From: asutton128@my-dejanews.com
Date: Sun, 11 Oct 1998 06:50:13 GMT
Subject: NEW: Red Like Raspberries (NC-17) by A. Sutton

Title: Red Like Raspberries 
Author: Amy Sutton 
E-mail: asutton128@mailexcite.com 
Rating: NC-17 
Category: Vignette
Keywords: M/S romance 
Spoilers: None 
Disclaimers: I don't own it, CC does.  The characters are not mine. Please
do not sue me; I am broke. Archive: Okay for Gossamer and XFC. Other
archives, please ask before archiving. Thanks! Author's Notes:  This is my
very first foray into fanfic, although I've been reading for a couple of
years now. I live for feedback, so if you have an opinion about it, let me
know! 


Red Like Raspberries


Scully's Apartment
8:00 PM, Friday evening

Scully leaned back and surveyed her work with a critical eye. She was nothing
if not a perfectionist, and this matter was no exception. Although, she had to
admit, the color somewhat resembled the blood from the crime scene photos she
was still trying to shake from her mind after this afternoon's viewing. After
all, it was so rare that she had a Friday night all to herself, to pamper
herself, and her pedicure had to be perfect. It was one of the only luxuries
Scully allowed herself, even though it was doubtful that anyone would spot
her crimson toes from underneath her stern mask, sensible suits, and even more
sensible shoes. On second thought, Scully mused lazily, I think it's more of a
raspberry color . . .

It had been a slow week in the X-Files division. After last week's demonic
possession case in South Carolina, paperwork had to be filed. And the FBI was
infamous for the countless expense reports and paperwork. Skinner was just
as, if not more, demanding than the Accounting office. Although Scully was
thankful that Mulder had undertaken the chore of writing Skinner's report,
that merely meant she was stuck with the task of sorting through his receipts
for all sorts of *necessities*. Damn Mulder and his oral fixation, Scully
thought to herself. If not for his constant need to have something in his
mouth, I would have been home two hours earlier. But Scully, peacefully
relaxed after a warm bubble bath and surrounded by the tranquillity of her
apartment, could not really fault Mulder for his incessant need to keep his
mouth occupied. In fact, she wondered to herself what would happen if *she*
was the object of his oral fixation.

Startling herself out of her reverie, Scully mentally chastised herself for
continuing to mull over the day's work. She had never been the best at
compartmentalizing the aspects of her work--if anything, her bulldog-like
persistence made her a better scientist and pathologist. The habit of
worrying over troublesome scientific facts had brought her more
enlightenments than not. And in the X-Files and working with Mulder's
sometimes outrageous theories, it was important that she have all the
scientific backing she could get. But, unlike work, she had always been an
expert at compartmentalizing her personal life in the workplace. Although she
had dated Jack, her instructor at the Academy, it had never affected her work
and her record with the FBI was exemplary. But since she had started working
with the X-Files, and with Mulder, her personal life had become more and more
enmeshed with the purpose of finding the truth. Her sacrifices and her pain
at losing family members had only heightened her desire to go the distance .
. . most of the time. And then there were times like tonight, when her soul
was weary from the more tedious aspects of her work, and she was wont to
explore her dissatisfaction with her career in her own mind.

Tidying up the last few smears of stray nail polish, Scully sighed with the
knowledge of a job well done. And sighed again, more regretfully this time,
with the knowledge that she would be the only one to see her blushing toes. I
really need to get a life, she reiterated in her mind for the tenth time that
evening. It wasn't that she was the kind of woman who could never be
alone--she hadn't had a serious relationship with a man besides Mulder in
years. Now why did I think that? Scully mused. Of course Mulder and I don't
have a "relationship" besides friendship. At least not in *that* sense of the
word. Of course, Scully was feeling a bit restless with the prospect of a
lonely Friday night. She had canceled so many times with her girlfriends that
they no longer bothered to call her for girls' nights out. There were always
the Lone Gunmen, but Scully quickly decided with a chuckle that she was
better off alone. That left Mulder. Actually, he was probably still at work.
Oh, well, on the off chance that he was home, she might as well give him a
call. Even if he didn't want to go out, maybe he could come over and bring a
cheesy video. This is so unlike me, thought Scully. Usually I could be happy
with a new issue of the Penology review and a carton of chocolate chip cookie
dough. Not tonight, though. This sense of restlessness could not be denied,
and she was determined to quell it, with or without Mulder.

The familiar number-one speed dial number was ingrained in Scully's
fingertips. Almost thoughtlessly, she dialed the number at their office
first, fully expecting him to still be there at 8:00 PM on a Friday night.
That should tell me something about my own life, Scully grunted resolutely.
After several rings, she hung up and immediately dialed his home phone and
had no further luck. As a final gesture, her fingers did the walking to the
number to Mulder's cell phone. Surely, he would carry that phone on him
always--in case his mysterious contacts needed to reach him at a moment's
notice, Scully rationalized. In reality, I'm just rationalizing my last hope
for a *decent* time on a Friday night, she grudgingly realized. If Mulder
doesn't answer his cell phone, I'm about ready to call my mother, which,
while I love my mother, is not how I want to spend a Friday night when all I
want to do is kick back and have a little fun. Luck was with Scully though,
and Mulder picked up after four rings, and Scully's ears were immediately
assaulted by a loud bassline.

"Mulder!" Mulder's reply was much louder than his usual guttural greeting,
and Scully silently imagined him with one finger in his ear as he squinted
and attempted to hear the caller on the other end. Niggling doubts that
Scully had refused to give voice to in her mind confirmed her worst fear:
even Mulder had better things to do on a Friday night. And she was at home
doing her toenails, for Christ's' sake. Even more depressing was the fact
that he was quite obviously having some sort of social gathering, and she had
not been invited. I wouldn't want to bring a sad man down, Scully thought to
herself.

"Hello? Scully, is that you?" Mulder's loudly questioning voice cut into her
self-mockery and self-pity. She hesitated before replying, but her curiosity
about his "party" got the better of her and she spoke.

"It's me, Mulder. I was just wondering if you would mind coming over sometime
this weekend so we could discuss last week's case. I'm going over your report
for Skinner right now, and I have this question about the so-called `demonic
possession.' I found this piece of evidence that might explain . . ." Scully
strained to make herself heard above the grueling, grinding downbeat. I never
would have taken Mulder for the technobeat sort, she grumpily surmised. I
always thought he'd like more along the lines of . . . well, jazz, smooth and
cool, or hot and heavy. Something mellow that would counteract the constant
stress in his life . . . something that would give me a clue as to what goes
on underneath those infernally handsome and well-fitting suits . . . Scully
surprised herself with her mental tack.

"Scully? I can't really hear you--the Lone Gunmen wanted to use my place to
have a party so they wouldn't have to give away their location. It's just a
bunch of technogeeks sitting around with rum punches, discussing the latest
issue of DNA Quarterly. Would you mind if I came over to your place to get
away from this for a while?"

As Scully hung up the phone with Mulder and glanced around her apartment to
make sure she had an adequate supply of sunflower seeds, it completely slipped
her mind that she had asked him to come over to do actual work. And it also
completely slipped her mind that she and Mulder had never had nothing but work
to do before.

***********************************************************************

Scully's Apartment
10:30 PM, Friday evening

It was true that Scully and Mulder had had a trying week at work. It was true
that they had had an exhausting week at work and on the road. It was true
that they had to spend the better part of the next week wading through
paperwork and receipts for the Accounting department. But that, Mulder
thought, would not really explain why Dana Scully was so fast asleep on the
couch in her apartment that she wouldn't even hear him knocking or entering
when she didn't answer that knock. Indeed, though, she was asleep; there
didn't seem to be any intruders in the apartment, and nothing seemed out of
place that would suggest anything was amiss. Her apartment was as tidy as his
was messy; it seemed as if hers cleaned itself while they were traipsing
about the country, while his took the opposite approach and became even
messier. Mulder made a mental note to gently remind Scully not to leave a
fire burning in the grate if she was going to fall asleep. Moving to the
fireplace, Mulder warmed his hands, chilled from the drive over. Of course
his gloves were nowhere to be found, and the social machinations of the Lone
Gunmen made it impossible for him to take a look around his apartment before
he left. Not that he would have remembered.

As he turned back to face Scully, Mulder wondered when he would ever have the
courage to tell her how he felt about her. Or if he even should. Besides the
usual excuses of workplace fraternization and the constant danger they were
in, he wondered if it would be fair to her. Although he knew he loved her, he
also knew that he had never been able to love a woman like she wanted to be
loved. He had loved in his own way, yes; but somehow it had never been enough
for them. He wondered if he had it in him to love a woman like Dana Scully
how she wanted to be loved. He did not know what she wanted; he did not know
if she wanted white horses and knights and castles in the sky. He thought
that perhaps she would not want to be loved that way or to be placed on a
pedestal, but then again, they had not had a conversation on the subject.

She sighed then, and he was lost. He bent down closer to her face, and the
fire illuminated the delicate curve of her face. Her lips were slightly
parted, and her breath escaped her being in soft whispers. A slim, pale hand
tangled in her red tresses as she napped. Mulder soaked in the warmth of the
fire and the warmth she exuded in her slumber. Her defenses were down in her
sleep; she could not counter his words of concern with, "I'm fine, Mulder" or
some other falsely reassuring phrase. He could just drink in her
vulnerability as he had drunk in the warmth of the fire.

In his reverie, Mulder's gaze traveled downward to her wine-colored satin
pajamas. They covered everything, of course, that would be Scully, Mulder
quietly chuckled to himself. Somehow, though, the imagining was almost more
arousing than the fulfilling, and as he conjured up mental images of a less-
clothed Scully, he envisioned her body beneath the wine-stained night
garments. Suddenly she shifted, and the woolen throw she had pulled over her
to sustain the fire's warmth slid from her leg, revealing the lower calf and
bare foot of Mulder's admiration. He bit back a sigh as he realized that
beneath her calm and sensible exterior, that which alone had sent him into
innumerable fantasies-- she painted her toes! A bright, fire-engine red,
finished to perfection. A stark contrast to her white soft foot. Mulder moved
closer, fascinated by this new side of Scully that he had chanced to see.
Possessed by a demon he didn't know he had, Mulder bent his head to run his
cheek along the curve of Scully's instep. He stopped short. He sniffed
delicately, and detected in his nostrils the musky fragrance of the bath gel
and body lotion he had given her a few weeks ago.

************************************************************************

It was an accident really. Anyone who knew Mulder and Scully well, even
Mulder and Scully themselves, knew that they could never exchange gifts of
such an extremely personal nature. So Mulder had to sneak. Luckily, he was
good at it. On one of his semi-annual jaunts to the mall to stock up on black
silk boxers and white T-shirts, he had been hounded by a department store
salesperson. "You look like the kind of guy who needs to get a present for
your sweetheart," she had said, hoping desperately to earn a good commission
on a slow day. And strangely enough, Mulder's first thought had been of
Scully. The body gel and body lotion the saleslady had been hawking were all
the rage, unbeknowst to Mulder. He just thought he'd like to get Scully
something a little more personal than a keychain. After getting a headache
from sniffing all the flowery-scented ones, Mulder had an epiphany: Scully in
wine-colored satin, smelling faintly of musk. He chose one of each
musky-scented concoctions, and made the saleslady's day.

It took more effort to give the present than to buy it. He had to carry it
around in his suitcase on every assignment, and wait for the perfect
opportunity. Then, two weeks ago they were on assignment in the woods of
Louisiana, and staying at a backwater motel. Mulder had booked the two hotel
rooms, and Scully had taken the car to get food at the grocery store down the
road. Sneaking into her room and stealing all the soap was a stroke of
brilliance; it only took a second thought to hide all the soap in his room and
tell the desk clerk that if the lady from Room 209 asked for soap, he should
say they were out. In a backwater motel, it only took $20 to seal the deal.

Scully, tired and hungry, had returned with makeshift Chinese food, and had
devoured her share with a vociferous gulp. Sighing with exhaustion, she
stood, excused herself for bed, and left for her own room. A half-smile
graced Mulder's face as he heard a curse from the next room. A knock on his
door bumped that half-smile into a full-blown grin. "Mulder!" Scully's voice
called from between the doors. "Do you have any soap? There isn't any in my
room and I didn't pack any--I'd really like to take a shower tonight." The
thought of Scully, pink-white, with warm water running in rivulets between
her breasts made Mulder shiver with arousal.

"Um, wait a sec. Uh-oh--I don't have any either. Let me go check with the
clerk." Mulder grabbed his keys on the way out as he prepared to feign a
getaway.

Fifteen minutes later, Mulder waltzed through the door to his room, still
carrying that grin, and also a bag that contained the pre-purchased scented
items that he had stashed in the trunk. Scully sat in a chair, tapping her
foot. "What happened to you? The desk clerk said he didn't have any soap
either, and I've been here waiting for you . . ." Mulder handed her the bag.

"The clerk didn't have any extra soap, so I went to the nearest convenience
store, but all they had was this stuff. I didn't know what you needed, so I
got one of everything." Scully stared at Mulder with incredulity as she
peeked inside the bag.

"Mulder, are you kidding me? This is a line carried only by a department
store. Do you know how expensive this stuff is? How come they were carrying
it at a convenience store in Louisiana?"

"I don't know, Scully, but I'm tired, and I really want to get to bed. Does
that stuff suit you or do I have to go back into the deep, dark depths of the
night to find a bar of Ivory?"

Scully gave him a smile that warmed his soul. "No, Mulder, this is great. Can
I keep this stuff? It's my favorite scent." Interpreting his silence as
nonchalance and a desire to go to bed, Scully bounced into the next room
muttering, "I never expected to get this . . . I should send Mulder out for
supplies more often . . . " In reality, Mulder's nonchalance was suppressed
desire at the thought of Scully showering with his and her favorite scent.
Mulder had bought a sample size of the stuff just so he could pretend he was
smelling Scully all night long.

************************************************************************

Once again, Mulder was hard at work suppressing his desire. His desire was
coming from so many arenas: the warmth of the fire, the softness of Scully in
the firelight, the fact that she was wearing satin, the fact that she was
still using the scent he had given her, the fact that her toes looked like
little red cherries, no, red raspberries, Mulder mentally chided. And then,
even before he could stop himself, he leaned even closer than he already was,
reached out his warm, wet tongue, and sucked her middle toe into the confines
of his mouth. As soon as he did it, almost involuntarily, his tongue snaked
out to encircle her toe, to caress it. Mulder's boldness was broken by a low,
primal groan. And he didn't groan. Scully groaned. In her sleep.

Feeling guilty for invading her privacy in this most personal way, Mulder
backed away and released her digit from his mouth. But then, a sound from
Scully took his breath away.

"Mulder, ummmm, don't stop, please. It feels soooo good . . . " Immediately,
without thought, Mulder grasped her big toe in his mouth and swirled his
tongue around the sweet-smelling toe. As he did, his hand crept up to massage
her calf underneath the blanket. Squirming in her sleep, Scully sighed and
smiled and urged him on. Mulder's arousal and desire couldn't be denied in
the onslaught of her unrestricted urging. Suddenly, it was a lick-fest--he
wanted to taste all of her, to feel every inch of her skin beneath his
tongue. He was savage with her feet, all of her toes, her ankles, and moved
uncautiously higher. Scully was shaking beneath the oral onslaught, and even
in the dim firelight, Mulder could see that she was lacking two things:
panties and the desire to fight him. Obviously, his fears of rejection had
been unfounded. Her satin pajamas were sticking to her in the most intimate
of places, and Mulder longed to discover her other musky scent. But, as he
lowered himself gently on top of her still-sleeping (he supposed) form, he
vowed he would wait at least a moment. He continued to ravage her, this time
from the top down--he kissed her lips, nibbled, sucked, and explored, and she
willingly probed his mouth as well. Now her hands were roaming over his taut
body, and he thought to himself (as well as he was capable of thinking at
this point) that there was no way she could be asleep. But she had not yet
opened her eyes. Her neck was new territory to him, and for all those times
he had glimpsed her pale cleavage across his desk, he had not imagined it to
be so silky soft and smooth. Her shoulders begged to be nuzzled, and her
breasts, jutting out beneath the satin cloth, begged him to pay them
attention. Scully was asking for a fair bit of attention for such a sleeping
beauty. As he unbuttoned and discarded her top, he squeezed her small but
firm breasts. This lit a fire in her and--still with her eyes closed--she sat
up, took his head, and guided it to her left nipple, while guiding his hand
to her right. Suddenly, he couldn't go fast enough for her-- she was rubbing
against him, she was urging him to nip, bite, and pinch her. Mulder never
dreamed she would like it somewhat rough--he knew she was not frigid, but he
never imagined she would be so primal.

Somehow he had lost his shirt in the melee, and her capable hands were
traveling downward to his rock-hard erection. In one moment he divested her
of her pajama bottoms, and was licking her taut belly. The back of his wrist
brushed her mound, and his attention turned again. Even in the dim firelight
he could see her swollen clit, shining, waiting for his touch. He flicked her
with his thumb and she arched off the couch. Once again she used his name,
"Mulder . . . " and he was lost again. Delving into her love nest, he suckled
her until she cried out. Then his trousers were gone, and he was moving above
her, preparing to enter her.

She opened her eyes. For the first time she saw him. And he said her name,
"Dana," in a very soft and loving way. He saw tears in her eyes and they
alarmed him, but she read his mind and answered him succinctly.

"I thought you were a dream. I didn't want to wake up because I thought you
weren't real. And now I can't believe that you are."

He silenced her again with the pleasure of his entry, and she knew that was
his vow of commitment to her. In the relationships they had both had in the
past, they had maybe spoken words of love too soon, too fast. Here, perhaps,
they had taken too long. But right then, they knew that they had found each
other at precisely the right moment.

************************************************************************

Scully's Apartment
10 AM, Sunday morning

Scully sat on the toilet seat with her leg propped on the counter, the
accoutrements of womanhood spread around her. Mulder wandered wearily into the
bathroom, wearing nothing but a smile. As they whispered their good mornings
(they still somehow felt that reverence was necessary in these circumstances),
he asked her what she was doing.

"Oh, removing this nail polish," she replied lightly. "I just don't think it's
the right color for me."

Mulder showed her otherwise.


The End