From: "M. E. Cieplinski" To: "NC17ff" Subject: [XFNC17ff] NEW: Preposterous by XochiLuvr Date: Monday, October 14, 2002 10:04 PM Once again posting for my timid friend. This is the sequel to Engendered, part of the Virtutes series. Please send all feedback to the address below. Thank you. mimic Title: Preposterous Author: XochiLuvr E-mail: xochiluvr@surfacing.com Summary. Is it coitus interruptus if you haven't started yet? Category and Rating: R, MSR, S-pov, H, wedded bliss. Archive: Ephemeral, Gossamer. Others please ask. Disclaimer: Me no CC. Spoilers: None Send me feedback, and I might do my Kermit the Frog does the songs of "Man of La Mancha" impressions for you. <"I am I, Kermit Quixote, the Lord of La Mancha, my Destiny calls and I riiiiiide..."> Notes: This is a story in the Virtutes universe. Knowledge of the other stories is preferred (of course!) but not necessary. Right now, this follows Engendered, but there is a novel-length Post-Col (about a quarter written right now) in the works that will fill the gap. Important points - they're hitched, she's preggers, colonization has been thwarted. This and all my stories can be found at my website, http://www.surfacing.com/xl/ -- Preposterous -- It's so sappy, so saccharinely emotional, my mind has a hard time believing itself. We complete each other. And yet, despite the emotional roller coaster I ride every time I think of it, of us, my science and my faith agree with my heart: Opposites attract. Maybe it's gravity, maybe at some molecular level quarks and electrons in our bodies are whirling and twirling in some universal synchronicity. Maybe his ashes and dust and my ashes and dust are borne from the same star gone nova before the dawn of history. Maybe I'm just hot to haul his ashes. Somewhere, Isaac Newton and Anais Nin are dancing a jig. "... and so the squaw on the hippopotamus is equal to the buns of the squaws on the other two hides." I hate it when he does that, catches me as I wander inside my head when we're together. He knows me all too well. He knows I'm not a talkative person, just never a "quiet" one. If anyone knew how often I talked to myself they'd know I'm crazier than Mulder... "I'm sorry. I'm just a little distracted." "It's all right, Scully. I was just about to go to bed. Care to join me?" The look he gives me can only be described as hopeful. Gone, it seems, is the leering and blatant innuendo. No longer tools to voice his wants and fears, they're saved for special moments, humor for its own sake, not humor as a distraction or as a cover for a sublimated desire. Sometimes I miss it, but I wouldn't trade the longing of the past for the intimacy we now share. We're comfortable now, but hardly complacent. I smile. "I'll be up in a few." He leans over and kisses my cheek and whispers. "Don't be too long." His warm breath on my ear gives me shivers and a pulse of heat pushes its way down my spine. "I won't." He rises from the sofa and drops his dog-eared copy of "Psychology Today" on the coffee table as he walks around. It slides and grapples to hold on to the edge. Twenty inches to the left of where it sits precariously is a carefully stacked pile of old issues of JAMA, far out of reach of resting feet, beverages, and the floor. Some things never change. I watch him ascend the stairs, socked feet rasping softly against the plush carpet. I see his knees bend in the moonlight, the joints and muscles and cartilage stretching and pulling as he pushes upward toward our bedroom. I can picture in my mind the carpet fibers compressing and releasing, storing and expending minuscule amounts of kinetic energy with a "swish." Forensics tells me that if I look carefully at his socks I will find carpet fibers. Medicine tells me there will be a slight increase in acidity in his leg muscles and a barely noticeable decrease in oxygen in his bloodstream. My heart tells me that I will someday forget this moment, and still I know that he is a part of me, as necessary as the air I breathe or the ground beneath my feet. As tangible as the creak of the stairs and the rustling of the carpet and twice as real. As I close the curtains and check the locks, turn off the kitchen lights and check to see if we need more milk, I ponder my dilemma. What do you get the man who has everything you thought he never wanted? He has a wife, a house, a mortgage, an SUV and a baby on the way. Between our two incomes and his vast inheritance, I could get him just about anything. And anything is too much for a simple man like Mulder. He dresses well, but has a complete wardrobe. We have a ridiculous entertainment center, a wedding gift courtesy of the Gunmen - Omni has been picking up an increasing number of their articles, and thanks to blanket copyrights, the redistribution and royalty fees are enormous. I still don't know why a living room needs THX1138 surround sound and a large screen flat panel TV. Mulder unplugs half the speakers when we watch baseball - I can't take the people cheering behind me. It's spooky. Most of the time we forget to plug them back in. Not once in all the years we've known each other has Mulder really, truly, forgotten my birthday. On the other hand, almost never has he actually given me a gift on my birthday. This year I got a single rose, hastily wrapped and delivered by way of Skinner, and a note that he'd gone to San Diego and not to worry, he'd be back in a few days. He was back in four. Of course, a week later - and two years off my life, waiting for the other shoe to drop - my mom received notice that my dad would be posthumously receiving a Navy Cross for valor for some unknown and highly classified mission during the Vietnam War. Such is life with Mulder. So clothes are out. Electronics are out. We just upgraded the computer and the Bureau issued new laptops. We bought a riding lawnmower for the yard and he still waits until the grass brushes my knees before he cuts it - power tools are definitely out. I'm out of ideas. "So just ask!" I tell myself. Best idea I've heard yet. "Stop talking to yourself and get up here!" rumbles playfully down to me. "Coming," I call out. Dammit, I can hear the smile from here. Maybe I don't miss the innuendo after all. --- "Really? You can't think of anything?" "No, Mulder. Langly had a couple ideas, but I don't know what effect industrial disinfectant has on DVD players." He grins lightly, but I know he's thinking about something other than his increasingly dusty porn collection. He has that look on his face. "Out with it, Mulder." "A sex toy." A what? "You want an accessory of your own?" "Accessories" is the term we use for my small collection of vibrators. We've used them together a few times, but for the most part they've been relegated to the back of the closet. Somehow, I have no problem with owning these things myself, and I know Mulder's not afraid of them, at least not anymore, but the idea of him wanting or needing anything other than /me/ leaves me feeling angry and inadequate. I just stare at him wondering if he knows how low, how agitated I now feel. "Like what, a blow-up doll? Or one of those fake plastic - " He leans over and before I can move away he's cupped the back of my head and kisses me. "Silly girl," he rumbles in my ear. "I prefer my toys breathing and responsive." Oh. OH! I want to say no but don't want to be too negative. "Wh-what exactly would that entail?" "Not all that much. Your undivided mental, physical, emotional and sexual attention for 24 hours. Not a case or one of my theories or if we have any butter in the fridge or how much your brother hates me. Not merely time for a quickie or some fun just before bedtime with the lights off..." he trails off, staring at me intently. "Bill doesn't hate you - " He shushes me with a finger. "Dislikes me then, it's not important now. Just think about it, okay? If, if it's too much for you, I could use a new electric razor. Maybe one of those self-cleaning ones with all the bells and whistles," he smiles. "But consider the other. Please?" "I'll consider it," I say somberly. I know mom's already gotten him a razor. I'd planned on some hanky-panky for his birthday, but with no real gift plans in sight, I /had/ to think about it. But could I give up that much control for so long? That was the real question. He clicked off the bedside lamp and wrapped his arm around me, pulling me to him, then snuggled up behind me. "Not now. Think tomorrow. You have time. Now we sleep." Easy for him to say. It would be a long time before my body finally relaxed and dreams took me away from my dilemma. --- The next week is a blur. An alien abduction in upstate New York that turned out to be a child custody dispute and two autopsies at Quantico, filling in for a sick examiner. I'm left with only a few days in which to find a gift or become one. Sneaking off on long lunches I hit several malls and countless stores. I wanted a special gift. Everyone is going whole-hog for his birthday this year. Skinner had finagled an impressive raise and a departmental clerk for the X-Files. Not a very personal gift, but one very much needed and long deserved. The guys had commissioned a cast iron ball-and-chain. As Byers deadpanned, "This way he'll never ditch you again." It's Mulder's first birthday as a married man, and I need something capital-S special. I'd found several gifts I knew he'd like, but nothing that screamed "For my beloved from his wife." Then it hits me. --- The "party" last night was held at my mother's home, and just for kicks she decreed it was to be a "costume-ette" party. All this meant was that you could dress up in any way you like, but only using clothes you already own. It was a small get-together, with only eight people in attendance. Skinner and Kim came dressed formally, but Langly and Frohike looked like cat burglars, complete with rappelling rope crossed around their torsos and an assortment of carabiners. Byers came in his usual attire, quickly dubbed by Langly as the "birthday suit." My mother was dressed in a very old, very delicate Asian kimono, obviously a well-cared for and cherished gift from my father. I'd eschewed tradition and worn my wedding dress, knowing both that it wouldn't fit for much longer and that I'd never get the opportunity again. Mulder, of course, was in full Elvis regalia. I thought he looked like Liberace myself, and Frohike wanted to know when my mom's house had turned into a wedding chapel. Langly proposed to me and asked Mulder to officiate. It was a very tiring evening, but even I had to admit it was an extremely entertaining one. The only thing that detracted from the celebration was when I presented Mulder with my gifts to him: a new Timex to replace the one he'd smashed on the last case and a nice bottle of Port wine. Nobody really balked at the little gifts, but I could tell that both Mulder and my mother, for very different reasons, were disappointed. It was well after midnight before we got home. Mulder, after being the center of attention for so long, was dead tired. He immediately headed for the stairs to get to bed, but I directed him to the desk in the study and sat him down. Grabbing a pen and taking some papers from their hiding place on a shelf, I pointed to a line on the front page of the document, handed him the pen and told him to sign and date it. "What is this?" he asked, squinting in the dim light to read the page in front of him. "Nothing important," I replied, "I'll explain it all to you tomorrow when you're up to it. Just sign it so I can get everything squared away tonight and you can get to bed." He did, adding his signature to each of the two pages and passing them back without comment. He rose and headed upstairs, leaving me to grapple with my conscience, my love, and above all, my fear of what the next day would bring. I finally went upstairs and, after brushing my teeth and taking a quick shower, climbed into bed and spooned my husband from behind, hoping sleep would overtake me quickly. Thankfully it did. ----- We both slept extremely late, the sun well into it's arc across the sky before we stumbled downstairs for coffee and consciousness. I dump some turkey bacon into the microwave while Mulder cooks omelettes. We make small talk and discuss the previous night's party. I know Mulder knows something is going on with me, but he is being kind enough to let me prattle. As we talk, or rather I talk and he sips from his mug and eats his food, my mind is shooting from point to point, firing neurons at a rate that should be setting off Patriot missiles from here to Seattle. All at once my brain stops and my mouth follows. My brain short-circuits on one thought: Mulder asked me to do this. No pressure, no begging or pleading. When I never gave him a real answer he let it go. He lets me be who I am. I'm with him by choice, I love him by choice. I'd already decided to do this for him, to give myself up for his pleasure. I realize now that this is for us - for him, but for me as well. The instant I come to that realization my body shivers briefly and a huge smile appears on my face. I also drop the fork I'd been using to illustrate my now-forgotten yammering. It clacks against the hardwood floor and skitters loudly under the table. He follows the path of the descending utensil and quickly raises his eyes to my face. "Scully? You okay?" He starts to move to get the fork. "Sit down, Mulder. I'll get it," I say, sliding off the chair to my knees on the floor before he can respond. My physics degree paid off - the fork is almost exactly where I'd intended it to stop, closer to him than me. I'm forced to wiggle under the table to retrieve it. In my quest I bump his hairy leg with my shoulder and he starts moving his chair back. "Here, let me get out of your-Ahh!" As he pushes with his legs, his ass momentarily lifts from the seat, giving me the perfect opportunity to grab his boxers and pull hard, bringing them nearly to his knees. "What the hell?!" he yips. Jumping back from my chilly fingers, he knocks the chair over in his flight, nearly falling and breaking his ass on the hard floor. Can't have that, I think. It's too nice an ass to break. He stops flailing and stands, grasping the countertop behind him for stability, boxers wrapped around one foot. His hair tousled and his eyes wide. I simply smile at him and rest my butt on my feet as I knee-walk out from under the table. A rather submissive pose, I realize. More composed but still confused, he asks what I am doing. "Fulfilling the terms of my contract," I say simply. "Huh? Wait, last night. What did you have me sign?" "Would you like to see it... Master?" I know it's cruel teasing him like this, forcing him off balance time and again, but I have a sick fascination with messing with Mulder's head. "Uhh, yeah. Please." So eloquent, my beloved. For Mulder, knowing what other people are thinking is easy, especially if he knows the person. He knows me well - it's a special moment when I can deviate from his mental Scully-profile like this. Doubly so when I can turn his mind to jello in the process. I get the contract and return to the kitchen. Mulder hasn't moved an inch, not even to discard or pull up the fallen underwear. He reads it, eyes growing wider and wider with each passing clause. He stops at a particular line and looks up. "The back door?" "Clause 6 or the one off the laundry room? They're both off-limits - for now," I reply. He grins and continues to read. His next question, once he's finished, does more to reassure me that I've made the right decision than anything he could have possibly done in that moment. "So what do I call you? 'Slave' is condescending, 'Hey you' is impersonal, and 'Scully' to me implies a measure of equality." Even as I further relax I have to think about that one. "I guess... For today, I think 'Dana' will suffice." "But I almost never call you that," he replies. "Think about the times you have though. You call me Scully as your wife, your partner and equal. It's not based on gender, but respect and love. You call me Dana when I play a different role. When I'm needy, emotional or merely in need of a friend." In a softer voice I say, "When you come, sometimes you call out that name too." We both blush at the turn our breakfast conversation has taken. "So today I'm Dana, the needy emotional female who's at your beck and call," I finish, confident I 'm doing the right thing. Well, as confident as I can be giving up any measure of control, even to the man I trust as much as I love. "Well, Dana," he says, tripping over my largely unused first name, "you're neither naked nor are you on the bed. I'd give you a spanking but we're already short on time. So move!" I run up the stairs, feeling him grin at my escaping back. His quick footsteps chase mine, only to stumble as he crashes back down the steps. As he lands and skids on the carpet, I belatedly realize my name isn't the only thing he's stumbled over - we left his boxers in a tangle around his feet and his toes have gotten twisted in the open leg of the shorts. Luckily, as I kneel over him and check for injuries, I realize all he's gotten for his tumble is a sprained ankle and a broken toe. Easily fixed at home, but he'll be unable to walk unassisted for a few days. I help Mulder up the stairs, sans underwear this time, and get him into bed. The kicked puppy look he wears almost makes me laugh - I can't decide what's bothering him more: that his present is going to waste or that he isn't even capable of ascending stairs. A pair of Tylenol-3 for the pain and ten minutes and he's sleeping peacefully. In a way, I feel sorry for him. It was my fault, after all, that the head he uses for motor skills wasn't the head getting enough blood at the time. Maybe I'll be nice to my beloved and give him a rain-check. After all, I am my beloved's. However - thanks to the second contract he signed - come February, my beloved is mine. -- End -- Still more notes: Preposterous, pri posterior--before the behind or before what comes after. The cart before the horse.... 'Kiss me before I scream.' Hope you enjoyed it - I've been messing with this puppy for just shy of a year. I wanted to put smut in it but my muse fought back, said it was preposterous. Thanks to mimic117 for helping me untangle all the inexplicable shifts in present/past tense. And for fixing the typos, too. Mims is a master beta. I just wanted everyone to understand that. Inspired tangentially by Frank Muir, Dennis Norden and the cast of My Word, a BBC Radio show that ran from 1956 to 1990, but not nearly long enough.