Title: Chicken Wings Author: Linda Phillips (rn500@ozline.net) Rating: NC-17 Classification: V Keywords: Mulder / Scully UST. Summary: Scully's having One Of Those Days, and boy, is she in a mood! Spoilers: None Archiving: Gossamer, yes. All others, please let me know. Disclaimer dance: Not mine. No money. Don't sue. ________________________________________ Another beer. That's all I want. Why is it so hard to get one more goddamn beer? I'm not much of a drinker, usually. Normally if I drink 3 or 4 beers - like tonight - I'm feeling pretty tipsy. But I feel fine right now. Just thirsty. Where is that damn waitress? Why do they give you a bucket of salty peanuts, then no waitress when you get thirsty? Mulder's only got one empty bottle in front of him, and he's nursing a half-full one right now. Wuss. "Mulder!" He looks a little surprised as he turns his head to me. I didn't mean to shout, but the music is kind of loud. "Yeah, Scully?" "I need another beer. Will you get me one?" I hold out a five dollar bill. He doesn't take it, just smiles. "I think I can handle it." Then he gets up from the table and walks away. I watch the back pockets of his jeans as he goes, just the slightest sway there as his long legs move. I think he does that on purpose. He knows women look at him. Or maybe he doesn't. He's pretty clueless about some things. I sigh and rest my chin in my hand, trying to relax. My first mistake today was getting out of bed this morning. I never should have done it. The day was FUBAR before it even got started. When I turned over and saw that my alarm clock was flashing 12:00, I should have realized that it was a sign and just stayed in bed. But, no. I checked my watch on the bedside table - it was already after 9 a.m. I jumped out of bed and headed to the kitchen to grab a glass of juice. That's when I noticed the puddle in front of the refrigerator. I opened the freezer door, already knowing what I would find. My meager supply of frozen food was mushy and just starting to re-freeze, a slick layer of ice covering the now-soft boxes. Great. I mopped up the puddle with some paper towels, then went to take a quick shower and head to work. I had just gotten my hair lathered up when the warm water quickly started to cool. By the time I finished rinsing off I was hopping around in the shower with my teeth chattering. I should have gone back to bed. I really should have. I dressed hastily, putting a nail through my pantyhose in short order. Luckily I had another pair. I try to keep at least 4 pair in my drawer at all times, for just such emergencies, but somehow I had let myself get down to two. Mental note - stop at the department store tomorrow. Quickly slipping into a low pair of pumps, I headed out the door. I was unlocking my car before I realized that I'd forgotten my briefcase. Back in the apartment I go. Grabbed the briefcase. Off to work. 40 minutes later, I had managed to make it approximately 7 miles from home. My cell phone rang. It was Mulder, of course. "Where are you?" He sounded peeved. "I am sitting in traffic waiting for an accident to get cleared off the road." "Why? I mean, why aren't you here already?" The hair was rising on the back of my neck. I wanted to bite something. "Because I got a late start because my power went out last night and my alarm didn't go off and I had to take a cold shower and now all my frozen Wolfgang Pucks are ruined!" Silence. Then, "Huh?" I sighed. "Never mind." "Well, meet me at 1272 Hammerly Lane in half an hour. We've got a search warrant on the Buckley case." So, I did. As we ascended the front steps together, he chuckled. I was more than a little annoyed. "What?" He glanced down at my feet. "Nice shoes." I looked down. One black, one dark blue. Same shoe style - I had bought a pair in both colors because they were comfortable. "Shit," I sputtered. "Don't worry, Scully. I don't think anyone will notice." I glared at him. He tried to suppress a grin. This would never happen to *him*. Here is something I don't understand about Mulder - well, one of many things: away from the office, he's a slob. Actually, even *in* the office, he's a slob. But he always looks good. It irks the hell out of me. His suits hang just right, sharp shoes, even that damn haircut. I'll bet all he does is get out of bed and rub his hand over his head - viola! He's ready to go. But it looks - okay. I've seen him playing basketball, all flushed and sweaty, wearing a stupid pair of sweatpants and a shirt with the sleeves torn off. I've seen him in hospital gowns with tubes all over him. I think I've seen him about every way that's possible - and he always looks - well, pretty good. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah... We spent the next 3 hours digging through the most disgusting pigsty I've ever been in. The apartment of one George Grover, who actually lived at 1272 and a *half* Hammerly Lane, in a small upstairs studio. He hadn't been seen in several days, and he was a suspect in the disappearance of two young women. His apartment looked as if he had just walked out after a party - half empty pizza boxes everywhere, beer cans, food bags, overflowing garbage. As we walked in I heard the unmistakable sound of several mice scampering into the woodwork. I donned my gloves and breathed through my mouth, gagging a few times. But we found absolutely nothing that would help us. "Well, that was fun," I said as we walked back to our cars. "My, my - are we a little grumpy today?" "Yes we are, so don't push it." He laughed at me. *Laughed* at me! We met back at the FBI building where I changed into the spare shoes I keep at work (you never know what kind of mess you're going to get into with Mulder). The phone rang the minute we got into the office. Mulder picked it up. "Yes, sir, "he said. "Yes. Okay. We'll be right there." He hung up and looked at me. "Skinner," he said. "He wants to see us right away." The 'right away' part is never a good sign. We spent the next hour getting chewed out for another overspent budget. I wanted to slam my fist on the table and point at Mulder. "It's all his fault!" I wanted to yell. Well, it usually *is*! But I didn't. Like a good little co-conspirator, I kept my mouth shut. But it didn't improve my mood any, that's for sure. Licking our wounds, we retreated to the office to go over our practically non-existent case on George Grover. I poured a cup of coffee with which I promptly burned my tongue. The last straw came soon after. I was reaching for a file, and my leg caught a sharp edge of the new desk that the little butt-wadd Spender left us, ripping my last pair of hose and drawing blood to boot. "That's it!" I moaned as I watched blood trickle down my leg. "I'm going home!" Without another word to Mulder, I left. I wasn't surprised to hear the knock on my door a few hours later. I opened it and Mulder peered in cautiously. "Is it safe to come in?" I chuckled despite myself, and motioned him inside. He held up my briefcase. "You forgot something." "Thank you, Mulder. You want a drink or something?" "Actually, if you can find two shoes that match I'd like to take *you* out for a drink." "Oh, I don't know..." I felt my forehead crease into those nasty old lady lines. "What? You'd rather just sit here and feel sorry for yourself?" That did it. So, here I am. And here comes my beer. "Thanks." "Anytime, partner," he says. I took a long drink from the bottle, having forgone the polite glass after beer number 2. I think it was number 2 anyway. "Sorry I was so crabby today," I say. I don't really mean it, but it sounds good. Actually, I had discovered an odd pleasure in my bitchiness that day. Reveling in it, even. "No you're not," he says. I laugh. "That's not fair." He smiles. He has a nice smile, Mulder does. Nice white teeth. When he smiles it kind of balances out the nose thing. Not that I have a problem with his nose. His features all sort of fit together well, but if you took them apart one by one... well, let's just say the whole is better than the sum of its parts. I watch his eyes as he's talking to me, how they crinkle up at the corners a little, and how, when he looks at you, it seems as though he's looking inside of you. Me. Looking inside of me, I mean. The fingers of his right hand wrap around the bottle as he brings it to his mouth. Long fingers. Strong. A shiver goes through me. He notices. "Are you okay?" he asks. I nod, looking innocent. "Oh yeah, fine." I don't think I'll mention that I was just thinking about how his fingers would feel grazing gently across my neck. He speaks again, asks me something. I answer, but I don't really know what we're talking about. My mind is elsewhere right now. I watch his mouth as he talks. There's another thing that bugs me about him - he never has chapped lips. Here I am, slathering on Blistex under my lipstick all winter, and his lips always look as soft as a baby's butt. I tilt my head a little, wondering if they feel that soft too. I'll bet they do. I wonder... how they would feel... little nips at my flesh, down into the dip below my throat... "...don't you think so, Scully?" I nod. "Oh, definitely." He looks surprised. "Hmm. Beer makes you much more agreeable. I'll have to remember that." We're interrupted by the MIA waitress, who lays a steaming basket of chicken wings in front of us. "Oooh, I ordered some wings, Scully. Look good, huh?" I smile. Yeah. Looks good. "You guys want another couple a beers?" Miss Disappearing Act asks us. Mulder says, "Ohh, I don't know..." "Yes," I say. He looks at me, eyes narrowing a little. "You sure?" he asks. I give him the eyebrow. He looks at the waitress. "Yes," he says. "So," he says, picking up a sauce-slathered wing. "What's wrong?" "Nothing." Everything. "Just one of those days." One of many. Two more beers are set down in front of us, and I move mine to the right a little so I can see Mulder's mouth as he eats. I pick up a wing and take a bite. I'm not really hungry, but I feel like I need something to do with my hands. Mulder, of course, digs right in. I've never understood the fascination with chicken wings. You get, what - maybe one good bite of meat off the whole thing? And they're messy. But Mulder doesn't seem to share my objections. He picks the minuscule bits of meat off with his teeth - carefully, his lips catching the tiny pieces and pulling them into his mouth. One wing, two... Already his fingers are getting sauce all over them. He puts the tips of them into his mouth, one at a time, sucking the spicy red stuff off... Oh. My. Okay, maybe there is an upside to these stupid things. He glances up at me. I swallow. Hard. "Maybe you need a vacation," he says. "Hmmm?" "Have you thought about actually going somewhere on vacation this year?" He slides the now-barren chicken bone into his mouth and sucks on it a little. "Um... yeah... I was thinking maybe somewhere hot." I blink. "I mean... you know - warm, sunny." "A cruise, maybe," he says, picking up another wing. "Oh, I don't know, Mulder... somehow I don't think I'm the cruise type. I can't imagine being locked up on a ship out in the middle of the ocean, singing karaoke and lying around on a lounge chair all day." "You're right," he says with a grin. "You can't sing for shit." Smart ass. Then he's doing it again. Little nibbles at that chicken wing, slowly, practically caressing it with his mouth. I wish he'd knock it off. I shift uncomfortably in my seat. These jeans feel tight all of a sudden. I take a couple more swigs of my beer. "What about you?" I ask. "Where would you go on a dream vacation? No - wait, don't tell me." I close my eyes and put my fingers to my forehead as if I'm receiving his thoughts. "I see a big old house in Nevada - a bouncer at the front door - women in baby doll pajamas and high heeled slippers prancing around..." "Ha ha, Scully. Very funny." "Okay then, where?" He purses his lips a bit as he deliberates. "I think..." Pause. Begins again. "I think I'd like to go out west somewhere. Hike, ride horses, watch sunsets... you know." I stare at him. For a long time. "What?" he says finally. "You. In the middle of nowhere. Without a cell phone, or a T.V., or a pizza place for miles around." I shake my head. "I can't picture it, Mulder. Nope." "Why not? Don't think I can handle it?" "Hmmm..." I say, looking up as if I'm pondering a deep question. "Uhh... No." "Well, Miss Know-It-All, maybe you don't know me as well as you think you do." I look at him. I think I know him pretty well. Then again, he probably feels that he knows me pretty well, too. But I'll bet he doesn't know what I'm thinking right now. "I guess I just never imagined you communing with nature, Mulder." An image develops in my mind - Mulder attempting to pitch a tent, start a fire. I almost laugh. Then I see him bundling up in a sleeping bag. But wait - I don't think he'd sleep with all of his clothes on. The jeans would have to go. And probably the shirt too. I lick my lips. "Isn't this sauce great?" he asks. "It's just a little spicy - not too hot." No, not too hot. I take a bite and chew slowly. Hot. He'd be hot after hiking all day - dirty and sweaty. He might go down to a stream nearby and wash off. Uh - huh. He would. I take another tiny bite. The moon would be full, the sky clear and black. The only thing to see him would be the stars twinkling overhead. Well, maybe a raccoon or two. An owl. Me. He'd take off his boots first, and lay his socks carefully inside them. Then the jeans, pulling them off one snug leg at a time. Unbuttoning his shirt takes a minute. Then the T-shirt underneath - up and over. He'd stretch, those long arms reaching up. Lastly, he'd step out of his boxers. I'd hold my breath. Oh, yeah. I shake my head a little. 'What is *wrong* with me?' my sensible self asks. 'This is *Mulder* I'm thinking about here!' 'Yeah, like you've never thought about him that way before!' I look around. Who said that? 'It's just the beer,' my sensible self steps in again. 'You're tired, you've had a crappy day, and now you're drunk. That's all it is.' I get really fucking tired of being sensible all the time. 'Why *wouldn't* you think about him that way?' Ah, my wild, impetuous side is back (like I have one). 'I mean, for God's sake, you're together more than you're apart. He's a reasonably good looking, intelligent man. He's kind, he smells good... what's not to like? Okay, so he has a few quirks.' 'More than a few,' Sensible Scully snorts. "Shut up," I mumble. Mulder looks at me, bewildered. "I didn't say anything!" I reach out and touch his hand. "It's not you, Mulder. I was just... sort of having an out of body experience for a minute there." He smiles and shakes his head a little. He goes back to his wings. I go back to the stream. He stands at the edge of the water for a minute before one foot dips in, then the other. It must be warm, because he wades right in. He turns onto his back and floats, silvery ripples spreading out from his body, the moonlight shimmering across his chest and hips. Hmm. I guess it's not that warm after all. He's got his eyes closed, drifting a little in the quiet water. I step out from my hiding place and walk silently to the edge of the stream. Quickly, I lose my clothes before I lose my nerve. I want to surprise him, but he must have heard something because he lifts his head up and looks at me. He doesn't seem surprised. "Dana," he says in a husky voice. No. No, no, no. That's all wrong. "Scully," he says in a husky voice. Yeah. "Scully." He calls to me, my name sounding so unlike all the other times that he's said it. His hand reaches out, and I go to him. Across the table, he sucks on another chicken bone. But at the stream... he wraps his long arms around me, my hard nipples sending shock waves through me as they meet his cool skin. "How did you know I would come?" I ask. "Because," he whispers. Somehow, I know exactly what he means. The water swirls around our waists as he leans down. I close my eyes, and feel his lips on mine. And, oh, they are so, so soft! His tongue gently flicks against my teeth, and I open wider for him. Before I know it we are probing, searching each other. His hands cover my ass and pull it against him. Oh my. His cock swells and throbs against my stomach. My hands glide up and down that strong back, over his tight ass and thighs. Suddenly he drops, lets himself be buoyed by the water, and hugs my waist. His tongue laps at my nipple, circles it, then the other. Oh, God I'm in agony! Finally, finally, he takes it his mouth and I moan as he tugs and pulls at it. "You okay, Scully?" Table. Bar. Mulder. Chicken wings. A strange sound comes out of me, something between a groan and a whimper. I clear my throat. "Bathroom," I squeak. "Be right back." An empty stall, thank God! With shaky hands I lock the door and lean against it. Zipper, zipper... come on! I reach practiced fingers down into the folds of wetness, then slide them over my clit. Oh, oh, oh... Stream. Moonlight. Mulder. Nipples. Oh yes... He's sucking harder, and I throw my head back as if I'm about to howl at the moon. But all I do is moan his name again and again. Just when I think my legs are about to go out from under me, in one swift move he stands and lifts me from the water. Carries me, like a bride over the threshold, to his tent. I fall back against the sleeping bag and reach for him. Without another word we are a tangle of mouths and hands, touching and tasting, gasping and wanting more. When he finally enters me, I am hot and slick with his juices as well as my own. Oh, God, he's huge! I am filled, filled, filled... he cries out my name, I love you, he says. I kiss his throat as he whispers in my ear - I love you, I love you, Scully... We move together in a synchronous, smooth motion... oh God... oh God... oh, oh, oh... My fingers flutter over my clit in a final, spasmodic motion as I bite my lip and shudder, nearly losing my footing on the smooth, worn floor tile. Slowly, I pull my hand away, still leaning against the door with my eyes closed. I stay like that for a minute or two - maybe longer - until my breathing has slowed and I can stand up straight. I pee. When I exit the stall, I notice that there's somebody else in the one next to me now. I hurry and wash my hands and get out before she sees my face. I take a deep breath as I near our table. Mulder has finished off the chicken wings and is looking at me expectantly. I swallow the last of my beer without sitting down, then reach for my purse. "I think I'm ready to go, Mulder." __________________________________________ We walk back to my apartment in silence, not touching until I stumble a bit. Then he takes my hand and slips it through the crook of his arm, holds it against him. I smile a little and look at the ground as we walk. By the time we get through my door, my fuzzy head is starting to pound and I'm so, so tired. I go straight to my bedroom, dropping my shoes and purse as I walk. Mulder follows me. It's dark, and without another thought I pull my sweatshirt over my head, unhook my bra, and slip on my favorite comfy old T-shirt. Unzip, push, and my jeans are on the floor. I pull back the covers on my impeccably made bed and sigh as I slide in against the smooth sheets. My eyes are closed, but I hear his footsteps approach. I'm not afraid. "Are you gonna be okay, Scully?" he asks softly. "Mmm-hm. Thank you, Mulder." "For what?" "Coming to get me." "My pleasure." Little does he know. "You get some sleep. I'll lock the door on my way out." "'Kay. 'Night, Mulder. Love you." Oh. Did I just say that? I keep my eyes closed. He doesn't say anything. Maybe he already left. Maybe he didn't hear it. Then I feel a hand pushing the hair from my forehead, and warm lips lingering against my cheek. "'Night, Scully." I open my eyes a little and watch his shadowy form as he walks away. He pauses at my bedroom door for a minute and looks back at me. Gently lit from behind, he makes me think of some kind of tall, gangly angel. A hallucinogenic angel. Then he crosses through the doorway, closing it behind him. I sigh and close my eyes again, smiling. I was right. They were as soft as a baby's butt. _____________________________________________ End Feedback lovingly treasured at rn500@ozline.net Hopelessly Romantic X-Files http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Station/2978