From: To: Subject: "The Workout" (REVISED VERSION!) Date: Sunday, March 17, 2002 11:27 AM ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Title: The Workout Author: Xaviera Nosferatu Rating: NC-17 for graphic sex Timeline: Sometime before "Requiem," but at least several years into the show's run. Spoilers: Only little ones for "Detour," "The Host," and vague references to others. Disclaimer: I don't own "The X-Files" and its characters any more than my fellow amateur fic writers do...more's the pity. But Mulder and Scully are welcome to come over and play any time they want. Archive: Feel free, but please let me know. Feedback: Lusted after...Xaviera_Nosferatu@hotmail.com Keywords: Mulder/Scully relationship Category: VR, Scully POV Summary: Mulder works out his frustrations by pumping iron. However his unseen spectator, Scully, has another form of exercise in mind. Author's Note: This naughty little tidbit of voyeurism was inspired by CM's recent e-mails, complete with yummy, candid downloads of David Duchovny working out. Thanks, girlfriend! I needed that! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I glance at my wristwatch again and roll my eyes in exasperation. Only three minutes since the last time I checked. I'm about to go stir-crazy here in my hotel room, and it's all Mulder's fault. No wait, I take that back. I'm as much to blame for my miserable state of mind as he is. God, what a mess. This whole thing got started when we had to catch the early morning flight from DC to Oakland; we were headed for a two-day sensitivity training course, something Mulder holds in equal esteem with team-building seminars. "Flukemen and cannibalistic mutants don't give a shit whether I talk nicely to them," he groused, right before donning his airline-issue headphones and dozing off (practicing for the seminar, no doubt). I was dreading those two days, too, and passed the time immersing myself in a medical journal. But the real trouble started in our rental car during the drive to the hotel and conference center in Berkeley. We began to argue. I mean, that's nothing new for us; we've argued before and we almost certainly will again. But this time, things got out of hand. We got into this big stew about--of all things--the Loch Ness Monster. It started out as a friendly enough discussion, with me, as usual, presenting the logical, scientific side. He, of course, expounded his typically passionate believers' viewpoint, which held all the substance of soggy newspaper. From there it quickly degenerated into a banter of childish name-calling. He told me I was "unimaginative" and "boring" (ouch, that hurt). I labeled him "gullible," "deranged," and a few other things I quickly regretted having said. My words must have really stung, because Mulder immediately lapsed into a cold silence, unbroken by our arrival and check-in at the hotel. As we each slid our card-keys into our respective locks, he finally muttered a curt, "Seminar starts at eight tomorrow." Punctuated by shutting the door decisively behind him. This is a rather nice hotel, actually. My room is quiet and spacious, with a comfortable, king-sized bed and subdued, tasteful decor. A definite cut above the usual run-down motor court motel rooms with noisy air conditioners and musty, sagging mattresses. Downstairs they have a tranquil sitting room with a fireplace, an elegant restaurant with an international menu, a snack bar, a lively cocktail lounge and a gorgeous indoor pool. I just wish I were in a better frame of mind to enjoy it all. Instead I just sit here, tormented by my own discordant thoughts and--let's face it--a guilty conscience. I want to go apologize to him, but I feel too ashamed to face him right now. I don't know what possessed me to lob insults at Mulder the way I did...why I became that angry that easily. I can't blame it on job stress; this has always been a stressful profession and I'm used to dealing with it by now. At the moment, I have no pressing personal problems. However, lately I do see in myself a tendency to become frustrated easily, especially when Mulder is around. I can't explain it. True, he's always kept me a little off-balance, but he's never gotten to me like this before. He's always kept me on my toes, always challenged me. It's been a total pain in the ass sometimes, but I'm a much better FBI agent, doctor and human being because of him. I can't imagine what my job would be like without Mulder as my partner. In truth, he is so much more than a partner to me. He's a good friend, the best. Caring. Deeply compassionate. He doesn't need sensitivity training...I can attest to that. It would be redundant. If you had to entrust your soul to someone, you'd want it to be Mulder. He's gotten me through the worst times of my life. (God, why did I say those things to him?!) You know, he has this amazing kind of sixth sense, always knowing just when I need him to offer me little gestures of empathy and comfort. He'll take my hand in his, he'll smooth my tousled hair. He'll kiss me oh-so-softly on my forehead, my cheek, my hand. And whenever our world starts falling apart around us, he'll pull me into his arms and hold me. My entire body flushes warmly at the thought of physical contact with Mulder. Hey, what can I say? He's an attractive man: tall, dark-haired, green-eyed, well-built. And I'm a very red-blooded American woman...for whom the deprivation of intimate physical contact with an attractive male of the species has gone on way too damned long... Don't change the subject, Dana, I tell myself. Get up off your ass, go knock on his door and tell him you're sorry, for Chrissakes! My knees turn to rubber as I stand up. Nevertheless, I steel myself and exit the room, coming to stand right outside his door and resolutely knocking on it. Seconds tick by, then a minute, then two. I knock again, but there is no answer. I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. I wonder if he's snoozing again, but it doesn't seem likely; he had a long nap on the plane. Anyway, he's a light sleeper and wouldn't have slept through the noise. So that means he must be ignoring me. Great...now what? Then I realize that he might have simply gone out. He could be downstairs somewhere, maybe grabbing a bite to eat. Or sitting in the bar, drowning his sorrows. That's probably it, I think, smiling to myself. Poor Mulder. I'd better go tell him I'm sorry before he drinks himself into another world. I count down the floors as the elevator descends with exasperating slowness. Finally the doors part and I hurry out. But an inspection of the lounge only turns up a handful of drunken businessmen. I ignore their alcohol-sodden stares and continue my quest. But the restaurant is empty, as are the snack bar and sitting room. Then I remember the swimming pool. That's got to be it, I tell myself. He's probably working out his frustrations with about a hundred freestyle laps. I head toward the indoor pool and am surprised to find that it, too, is unoccupied. Feeling defeated, I return to my room and start to unpack, just to give myself something to do. As I remove and sort the items from my suitcase, I remember that I brought some workout clothes with me. I miss my well-equipped gym when I'm on the road, so I like to do stretches and simple aerobics while I'm traveling to stay in shape. I pull out my sneakers, sports bra and stretch pants, and as I'm slipping them on, it suddenly occurs to me that the hotel might have a fitness room; most of the nicer chains like this one usually do. I check the hotel directory, and sure enough, there's one at the end of the corridor by the conference rooms. So I grab a towel and my water bottle and head back downstairs. A vigorous workout will do me some good, I tell myself. In fact, I usually head to the gym to clear my head whenever life's little frustrations spur me to climb the walls. With a little luck, I'll have the room all to myself at this time of day. But I don't. Someone else is using the Nautilus equipment there. I blink in surprise as I realize I've finally found the MIA Mulder. He's in there lifting some rather tall stacks of weights, doing very intense flies, presses and crunches. It's astonishing, because I've never known Mulder to be much of a gym rat. He's fit, yeah; and fabulously so. But his preferred forms of exercise are swimming, running, shooting hoops and swinging lumber in a batting cage. He excels at all of them too; he sprints effortlessly, he swims like a fish and his slugging percentage and free-throw prowess would be the envy of even some professional athletes. But I look at him now, clad in bicycle shorts and one of those loose-fitting tank tops, furiously pumping iron, and I'm treated to a whole new aspect of Mulder's fitness regimen. As with everything else he does, he's throwing all of himself into it...and he holds me completely mesmerized. It's wild, too, since that sort of thing doesn't usually turn me on like this. I mean, back at my gym in DC, I see guys who look like they could be Arnold Schwartzenegger's bodyguards working out all the time...but none of them has ever commanded my attention the way Mulder does right now. I'm rooted to the floor, my eyes wide, my mouth so far agape that my jaw must have come unhinged and dropped about halfway to the floor. Mulder, completely oblivious to my ogling presence, pours all of his concentration into his muscles, moving with an athlete's grace from one apparatus to another. He shows no mercy to any single part of him. Every area of his body is pushed to the limit. He begins with the lower body, the quad muscles on those long legs of his flexing and contracting through rep after rep of leg extensions. Then he rolls on his back to work the hamstrings, hooking his ankles around cylindrical pads. He bends his legs back until his heels nearly touch his ass, drawing the weighted cord up and down, up and down. He then straps on an ankle cuff to do some particularly energetic kickbacks and crossovers. From there, Mulder concentrates on his upper body. He does a rather impressive series of front and rear chin-ups, relentlessly lifting his own 170 pounds again and again, those sinewy arms rippling with every move. He grimaces with the effort, his skin covered in a glistening sheen of sweat, his unruly, dampened hair flying about his forehead. He draws each breath through clenched teeth, then exhales with a forceful grunt. I'm beginning to perspire rather heavily myself, and I haven't moved an inch in the last ten minutes. And that's not the only body fluid I'm exuding. A warm rush of liquid has begun flooding my inner walls to pool hotly between my thighs. I'm short of breath, as if the air has been sucked from my lungs. And yet I persist in watching him, prolonging this exquisite torture. He's still working on his lats, those angular back muscles that connect on his sides, this time by pulling down on a wide, weighted bar. He raises it back up and then yanks it down again, over and over. Next, he focuses on his abs. He grips a smaller bar and bends forward and back, his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his torso, revealing the sexy ripple of his taut six-pack. Pardon me while I begin to drool outright. My towel and water bottle have landed on the floor, and I have no memory of dropping them. He's on the butterfly machine now, working his chest. He uses his forearms to squeeze the weighted bars together in front of him, then swing them back to the sides. Oh my God. His tank top is cut so low that I can see those beautifully defined pecs of his tensing and releasing. Between those and his freshly-ripped abs, I feel myself growing faint. I'm bathed in my own sweat now, and my panties are soaked with my arousal. He leans back to do a bench press, his pecs flexing even harder now, intensifying the effect on me. I'm right on the brink of losing it, and now he does me in completely, standing up to do some powerful arm curls. As his biceps muscles bulge again and again, I'm afraid I'm going to come right here in the middle of the hotel corridor. But then he does something I never expect. He suddenly lets go of the bar and sinks down onto the nearest bench, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. His shoulders sag...but I know instinctively that it's not from exhaustion. He looks so lost and alone. He buries his face disconsolately in his hands and sits very still. I may not be the psychologist here, but I don't need either science or ESP to see that he's hurting inside. At that moment, it finally penetrates my lust-fogged brain that I'd been looking for him for a reason: to tell him I was sorry for my impulsively-spewed remarks. I finally move forward and am about to push open the door when suddenly Mulder jumps to his feet again, his jaw set with renewed determination. He plants himself on the rowing machine, launching into a series of arduous reps. That's it, I tell myself. If Mulder wants to train for the Mr. Universe competition, that's one thing...but if he's only torturing himself with this brutal regimen on account of me, then it's time I went in there and put a stop to it. I enter the room at last, pushing the glass door aside. He doesn't notice me until I'm standing right in front of him. He abruptly stops rowing and stares up at me. I see several emotions play subtly across his face: the initial surprise that gives way to anger, then melts into hurt...and, as I begin to speak, he shows a tiny flicker of hopefulness. "Mulder..." I feel my vocal cords straining, my lips and tongue moving to form words; but the voice that emerges from me doesn't sound like my own. It's breathy and husky, and sounds as if it's coming from the other side of the room. The hurt and anger on his face have vanished, replaced by a sweet anticipation that's almost child-like in its eagerness. "Mulder..." I say again, struggling to get the words out. Just say it, the small sliver of rationality in my mind shouts at me. Just tell him, "I want to apologize." I try it again, taking a deep breath. "I want..." His eyes rake over me now, taking in my lust-darkened eyes, my moist, parted lips, the droplets of sweat pouring from my skin and dampening my clothes. He licks his own sweat-beaded lips, his gaze pausing to linger on my breasts, on my hardened nipples protruding right through the thick fabric that encases them. His eyes darken in response, his nostrils flare as he detects the heady scent of my arousal. "Mulder...I want to..." Then, at that moment, my downcast eyes discover the rapidly growing bulge straining mightily against the front of his shorts...and my last vestige of self-control implodes. I launch myself squarely onto Mulder's lap, fling my arms around his neck and crush his mouth against mine. My tongue thrusts into his mouth, running over his teeth and palate. I drink him in, all heat and salt and a musky taste that is undeniably masculine, distinctly Mulder. He pulls back, but he's not trying to stop me; instead he examines my face, my expression. He looks as if he can't quite believe this is really happening. I smile and lean forward to offer him irrefutable proof. The kiss is gentler this time, softer. I toy with his mouth as his own tongue springs to life, playfully tussling with mine. I nip lightly at that beautifully chiseled curve of his lower lip, then suck it deep into my mouth. Mulder, finally convinced of my reality, winds his strong arms around me, drawing me even closer. His hands slide down my back and clutch the roundness of my ass, pulling my hips snugly against his, my pubic bone impacting with his rock-hard cock. I moan into his mouth and he answers me with a grunt of feral animal pleasure. I caress his heated flesh, running my hands across the breadth of his shoulders and up and down those freshly-pumped arms. His muscles are still hard and swollen, matching his swiftly expanding shaft digging into my crotch. I yearn to feel more of his bare skin against mine. As I start pushing the straps of his tank top down over his shoulders, he unceremoniously rips it off. I quickly move to pull off my sports bra, but his fingers are already there, deftly loosing the garment from me. I let it drop to the floor. My breasts tumble free, and Mulder eyes them hungrily. His hands slide back around to my front to clutch them, his thumbs running along the large arcs of the undersides while his fingertips take turns exploring my firm, upright nipples. My hips rock against his reflexively, and he retaliates by bucking up forcefully against them. Suddenly he withdraws his hands, thrusting them under my arms and lifting me up until my breasts are at his eye level. Then his face dives into my rounded peaks. His lips encircle one flushing pink nub, his tongue dancing across my curvy feminine terrain while I clutch blindly at his sweat-slick hair, moaning wildly with carnal pleasure. Mulder finally releases my breasts, lifting his face up to mine to kiss me again. I surprise him by pushing him backwards, then leaning over him until I'm at eye level with his chest; now it's my turn, and at long last I'm sliding my eager fingers over those gorgeous pecs of his. They expand gloriously against my hands with every breath he takes. I move in for a taste, licking the outlines of his pecs, and he groans his delight. Then I draw the firm flesh into my mouth, teasing his nipples with caresses from my lips and tongue. Mulder interrupts my attempt to venture south and explore the hills and valleys of his luscious abs; I've leaned too far forward, and he's lost that heavenly friction from our hips pressing against each other. Judging by the hungry, inarticulate sounds he makes, it's obvious he's had enough teasing and needs something of substance now. He jerks my stretch pants down, taking my panties with them. I rise just long enough to push them the rest of the way down and off while he unfastens the bike shorts, raising his hips to yank them down and toss them away. An impressive erection bursts free, throbbing, ready for my body to draw it in and encompass it. He measures my readiness, his stroking fingers probing me and coming away drenched in my wetness. He smiles, displaying his gratification--and the anticipated relief he so eagerly desires. I brace my arms on his shoulders and hover over him. The head of his cock lunges against my opening, demanding entry. Simultaneously, Mulder embraces me tightly and holds me suspended above him, allowing me to control the speed and force of the penetration. I flash him a grateful smile, which he returns. Carefully, I begin to lower myself onto him, gasping as the huge, hot length of him pushes into me. My moisture-slick walls gently expand to accommodate him. He fills me so fully, and as I bury him to the hilt, I am finally whole and complete as never before. Together we moan in pure pleasure. I raise myself back up, sliding him almost all the way out before I impale myself on him once again, our hips colliding harder this time, wringing cries of ecstasy from both of us. Then I begin to move on him, a slow, easy rhythm. Gradually I increase my thrusts until I find a smooth, comfortable pace he likes. He groans his satisfaction. I take in his closed eyes, his long lashes nearly sweeping his cheeks, and decide to up the ante. I squeeze my inner walls around him. His eyes burst open and he sucks in a breath at this new sensation. I squeeze again, harder this time, and primal, guttural sounds emerge from deep in his throat. His hands find my breasts again and resume their sensuous massage. With his strong, skillful manipulations, I sense the impending release that has been building up inside me since I first caught sight of him. My breath comes in quick, short gasps as the pressure increases... ...And then it grips me. I tremble uncontrollably in Mulder's arms, my lower torso pulsating with wave upon wave of consummate pleasure, my head tipped heavenward as I cry out in utter elation. When I regain my senses some moments later, I realize that Mulder has been holding back, waiting for me. Now I return the favor, bracing my feet firmly against the floor, increasing the force and pace of my thrusts. My inner muscles grip him even more tightly, and I sense that he's getting close. His breath quickens, and his muscles begin to tense against me. Incredibly, I feel the pressure swiftly building inside me once more. I'm thrusting so hard now that the seat of the rowing machine is sliding back and forth along its track, its movements heightening every impact between us. Little stars begin to dance in front of my eyes, and suddenly I'm falling again, quaking as the second orgasm racks my entire body. I'm clutching wildly at his back and shoulders, my clenched teeth barely stifling my screams of release. Mulder follows only a moments later, his hips bucking hard against mine, his hot liquid essence fountaining up into me. He cries out hoarsely, his arms crushing my body against his, until every last drop has shot up into my depths. We both sit limp and panting in each other's arms, my head resting on one powerful shoulder. Mulder tenderly rubs my back and plants soothing little kisses against my hair. It seems like ages until I'm able to catch my breath. I finally lift my head, and I catch my reflection in the mirrored wall. I idly wonder if sex has ever inspired this glowing, rosy blush all over my body before. I'm inclined to believe that this is the first time for me. When I finally draw back to look at Mulder, he is smiling this beautiful little smile...sated...full of sweet incredulity. And I smile back at him, hoping he can see the joy, the thorough contentment that I'm feeling. He answers my unasked question with a whispered, "So beautiful..." I hug him gently, a gesture he returns without hesitation, planting more small kisses on my neck and shoulder. The approach of intruders' voices finally pries us apart. For the first time it occurs to us that our little indiscretion was staged in a very public place. We scramble to grab all of our recklessly flung-off clothes, then retreat to the opaque corner of the front wall where--concealed from open view--we hastily yank them all back on. All this as we flatten ourselves against the wall of our hiding place, cocking wary ears toward the voices. After about a minute, the voices retreat back into the distance. As we look at each other, the absurdity of our situation suddenly dawns on us and we burst out laughing. "Let's vamos," Mulder suggests, and I agree, still giggling. I gather all of our other belongings together as Mulder mops up the rowing machine with a sheepish grin. We leave the fitness center, heading back toward the elevators in the lobby, and our arms slide around each other. It feels so natural, as if they've always been there. As if they belonged there. "So," Mulder begins, clearing his throat, "did you come down here to work out?" I laugh again as I pick up on his double entendre. "Not like this, no!" I answer in between more titters. "But I originally came down to look for you." "Really? What for?" "To apologize. I know that I hurt you. You had every right to be angry with me." There is a long pause before he asks, "When was I angry at you?" He looks genuinely confused. "This morning--you know. When we were arguing in the car. I called you a bunch of stupid names, and you became angry with me and clammed up." "Ohhhhh...." He chuckles. "No, Scully, I wasn't angry with you. Well, maybe I was, a little." He grins good-naturedly. "No, I was angry with myself. I saw how much the things I said hurt you, and I've beating myself up over it ever since." I smile at him, surprised and greatly relieved. "It's all right, Mulder," I assure him. "I'm over it now. And you were probably right, anyway." Mulder smiles and shakes his head. "Noooooo, Scully, I was wrong. You have a very lively imagination...and you're anything but boring." He squeezes my shoulder fondly, and I grin up at him. By now we've reached the elevators, and Mulder absently pokes the "up" button. He then continues, saying, "But I am sorry. I just don't know what got into me this morning." I stare at him, amazed that he's echoed the same thoughts from my own head. Then a slow grin spreads across my face. "Why don't we just chalk it up to sexual frustration?" I suggest. He laughs and pulls me back against him in an affectionate hug. "Well, we know how to deal with that from now on," he asserts. "I'll just make love to you morning, noon and night." "Promises," I joke. He looks down at me again, saying, "I do, you know." "You what?" "Love you," he answers simply. My heart surges in my chest, and I feel my face light up with pure joy. "I love you, too," I confide to him. He leans down into me again, his lips stroking mine in the most tender of kisses. We break it off when the elevator bell rings, the doors sliding open for us. We step inside, and Mulder jabs the button for our floor. Then he grins mischievously. "Hey, Scully...you know what I've got upstairs?" "Dirty magazines?" "Ha-ha, no...I mean, besides that." "What?" I ask him. "A cozy, private hotel room...with a big, soft, king-sized bed...lots of fluffy pillows...and fresh, clean sheets." I grin wickedly at him, pressing my body snugly against his, and retort, "Not for long..." THE END ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Acknowledgments--Thanks to my great beta readers for their efforts and their helpful advice: For CM, who got this whole crazy thing started. For Saila, fellow insomniac, for those fun, hilarious, late-night chats, and for the depth of her friendship. For JA, who (like me) is a sucker for great biceps. For Syd, faithful friend and correspondent who helps me remember the best of XF. For TS, who's taught me so many invaluable life lessons--like how much fun I'd be having once I shed my inhibitions...hee hee! And for Cat--enjoy that new Bowflex! ;-)