TITLE: EVEN DOVES HAVE PRIDE (2 PARTS)

AUTHOR: bugs

DISTRIBUTION: Gossamer, and any archive who asks.

SPOILERS: Redux, Christmas Carol 

RATING: NC-17 for se... okay, this is a plate of smut cookies for the
nice girls and boys who liked my first fic.  Enjoy with a steaming cup
of hot chocolate.  However, there is an actual plot to slow the action
down a bit.

CLASSIFICATION: H, A, Scully POV, M/S Married.  Please, give it a try
and the first person who finds schmoop and e-mails me gets a prize. 

SUMMMARY: In the three whirlwind months since M/S have become
involved, you'd think they would be entwined in a congenial
union.  Perhaps, but suddenly things are moving too quickly for 
Scully.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is a follow-up to my story, Butterflies All 
Tied Up, but it isn't necessary to read it to understand this 
story.  Mike Raaker only has a cameo in this piece so all you need to
know is he is a reporter who was stalking M/S as they were 'moving'
their relationship to a new level.  The title is dedicated to all the
sharp-eyed readers who pointed out I... Mulder had the lyrics of 'When
Doves Cry' wrong.  I liked the proper line and found it fitting of
Scully.

*IMPORTANT WARNING*: I've chosen one of the accepted 
theories about Scully's reproductive options for this story.
Assume that Mulder had Scully's ova transferred to a storage 
facility and they have discussed it.  If this idea bothers you, 
perhaps you shouldn't read this story.  Personally, I have very 
strong feelings about the decision by CC to do this to Scully, but it a
part of her character and I'm building the story around that fact and
the feelings that arise when push comes to shove.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:  Much thanks to the ladies from the SmutList Sewing
Circle, SpicedRum and Cindy, for beta reading.




*Her-and this was the incalculable factor in the thing-her 
husband.  (A repressive word, that, when you came to think of it,
compounded of a grumble and a thump.)*

-Lady Peter Wimsey in Busman's Honeymoon by Dorothy Sayers

[When I want to read a romance on a rainy afternoon, this is the 
book I pull out.  Highly recommended.  And Harriet kept Lord Peter
waiting six years...hmmm]


*              *                  *                 *


Part (1/2)

September 8th, 1999

It had to happen eventually, that's all I have to say.  If Mulder ever
found out I think this way, he'd call it fatalism and wonder what has
happened to the rational woman he knows.  In the first place, he doesn't
have to know all my secrets and in the second place, it isn't fatalism. 
It's just that, sometimes in life some things are absolute truths.

It was an absolute truth we would marry.  The minute we made love it was
a given.  What the hell else were we going to do, start dating?  Of
course when I think about it, I was the one who basically proposed five
minutes after the deed.  It wasn't really a marriage proposal though; I
simply suggested we would spend the rest of our lives together.

Mulder is the one who started dragging me in front of jewelry 
store windows within the first week of our coupling.  We would be
walking down the street in some town, and I would realize he wasn't
beside me anymore. 

I would look back and there he'd be, staring through the glass 
pane like a dog at a sausage store.  Those sad droopy eyes would 
shift between me and the rings; back and forth, back and forth.

I made it tough on him.  I had practically raped him to get this 
relationship going and now it was his turn to do the work. 

"What're you doing?"  I wanted him to say it.  No more silent 
communication.  He'd say nothing of course. 

*Gasp! *  What if I said no?  What would he do?  

Finally I just gave up on him, went out one afternoon on my lunch break
and bought two simple gold bands.  To size his ring, I had found a
corpse in the morgue with his size hand, I'd know those hands anywhere,
and measured the ring finger.  I can never tell him that, ever.  

In what I thought was a fanciful, romantic moment for myself, I had the
man in the store engrave, "I believe" inside each one.

I didn't want some rock-encrusted ring anyway.  Medical 
professionals pin their rings to their scrubs, forget, and throw 
the scrubs down the incinerator chute.  Many tears result. I 
didn't want to go through that.  A simple gold ring is good enough for
me. Mulder doesn't have to wear his if he doesn't want to, but he'll
have it. 

I had slipped the rings into a pocket of my trench coat.  I had the
feeling when it happened, it was going to be spontaneous.  At least I
would be prepared.

A month later, we were working a case in Nevada again and had 
actually been able to wrap the day up early.  It was 2:30 in the 
afternoon and we were driving along the freeway.  Mulder said 
casually, "Look, only 128 miles to Vegas. Wanna go take in a 
show?"

I could feel my eyebrow rise to the edge of my hairline.  I'd 
play.  "Sure."

He couldn't keep the little maniacal grin from his lips.  He  
pressed the accelerator down so fast and hard I was thrown back 
into the seat.  His knuckles turned white from gripping the wheel too
hard.  Fool.  My fool, but a fool none the less.

As we approached the city limits and the billboards started 
rising up out of the sand, I couldn't resist torturing him.  "Look
Mulder, drive-through wedding chapels, who'd a thunk?" 

He started nibbling on his lower lip so hard I was afraid he was 
going to bite it off.

Another billboard rose up.  When I was a little girl, I asked Mom why
she let Dad have his way in the placement of the trashcans on the curb. 
She told me, "Marriage is about give and take."  I decided to give a
little.

"Wow, Mulder, we could get married by an Elvis impersonator!"

He turned to look at me with tears in his eyes.  Yeah, I 
knew what you were thinking, you nut.  

He spoke like a little boy.  "Could we?"

I didn't sound very gracious.  "Sure, fine..."  I shut myself off before
finishing.

Actually, our wedding pictures came out pretty well.  The ones 
without Elvis in them.  I must have had a premonition about that 
day because I had worn a gray suit that morning and made sure 
Mulder's tie wasn't too garish.  We looked very nice standing in 
front of the huge spray of white lilies.  We could have been a 
couple married anywhere.  But you know Mulder is going to run 
around showing everyone the picture of us with the Elvis 
minister.  I gave in again.  I have to stop doing that.

The only bad part of the day greeted us when we pulled up to my... our
building.  We had flown home immediately.  Mulder was dragging our bags
out of the trunk and I was mentally rummaging through my lingerie drawer
trying to find something appropriate for a wedding night when that
bastard Mike Raaker jumped out of the bushes with his camera crew.  How
did he find out so quickly?

I almost shot him.  Really.  I pulled my gun and had my finger on the
trigger before I realized who it was.  I almost shot him anyway.  As it
was, it was some great footage for his spot on 
Afternoon Extra, Mulder dropping the bags and fumbling for his 
gun while I'm in my full G-woman mode, yelling, "FBI agent!" at 
the camera.

What happened next was almost as bad as shooting him.  He threw 
rice at us as we hurried past, yelling after us,  "Get going on 
those babies, agents, you guys are my meal ticket!"

I got inside my...our apartment and slammed the door shut behind 
Mulder.  "Help me get this rice off of me, please," I heard myself
whisper as I began brushing it off of the front of me. 

Mulder carefully picked the grains out of my hair and looked at 
me with those puppy dog eyes again.  I knew the issue would have to come
up eventually, I just didn't want it to happen this soon.

So I chickened out and ignored those eyes, and dragged him into 
the bedroom for our wedding night.  He was easily distracted that night
but he wasn't diverted from the matter.

Two weeks later, at a summer barbecue at my Mother's, Bill and 
Tara were there with Matthew.  Tara was pregnant again.  No 
getting away from the subject that day.

Actually, everyone was very nice, considering this was the first 
time a lot of my friends and family were meeting Mulder as my 
husband.  That's usually the next topic, "So when are you going to have
kids?" I wondered if Mom had told them what the situation was. 

Even Bill kept his mouth shut, instead horrifying me by deciding Mulder
was his new best buddy.

I don't know who was more repulsed, Mulder or I.  Mulder played 
along, literally, playing some pick-up basketball games with him, even
letting him win a few.  Idiot.  My idiot, but still - whip his ass! 

I thought I had escaped unscathed and was enjoying some time 
playing with Matthew when Mulder came up behind me and whispered 
in my ear, "We should get ourselves one of those."

I could manage to say, "I suppose."

That was all he needed.  He contacted the laboratory where he had sent
the vials that supposedly contained my ova.  I went over there myself
with a sample of my DNA and watched as they sliced one of the eggs up
for the test.  There goes another one. 

The results showed it to be my tissue.  The eggs were still 
viable.  So there we were.  It was going to happen.



That's why I'm sitting in a doctor's waiting room now, 
systematically ripping up an old magazine like Tooms building a 
nest.  Mulder is somewhere in the bowels of this place, procuring the
next necessary ingredient in the recipe for making a baby.  A dollop of
me and a dash of him, mix it in the Petrie dish, pop it in the oven
and...

This isn't going to work.  I knew this would happen.  Marry in 
haste, repent in leisure; that's what Aunt Olive would say. I have to
get up right now, run in there and stop him. We need to get a divorce
and just go back to working on the X-files like nothing has happened. 
Yeah, yeah, that's the ticket.   My crazy chuckle earns me some
frightened stares.

What's taking so long any way?  He's been in there for half an 
hour.  It should be slam-bang-thank-you-ma'am.  He should be wound up
tight enough to have done it before the door closed behind him.  Or has
he taken one of the nurses in there to help him?  He always did have a
thing for nurses...


Because you see, we haven't made love in two weeks.  Not since the
morning we went to the doctor and he had laid out the whole 
procedure for us.  We got home and I said I wanted to take a nap. Mulder
took it the wrong way. 

When I lay down on the bed, he was right there behind me, 
snuggling close and reaching for my breast with one hand and my 
waistband with the other.  He murmured in my ear, "We're going to make a
baby."

*No Mulder, WE aren't going to make anything. My womb is going to be the
recipient of a product of medical science and I am going to grow our
little Uberchild.*

His hands were wandering in that way that they do, and I realized with
shock that I felt nothing, absolutely nothing.  No arousal, no interest,
no nothing.  I briefly thought about faking it, but brushed that aside. 
I'd never done anything like that before in my life and I wasn't going
to start now.

So I said, "Mulder, I really want to go to sleep."  Maybe it was 
my tone or something, because he hasn't tried to initiate sex 
since then.  I guess I trained him pretty well over those six long
years; when Scully puts out the Don't Touch sign, he's going to wait for
me.  I just can't make myself want to be with him.

Within the next couple of days Mulder started to touch me more 
and more, nothing sexual, just light caresses and hugs.  I felt a panic
rising.  I knew it was coming.

"Scully, what's wrong?"  What else would he say?

"Mulder, I'm fine."  I almost clasped my hand over my mouth in 
horror.  I couldn't believe I said that.  I thought Mulder had 
broken me of that habit during our ordeal with Todd Dole.  But I 
guess in moments of stress that old habits come to the surface.

He didn't say anything though.  It was as though my words were a 
slap that sent him reeling backwards.  He just quietly said, "Okay." and
hasn't laid a hand on me since.

This whole frigidity problem is starting to frighten me. 
Never once since that first kiss have we had any problem with 
desire.  We had the reverse problem in the beginning, too much 
desire.  We would have marathon sex sessions over the weekend, 
drag ourselves in on Monday, looking and feeling like death, and it
would be Wednesday before we could be productive again.  I decided this
was not an effective use of our work time and moved him into my
apartment. 

That way we could have sex daily.  Fifteen, twenty minutes could 
be fit into all but the busiest of days.  That doesn't sound like much,
but frankly, I've had all the foreplay I need for this lifetime.

We have a little game we play.  How ready can we get just with our
glances and thoughts?  Rather than abandoning our heated gazes now that
we can touch each other, we've moved them to a higher level. Stick with
what works, I say.

For example, one evening I was finishing some work, sitting on 
the floor in some ratty old sweat pants and a tank top when he got
home.  He'd been out chasing down some source.  I'd told him it was a
fool's errand, but if the label fits...

He wouldn't admit it though.  He sat down dejectedly and started 
flipping through the TV channels until he stopped on the drone of the
Weather Channel.  I glanced over at him.  He had dressed extra spooky,
black cashmere sweater, black jeans, and big black boots. My mouth
watered a bit; he's my big, yummy, dark licorice stick. 

He noticed my lingering inspection and sat back in the chair, 
spreading his legs open to give me a better view.  I pushed my 
work aside and turned to begin.

I caressed him gently with my eyes, starting up around his strong neck,
working around to that huge Adam's apple of his, spending extra time
there before slowly slipping my gaze down his chest.

He was more direct.  His eyes glommed onto my breasts.  I didn't 
mind.  My nipples tightened and I swear my breasts were able to 
lift themselves as though held in his hands. 

I sighed deeply and lolled my head baack onto the sofa's cushions.  I
was too hot.  I stood, staggering a bit and yanked my sweats and panties
off.  I heard him groan and I looked at him from under the sheet of my
hair.

This time I was more obvious.  I watched his erection begin to push
against the fly of his jeans, my gaze giving it life.  I mumbled, "You
better let that out before you hurt yourself." 

He gave a shaky chuckle and fumbled with his fly, moaning in 
relief as his penis sprang out of his pants.

I flopped down on the sofa and threw a leg over the back.  I felt
slightly ridiculous acting this wanton, but I know it makes him happy.
Give, give, give. 

The cold air hit my hot clitoris, stinging with pleasurable pain. The
gasp I gave out must have been his signal because he was out of the
chair, over the arm of the sofa and between my legs before I could get
another breath out.

I clung to his body like a flea to the belly of dog, my legs 
folded up like a beetle, calves tightly gripping his sides,
and my arms hooked under his armpits, letting him lift 
me from the cushions.  He grabbed the arm of the sofa behind my 
head for leverage and started pounding into me. 

I let go with one hand and pushed my top up so his impossibly 
soft cashmere sweater could brush my hard nipples, then I grabbed on
again.  His thrusts were knocking the moans out of me at an astonishing
rate.  I didn't want to go too fast, so I tried to distract myself.

I peeked under his arm and watched his tight white ass contract in and
out of his jeans.  The sight of his big black boots bobbing up and down
over the edge of the sofa's arm with each thrust struck me as funny and
I started to giggle.

He's Vince, the cable repairman and I'm Trudy, bored housewife. 
Was it too early to be fantasizing?  Was all the mystery gone 
already?

Just then he craned his head down and whispered in my ear, "Mrs. 
Mulder, when will your husband be home?"  Of course he knew what I was
thinking.

I started laughing outright and so did he.  That changed the 
angle of his thrusts and well, that was it...

I was hit with a sucker punch of an orgasm that left me 
disoriented and drooling, his giggles echoing in my head as they 
turned to gurgles of joy.  


I look down at the magazine and realize it's a crumbled mass in my
hands.  I toss it aside and grab another one.  Twenty more minutes have
gone by.  What the hell is he doing, catching up on back issues of Hot
Tits?


~~~~~~~~


That was the funny thing.  The pornography hadn't come with him 
when he moved in.  Not that I searched his belongings or anything; 
I just wanted to make sure he found a place for everything. I 
don't know what I would have done if I'd found any.  It hadn't
bothered me before, at least not a lot, but now...I should have
run right out and picked him up some videos when I stopped feeling
desire. 


The odd part is I'm turned on right now.  Well, I have 
notoriously bad timing.  I wonder if they have rooms for women in 
this place where I can slip away...that isn't what I want 
though.  I want my Mulder's hard cock buried up to the hilt, 
right here, right now.  A bit crude perhaps, but when one is 
having these ridiculous internal discussions, one can talk like  
the women in Cosmopolitan magazine.

I'm not one of those girlie women in the advice columns who talk 
about all they want is to be held.  Or how they just want the man 
to go down on them.  Not that I mind either of those things in the 
least.

I just want and need...it.  I spent six years empty.  Now I want to 
be filled. 


I figured out this element to my sexual 'tastes' a couple of weeks 
into our relationship.  I was in my favorite position, on top, 
buried to the hilt, working hard at keeping myself back from 
the edge of the cliff.  I love that feeling.  Not the orgasm itself, 
not even that moment right when you know it's going to happen, but 
those minutes when you know it COULD happen. 

I looked down at Mulder.  His eyes were screwed shut, his lips 
moving rapidly.  Multiplication tables.  That works best. 
Poor guy, he knows what I like.  Sometimes he has to do the 
giving. I leaned over to lick and suck that lower lip of his and
he whimpered.  Oops, maybe that didn't help.

Brushing my nipples very lightly on his sparse chest hair, just a 
tickle, I resumed my position. A shiver ran down my spine and that
swiveled my hips oh, so slightly.  Oh, that felt good... I contemplated
finding my dusty prescription pad and getting us a big bottle of
Viagra.  I could set up my laptop on his chest to get some work
done, and whenever he began losing it, drop another pill in his mouth...

While I was lost in thought, he pushed himself up on his elbows.  I 
was grinding my clit on his pelvic bone now.

I grumbled, "You bastard," right before he slipped his tongue 
around mine and held it captive.

The orgasm ripped through my body like a hurricane.  I couldn't 
hold myself upright in the storm, and neither could he, so we just 
toppled over, like a couple of mobile homes knocked off their 
foundations and torn to pieces.  Ok, maybe orgasms were better.


I'm panting now; the man next to me looks frightened.  Where 
is that bastard? I need him to get out here so I can 
drag him out to the car...the longest we've ever gone without sex 
is five days, when I was away at a conference.  Although, that 
doesn't really count...we had phone sex so hot, for days 
afterwards, whenever the phone rang, I got wet. 

When I had gotten back, he had picked me up at the airport.  We 
didn't make it more than three miles down the road before he had 
to pull over into a carpooling parking lot.  He was having 
difficulty concentrating on his driving with my mouth wrapped
around his dick.

I had climbed 'on board' before he could even get his seatbelt 
undone.  I guess that's what passes for bondage with us.  He was 
still able to slam me so hard against the steering wheel I was 
afraid we were going to set off the airbag.  I could see it now, 
screaming out of the headlines of the weekly tabloids, "FBI 
Agents killed in kinky sex incident."  Mike Raaker would have had 
a field day, the bastard.


If Mulder doesn't get out of that room soon, I'm going to have to 
go in there and get him.  To distract myself, I remember the last 
time we made love.  I can remember every moment with perfect 
clarity.


It was the morning we were going to meet with the doctor to go 
over the procedures.  I got up first.  Excitement I guess. Or 
white-hot fear.  I'm not sure which.  I had grabbed his dress shirt 
from the day before and threw that on, not bothering to button 
it up.  I love wearing his clothes. 

Whenever he confessed his multiple fantasies about me, I would 
just nod without commenting.  He started to look hurt.  I think he 
suspected the truth.  I distracted him by acting out fantasy 
number 79, part D, involving the showerhead and a ripe 
grapefruit. 

This is one of my little secrets from Before, a secret I 
don't dare share with him.  I never fantasized about him once. 

No, I had never allowed myself to fantasize about that delicious 
body.  But I did...think...about the clothes that held it.  Most 
of the time I can't bear to undress him when we make love.  I want 
as much of his clothing touching me as possible.

The next best thing is wearing the clothes myself.  Before, I would 
allow myself to dream about sleeping in his baby soft tee shirt, a 
pair of his silk boxers slipping off my ass.  Now I could live 
Clothing Fantasy Number 3, roaming the kitchen in his finely woven 
dress shirt, still permeated with his tangy odor. 

I was leaned into the refrigerator, digging in the back for the 
orange marmalade when he came in, grumbling and scratching 
himself.  His breathing took a hitch, and I realized bent over the 
way I was, he was getting a great view of my rosy lips and 
tangled curls under the curve of my ass.  So of course I went 
instantly wet. 

It's really a wonder we get through the workday.  But oddly, 
nothing ever happens at work.  Now that we have resolved our sexual 
tension, we are the consummate professionals.  No more light, 
unnecessary touches, no leaning over his shoulder way too close to
his ear.  Well, at least not most of the time.

We're so good, no one suspects.  A couple of weeks ago we were
interviewing some floozy and she was flirting with Mulder 
unashamedly.  He managed to escape the room, leaving me with her.  
She gave a girlie giggle as she pulled her bleached hair 
away from her sticky lipstick, and said, "I hope you don't think 
I'm some tramp.  I saw the wedding ring, but hey, I'm not dead.  How 
does his wife trust him out of her sight?"

I just gave her my best cold stare and answered, "I go to work 
with him."  That shut her up.

Anyway, where was I?  Oh yes, I was wet and Mulder was behind me, 
sporting a morning erection, I'm sure.  Before he could grab me, I 
straightened up and moved to the counter.  I had to get breakfast 
started before starting anything else.

He plopped down in a kitchen chair.  I glanced over.  Sure enough, 
a bulge in the boxers.  He shifted and scratched his bare belly. I 
love the sound of fingernails in his body hair.  I do prefer them 
to be mine, though. 

I could have hurt myself slicing that bagel and watching his 
hard-on work its way out of the fly of his silk boxers like an 
tender plant seeking the sun.  He seemed to not have noticed my
fascination.

Or maybe he had.  His curious, seeking fingers wiggled on the end of 
his long sinew-strong arm as it reached under my...his shirt to cup
and then stroke me between my thighs.  I pushed the lever down on the 
toaster with a shaking hand as I gave out a groan.

I reached down and gave him a few strokes of my own to make sure 
he was ready. We kissed deeply as my head passed his; morning
breath be damned.

"Please return your seat to the upright and locked position," 
went through my mind as I swung my leg over and settled down on 
him.  I've spent too much time on airplanes.

I didn't push down his boxers; I wanted to feel the silk under my 
thighs.  I have to buy these boxers by the three pack now, we ruin 
so many.  Some sacrifices just need to be made. 

My feet couldn't reach the ground so I let him do all the work and
busied myself kissing him. 

I reached back to the counter and got a dollop of marmalade on my 
finger out of the open jar. I smeared it on his lower lip, 
proceeding to lick it off. Bitter and sweet, just the way I 
like him. 

Next I smeared the marmalade on his nipple, and it was necessary 
to slide off his cock a bit to bend over and lick it clean.  His 
sharp groan resonated in my ear, so I snuggled back down into 
position.  He only shook his head and sucked off the marmalade 
that had smeared on my lower lip. 

I heard a ridiculously high breathy voice saying over and over, 
"Yes, yes, yes..."  That's right; I've started sounding like one of 
those silly women on the shampoo commercial.  However, if anything 
deserves affirmation, it is our love.
  
The bagels popped up, and I gasped as I clung to his neck.  The 
smell of toasted bagels and coitus first thing in the morning. 
Could life get any better? 

I had cursed myself that morning.  I allowed myself a moment of 
self-satisfaction, and things have gone sharply downhill since 
then.


A nurse opens the door into the waiting room, interrupting my pity 
party.  She looks around.  "Mrs. Mulder?"

"Ms. Scully," I correct her automatically.

She glances down at the chart in her hand and corrects me 
primly.  "No, Mrs. Mulder."

"Mr. Mulder's wife?"  I'm losing patience.

"Yes, that's right, Mrs. Mulder."  She's triumphant.

I give up.  I'm worried now.  Two weeks without sex and he's had a 
heart attack from jacking off?  "What's wrong?"  All the ears in 
the room perk up to listen.

"You need to come with me," the nurse says cryptically.

I get mad.  "Dammit, what's wrong!" I demand as I get up and 
hurry to the doorway.

I have to learn to keep my mouth shut.  "Your husband needs your 
help," she says with a smirk just before she pulls the door shut 
behind us.  I hear the entire waiting room gasp.  Great.

The nurse very kindly holds the door open for me but does not come 
into the room with me.  I don't blame her.  I slam the door 
behind me and look at Mulder.

He's sitting on the bench that runs along the far wall, dejected 
looking.  That crappy short haircut I can't get him to grow out 
is standing on end and his eyes are doing their best puppy-dog 
#8.  The one where the puppy dog has made a mess on the carpet 
and is asking for forgiveness. 

His belt is undone, but his pants are still buttoned and zipped. 
The plastic cup sits on the counter next to me, empty.

"Mulder, what the hell's going on?"

The Forgive Me face changes to Guilty Face. "I'm having some 
difficulty."

"What?"  I should be kinder, but...

"I can't."

"Can't? Can't what?"  I realize what he means even before he 
shifts his eyes down to his flat lap.  A magazine lies on the 
bench beside him, open to the centerfold, and a VCR remote is on 
the other side of him.

"Mulder..." I warn him.

He shakes his head like a baby.  "I can't...I didn't want to 
confess to you, before, I mean, I didn't want you to worry about 
me, but just before we started, you know, making love, I couldn't 
then either.  I just thought it might be worth a chance today, it 
being so important and all."

"What the hell are you talking about?  You mean you weren't...
aroused by pornography?"

"Gentlemen's entertainment literature," he corrects.  "No, I mean 
yes, when I first met you, I used it...to...to divert my 
attention." 

His eyes slide over my body like a slick swipe from his tongue 
and I have to grasp the counter next to the door for balance.  "And 
at the end there, I think my body was rebelling, it couldn't 
perform.  It knew what it wanted and was holding out for the real 
thing."

"You are so full of shit!  What kind of man can't get aroused by 
porn?" 

"Scully!" he tries to sound shocked, but he has gotten up and is 
advancing on me, getting dangerously close.

"You know what I mean!  This is your idea of a joke, well I don't 
find this funny," I hear myself blustering as my eyes lose focus 
from staring at the pattern on his tie.  If I look in his eyes 
right now, I will die.

"No this is very serious," he agrees.  "I have a sexual 
dysfunction that requires your immediate medical attention."

Somehow he has me trapped between the counter and the wall.  He 
fills my vision and all my other senses.  I feel myself beginning 
to hyperventilate with excitement.  I don't think it's sexy at all 
to be thrown around by a man or pinned down.  Mulder respects 
that, but he will stand very close without touching me, so close 
that claustrophobia becomes erotic. 

I have to get control of this situation.  I reach out roughly for 
his fly.  "Ok, Ok, here, let me do this."

His hands grab mine immediately.  He pulls me closer, 
still not into his arms, but close enough that he can lean in to 
murmur in my ear, "I'm not paying you by the hour, baby.  I 
want..."

Control.  I need control.  My voice sounds cursedly weak, 
though.  "What?"

He has shifted his face so that he is staring at my lower lip 
that I know is swollen and red from the chewing I've given it in 
the last two minutes.  "What?" he mumbles.

"What do you want?"  That's a stupid question.

He gives me a lazy grin.  "I want...I want..." He moves his face a 
millimeter closer and his thumbs begin to brush the backs of my 
hands buried in his grip.  "...Scully?"

"What?"  I know I'm panting rather than speaking, but I can't 
help it.

He manages to catch my gaze and holds it so that I can't escape. 
"Let's make our baby."  

He knows.  I see it in his eyes.  He knows what's wrong.  I have to 
bury my face in his shoulder so he can't see me cry. "Mulder." 
I try to let him know everything in that one word.  Can I put all 
my love for this man in the arrangement of those six letters?

His hands let go of mine and are stroking the waist of my pants, 
nudging the top button open, and I hear the hiss of my zipper. 

"What're you doing?"  I'm shocked out of my misery.

He says it again.  "Let's make our baby."

"Mulder," I have to say it and I hate myself.  "We can't. I 
can't."

He is stooping to push my pants down and so can look me right 
in the eye.  "Yes we can. We're going to make our baby right now."

I'm sobbing now and that's not good.  He kisses me so deeply he 
sucks those sobs out of my breath.  This isn't the time to be a 
pansy.

I'm tearing frantically at his clothes, not caring what damage 
I do; I have to feel his warm slick skin.  I feel like a butterfly 
beating her wings off against a screen window.  I sag against 
him, my energy spent for the moment. 

His hands are powerful and insistent, but with none of the 
frenzy I have.  He grasps my thighs, molding the muscles to the 
shapes he wants.  He lifts me easily to the counter and moves 
his hands purposely up under my blouse to find my breasts and 
make them his own creation too.

I pull him closer to me and push his shirt up before I 
wrap my legs around him tightly.  My slick center comes in 
contact with his hard and hairy stomach.  God, this is exactly 
what I need!  I begin to rub myself frantically against him.

He murmured against my mouth, finally freeing my tongue, "I know 
Scully. I know...but aren't I supposed to be getting off?"

I push him back and look at him, shimmering and distorted by 
the tears in my eyes.  He finishes unfastening his pants and 
pushes them down and off his legs.  He never stops caressing me 
with his eyes.  His gaze slips through my folds, whirling gently 
around my clit, slides inside my darkness...I roll my head back 
and open my legs even wider to give him access.

When he returns to me, he's pushing a chair with him.  His 
erection is bobbing out from under his shirttails.  No problem 
now.  He has removed his tie, but that wonderfully soft shirt is 
still in place. He knows what I like. 

I have somehow unbuttoned my own shirt, unsnapped the 
front of my bra, and they hang slack against my heaving sides.  
That is all the energy I'm going to put into undressing.

As he advances on me and fills my vision again, I realize 
I have to remain calm.  This is very important.  I put out a 
trembling hand to stop him.  "Mulder. Stop."  And of course he does.

I shake my head to clear it and say, "We can't do this, we have 
to get a sample today, my cycle..."

He pushes back against my hand for the first time ever and closes 
the distance between us.  "Yes we can do this.  I can pull out in 
time."

I stare at him with desire blinded eyes.  A rusty chuckle comes 
out of me.  "I knew I'd convert you eventually. That's what all 
the Catholic boys say."

He's forceful.  "I'll do it. I know how important this is. It's 
also really important to me to be inside you right here, right 
now," and with that he strokes up and into me.

I can't argue with this sensation of fulfillment, completion. 
I've missed this like the pain of missing breathing when 
drowning.  Each thrust is a life-giving breath.  I stare into his 
eyes and see the same thoughts there.

We take great gulps of that air, one after another, until we are 
giddy on the pure oxygen.  It's too rich.  We're losing 
control.

"Mulder, Mulder," my moans are turning into a warning.  "Mulder!"

"I know, I know, just a little while longer," he pleads as he 
takes another deep thrust. 

"Mulder..." I give him one more warning.

He lifts me from the counter and stands me on the chair, waiting 
until I get my balance.  With one more deep nudge, he pulls out 
and I groan with despair.  His penis goes right back between my 
legs but remains outside my body.  He pushes my thighs together, 
trapping his penis, and I get the idea.

I squeeze hard on his still swollen cock, and he hisses like a 
punctured tire.  I have to clutch his shoulders for balance and 
find his mouth again, returning to my secret safe place between 
those soft comforting lips.

He begins thrusting again and the base of his cock rubs against 
my fat swollen clit.  *Oh Jesus! *  This is something new.  Still damp 
with my juices and being constantly lubricated as more pours out 
of me, he easily pumps into the tight crevice between my thighs. 

*The cup!  Where's the cup? *  He's fumbling on the counter behind 
him for it, but I'm no help at all.  Like a snake climbing a 
tree, my orgasm has slithered up my spine and has me by the 
throat. I can't seem to breath at all now, only gasp for air and 
concentrate on keeping my thighs tight. 

He has the cup.  His moans turn to grunts of satisfaction. 
"Scully, oh Scully, please, oh, Scully," he's chanting his 
special pagan prayer, the one he wrote just for me.  I reach 
down and grip his ass tightly, keeping his hips snug against 
mine as he comes.  He's looking over my shoulder, hopefully 
making sure he doesn't miss that damned cup.

When the tremors finally stop for both of us, I hear him slap 
the cup down on the counter.  He finds just enough energy to 
lift me and move us to the bench.  We lie there together in a mess 
of pieces of clothing and sticky mottled skin. 

"Did we get enough of a sample?"  I try to focus on the cup on 
the counter but I'm still having vision problems.

"If we didn't, give me an hour or two to recover and we can try 
again," he offers from the crook of my neck.

"Naw, the cup looks as though it's overflowing," I say.  I 
rumple his silly hair.  "That's what that was all about, you know, 
I wanted you to have plenty stored up."

He warns me.  "Scully."

*I know...  I know. *  I've never lied to him.  "All right."  All I
can say is, "Thank you, Mulder, thank you for understanding."

"That's what a husband is for, right?"  he suggests as he licks 
the sweat from behind my ear.

"I suppose," I mumble as I find his lips again.

Amazingly, our clothing hasn't suffered too much damage other than 
the stains and wrinkles.  Unfortunately, we have to go back into the 
waiting room to pick up the purse I had abandoned in my flight to 
his side. 

Most of the same people are still there and give our appearance 
a shocked once over.  I look them all square in the eye.  No 
problems here folks, two very sexually active people who just 
need a tad of medical help with conception. 



December 13, 1999; Shady Grove Fertility Clinic, Annapolis, MD


I'm trying to find a way to put on the paper medical gown so that 
I preserve some semblance of my dignity.  Mulder is carefully 
folding my clothes and putting them on a chair as I say to him, 
"Oh, in case I forget, when it's time to leave here, go out first 
and check the bushes for that Raaker person.  So help me God, he's 
not going to stick his nose in our business again."

Mulder nods as he helps me slide up onto the examining table. 
"Yes, dear."

Oh Jesus.  I've got to find a way to break him of his newest 
habit.  Ever since we got the positive pregnancy test back he's
been calling me 'Dear' and 'Darling'. 

What do I expect?  This is a man whose models for marital behavior
came from observing repressed WASPs while passing around
pigs-in-blankets on silver platters at his parents' cocktail
parties.
 
Or... Perhaps I've fitted Mulder's choke collar too tightly and the
reduced blood flow to his brain has caused permanent neurological
damage... The impossibly cheerful technician enters and tells us
she's ready to begin.  Well, on with the show.


I lie on my back, trying not to shiver as the she spreads the cold 
jelly over my already swollen belly.  Mulder gives my hand a 
reassuring squeeze.  The tech begins to run the sensor over my 
uterus, and I immediately begin squinting at the small grainy image 
on the screen.  Her voice chirps in the background.  "There's the 
head, an arm..."

I reach out to Mulder and touch his face.  I don't dare take my 
eyes off the screen, so I stroke his rough cheek instead.  I feel 
tears under my fingertips and wipe them away. 

The technician asks, "Do you want me to sex the fetus for you?"

Before Mulder can say anything, I speak.  "No thank you, we'd like 
it to be a surprise."  I feel Mulder's head nod under my hand 
as he turns it to kiss my open palm.


------THE END------- 


AUTHOR'S ENDNOTES: The idea for this story came from what is to 
me, one of the sexiest 'lines' I've ever heard.  It was on
the TV show, thirtysomething, and it wasn't with those saps,
Michael and Hope.  I loved Elliot and Nancy and all their
dysfunctional angst...hmmm. 

Nancy and Elliot had re-married after a bitter divorce. She had
lost her ability to have children through cancer treatment and
she was finally recovering.  Whenever Elliot would initiate 
sex, Nancy would push him away.  He was could be so immature
and she tended to retreat and become rigid...hmmm.

Finally he cornered her in the bedroom and she admitted that she 
didn't feel like a sexual, viable woman anymore because she 
couldn't have children.  Our rational minds know this is 
ridiculous, but a lot of women experience these feelings after 
losing their ability to have children. 

He reminds her of the great sex they had when they created 
their two children and then he says, (paraphrasing) "Let's make a 
baby," as they start to make love. 

To me, that phrase was so sexy because this experience grew out of 
their situation, not some romantic fantasy.  I could easily see
this being a problem with M/S and that led to this fanfic. 

Please send any comments or discussion to bugs1231@my-dejanews.com  
I work out of town and until I get a laptop, it may be a few days
after you write to me before I respond.  I answer ALL feedback,
so I will be in touch eventually.