass of thoughts that swirled through her own head. She no longer went to the window, but she knew he was there, thoughtful and silent. And within moments, he would be unlocking her door. Good FBI agents didn't engage in this kind of activity. But then again, she had forfeited all normalcy when she had given him her complete loyalty and - dare she admit it? - her heart. The sound of keys jingling in her lock jolted her back to reality and she instinctively stood. She caught herself smoothing her sweater down... and then tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. She could never find something to do with her hands during these first, discomfiting moments. "You're late," she said before he had even fully emerged from the shadows of the hall. They stared at each other for a long, seemingly interminable moment. "I was waiting," she added in the same tone, hoping her voice didn't catch. The tension was palpable. She couldn't seem to break her gaze from his. And then he looked away, glanced briefly at the series of suitcases lined up neatly by her door, then tossed his trenchcoat over the back of her couch and sat down, crossing his legs. She followed suit, slowly lowering herself back into the easy chair, folding her hands in her lap, and looking down at the fabric her grandmother had so tirelessly created. He folded his arms behind his head and leaned back into the cushions of the couch and nodded silently at her. It was time to begin. She was not looking at him so she could not see his signal, but she knew what was expected of her. She took a deep breath, exhaled slowly and silently... and then gasped loudly, her breath hitching in her throat. He answered her with a soft, faint groan. How typical, she thought darkly as she added another softer, lighter moan to the mix. As far as He was concerned, she and Mulder were on the way to an evening of titillation and eventual gratification and that was the way it should be. These Saturday rituals were for His benefit and His alone; there would be nothing but the tantalizing pretense of sex for the actual participants. No intimate touches, no ecstacy blinding in its intensity... simply the pretense of such. It was not fair. But, as Mulder had eventually convinced her, it *was* necessary. To pretend to play the roles expected of them - and there was no doubt at all in her mind that He expected them to transcend the boundaries set for them by the FBI - was to gain insight into the ultimate game plan and the players in it without actually stepping in bounds. But tonight was The Night. The timing was perfect. Everything was aligned, everything taken care of, all plans set. They had planned this deception long before they knew what the rewards could be; they had continued it for years, waiting for the time when they had the most at stake and the most to gain. Oh yes, tonight was definitely the night... the night when they would blow the whole charade open and go out with a bang. Mulder had been the first to pitch the idea that they were being manipulated into having a love affair - the alienation from coworkers and family, the unbelievable horror they had experienced together... everything was set up perfectly to drive them to find comfort in each other's embraces. But it had been Scully, after having been subjected to countless injustices during her three-month abduction, who had realized the true significance of the harvesting of her ova: *not* a human/alien hybrid, but a living, breathing, *naturally immune* human, a human born with the innate ability to form antibodies to the alien virus. To Him, her child would be an antibody-factory, capable of saving everyone on the planet from a gruesome, undeserved death... but to be used only as a tool to save those He deemed laudable. As she groaned Mulder's name, she wondered if He had already opened a bottle of champagne to celebrate the conception of the child He had planned for so long. She wished she could see his face by the end of the evening.... "Ohhh, Scully," moaned Mulder into his collar to give it a more muffled sound. He looked at his watch and nodded. Scully nodded back, checking her own watch and gasping out, "The couch, Mulder, on the couch...." Nine-twenty-five. Almost showtime. Mulder partially stood and then flopped back onto the cushions with a thud, bringing a faint smile to Scully's lips. He shrugged gamely. "You're wearing too many clothes, Mulder," Scully added in a breathless murmur, certain that His high-tech bugs could pick up the lower volume. She rustled her afghan and Mulder swished his trenchcoat. "Better?" he asked her after a few moments of rustling clothing. "Much," she murmured. "Now... I want you in me. Now." She quirked an eyebrow; Mulder grinned faintly. She counted with her fingers: one... two... three! * * * * * 9:29 p.m. Saturday Location Unknown "Oh, God...." "Ohhhhhh... Mulder!" He tapped his cigarette on the ashtray again and resisted the urge to touch himself. His favorite point - penetration. The moment was always marked by at least one reference to an almighty deity and the rapid, shallow breathing of an impassioned couple on the brink of fulfillment. "God, Scully, you feel so good." He could only imagine how good She would feel. But it was not to the advantage of the Project for him to find out firsthand. It was almost as good to just listen. Their breathing had increased, punctuated by faint little whimpers and occasional grunts. Even Beethoven, as if sensing the rising tide of pleasure in the room, had increased both tempo and volume, a vast series of dissonances converging in an ever-crescendo-ing cadence of emotional fervor. And then all was silent. No music, no breathing, no moans. Nothing. He frowned and leaned forward, checking the controls on the bug to see that it was still working. It appeared to be intact. He listened intently... but when he finally heard something, it was not at all what he had predicted. "Would you like a make-believe orgasm to go with the make-believe sex or can we stop now?" inquired Fox Mulder's voice politely. His eyes narrowed slowly. Impossible. "Not impossible. Implausible, but not impossible," added Dana Scully's calm, detached voice. "And dare I add rather... unpredictable?" No... it couldn't be. After all this time, it couldn't be. Could it? "We win, you black-lunged bastard," Mulder added in a near snarl. "You hear that?" he shouted. "*We win!*" Then there was a deafening crash, a burst of static... and then nothing. He slowly snuffed out his cigarette. * * * * * red-eye flight somewhere over the Atlantic She had fallen asleep as soon as they had found their seats. He didn't blame her. Tonight had been exhilarating, to be sure, but the two of them had spent a month tying up loose ends in preparation to make their final getaway. And she *had* warned him that any woman in her condition was going to be alternately sick and sleepy. "Mr. and Mrs. LeConte, can I get you anything to---? " He held a finger to his lips and gestured to the redhead drooling on his shoulder. The stewardess lapsed into an apologetic silence. "No, thank you," he whispered. She nodded and turned to the people across the aisle. He smiled down at the sleeping woman by his side and lay a hand gently over the subtle distension of her abdomen. A faint smile curved her lips and she snuggled in closer. She hadn't liked the idea of leaving her family behind, certainly. But she understood what needed to be done to protect the life her body nurtured and she could appreciated that the new identities that awaited them meant a future for their child and indeed for the whole of humanity. He wondered briefly, not for the first time, if it was going to be a girl or a boy. But, he supposed, some things were best left unpredicted. He pulled her in closer to him and closed his eyes to sleep. END Weird, eh? Feedback? Agerdes@prodigy.net Questions about what the hell does it all mean? Agerdes@prodigy.net Questions about what the hell am I smoking? Agerdes@prodigy.net MG *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* G. Anderson: We're alive. D. Duchovny: (clapping) Yippee! GA: And we won. DD: (clapping) Yippee! GA: We are the Number One Alien Ass-Kickers. DD: (clapping) Yippee! GA: C'mere, partner. (grabs and dips DD) I've wanted to do this for a long time! DD: (clapping) Yippee! Wait. What? (GA moves in for a kiss. And then, no not a bee, the alien that popped out of Celine Dion in the last deathmatch walks into the audience.) DD: Omigod! Gillian, look at that! I think it's an alien! GA: (a la Scully): No.. No, see, that's a weather balloon. Yeah, that's it. A weather balloon. With, um, sunspots. DD: Oh. Really? Wow, it's funny how your eyes play tricks on you like that. I remember once when--- Oomph! (GA attacks him in a serious estrogen rush) *MTV's Celebrity Deathmatch 10/15/98: Gillian Anderson & David Duchovny vs. Will Smith & Tommy Lee Jones*