By alanna
alanna@alanna.net
 

Date: Sun, 14 Feb 1999

DISCLAIMER: The characters herein are the property of Fox Broadcasting and
 1013 Productions.  The situations into which I have placed them are the
 creation of myself and S. Barringer.

CATEGORY:  VR, a little bit of H, a little A
RATING:  R for lascivious thoughts
ARCHIVAL:  Please ask first.
SPOILERS:  None which matter.
SUMMARY:  Mulder begins to rebuild his and Scully's lives - and their
 wardrobes - after decontamination.

FEEDBACK:  Greatly appreciated at alanna@alanna.net

I asked Susanne Barringer if I could write a sequel to her lovely story,=
 "Hot Shower", and she graciously assented.  Thank you!  This follows on
 purported events in "One Son", but - judging from the spoilers I've read -=
 has absolutely NOTHING to do with the episode itself :)

ATTRACTIVE
By Alanna

+++++

Scully thinks she doesn't measure up to my fantasy women, but she's wrong.=
  She IS my fantasy woman.  My overactive imagination could never possibly
 conjure someone as perfect as she is - all brains and cunning strength and
 trust.  Yes, I know these are all psychological traits, but they're what
 make her attractive.

I have ample opportunity to study what is "attractive" at this suburban
 shopping mall.  Our clothes were, by necessity, destroyed after the
 decontamination shower.  Of course, neither of us had brought overnight
 bags, not having expected to need a change of clothing on our jaunt to
 this city so far from home.  I was able to borrow some sweats and a
 t-shirt from one of the lab techs, and Scully was more than happy to don
 surgical scrubs in lieu of the similar, grotesquely oversized sweats she
 was offered.  Then she went off to perform an autopsy and I was left to
 wait - and interpret the events which led us here.

So now I'm at this shopping mall.  Purchasing a change of clothes for
 myself was easy:  I know my way around a department store and I've heard
 the words "fashion plate" whispered behind my back before (usually
 followed by "and ridiculously vain").  Oh, well.  I'm grateful for the
 lack of a credit limit on my Visa as I pay for the replacement Hugo Boss
 and several shirts, socks, underwear, and shoes.  I briefly entertain the
 thought of taking my bags into a dressing room and shedding this sweatsuit
 and those ugly strappy nylon sports sandals - my feet were not meant to be
 displayed - but I negate that option in favor of slathering on talc and
 lotion later, to soothe the burns on my skin.

I take the bags and head out to the rental car, putting them in the trunk.=
  And now back to the mall.

We didn't plan on coming here at all but now it looks as though we'll be
 staying several more days, as Scully performs her pathology duties and I
 begin interviewing witnesses as they emerge from quarantine.  Therefore,=
 Scully will need quite a selection of clothing.  Far be it for me not to
 provide for her.

I figure the best way to do so is to work from the outside-in.  Whereas
 months, even weeks, ago the idea of choosing underwear for Scully would
 have been awkward to say the least, now the prospect gives me a new
 thrill.  New, because now I can create more, well, accurate mental images
 of what she'll look like wearing them.  But back to the outside.  I head
 back to the upscale department store and take the escalator to the women's
 section.  As I survey the racks of business attire, I can already tell
 this will cost me a fortune.  The prospect doesn't bother me, however,=
 because Scully is most definitely worth the expense, and my savings
 account can handle the damage.

Grey seems to be the so-called "in" color this year.  She does wear grey
 quite well, but I admit a definite weakness for Scully in jewel tones.=
  She can wear emerald green or dark ruby-red with the grace of a
 professional model, if not better.  I eschew the friendly-looking
 saleswoman who approaches me, but make a mental note of the name on her
 badge for checkout time so that she'll be able to earn a nice commission.=
  Contrary to how it might seem, I know a fair bit about choosing clothing
 for women, even though I've never quite had the opportunity to do so in
 the past.  My attention is drawn to a simple black suit, with a trim
 blazer and knee-length skirt.  Though I'd love to see Scully in something
 much shorter - yes, I've noticed her legs, and what incredible legs they
 are - I know that she would never wear such a thing.  And though, like I
 said earlier, I prefer her in colors, I know that black is a good
 foundation upon which to build.

Blazer and skirt, check.  Time after time of packing her bags as we left
 generic motel rooms has built a familiarity with her sizes, so that
 doesn't present a problem.  I also select a pair of black slacks which
 match the jacket, giving her a wider range of options.  I can't resist a
 smile as I accidentally take out a pair marked "3 Average" - Scully would
 never admit being frustrated by her small build, but I know she feels that
 way.  It doesn't bother me in the least; in fact, I like her height.  She
 wears it well, so very well, and she often seems taller than am I.

Though I'd love to see her in the suit and nothing else, I know that needs
 dictate a blouse or two to wear underneath. This is my opportunity to have
 a little fun with color.  I immediately gravitate toward a dark red silk
 shell with a scoop neck.  Scully has been showing more cleavage lately
 than she has in the past;  I have to wonder if she's doing so for my
 benefit, or if it's simply in keeping with fashion. I prefer to think the
 former.  As my fingertips trace the scoop of the neckline I imagine
 they're tracing her collarbone and the soft skin just below it.  Granted,=
 I've never had the opportunity to actually touch it, but I watched
 carefully as it rose and fell with each breath she took as we stood under
 the spray of those harsh showers.  She has a small, darkened patch of skin
 just a few inches below her collarbone.  It's not quite a mole, and its
 asymmetry just begged for me to touch it.  And touch it I did - in my
 mind, anyway.

Pulling myself out of the reverie, I search the racks for another shirt for
 her to wear.  My gaze is captured by one on a mannequin.  It is a fitted,=
 stretchy material - lycra, I think - and it wraps across the dummy's body,=
 creating an X effect.  Very appropriate for us;  I can't resist adding one
 in an emerald green and another in "fashionable" grey-silver.  Such a
 color would seem to make a woman's skin appear sallow, the aesthete in me
 supplies, but I know it will blend beautifully with her rose-and-cream
 skin.

I survey the collection of clothes which has accumulated at the checkout
 counter and decide that she has several days' worth of options.  The clerk
 smiles at me, probably already calculating the commission she stands to
 inherit.  I return her smile and pull my Visa out of my wallet.

"Your wife?" she asks with a smile as she begins to ring up the purchases.

"Something like that," I reply with just the right amount of enigma and
 coyness.  She says nothing further as she completes the sale, and I don't
 even blink as I sign the charge slip.  Scully is worth it, just by virtue
 of the fact that she is, well, Scully.  The woman bags the purchases and I
 ask her if I can leave them here and pick them up on the way out, not
 looking forward to carting them throughout the mall.

Scully will look beautiful in these clothes, but she does need something to
 wear underneath.  I can feel my face reddening at this point.  We've
 already been so intimate today but underwear is an entirely new animal for
 me to tame.  Just the idea of selecting something which will rest next to
 her skin, her beautiful skin, is enough to speed up my pulse.  I have the
 option of venturing forth into the shopping mall itself but decide instead
 to just stick with this department store.  I remember walking past the
 lingerie department earlier so I head back in that direction.

Stockings seem an innocent enough point of origin; I goggle at the racks of
 different textures and styles.  In all my fashion-related musings, never
 did I imagine there were so many different types from which to choose,=
 boasting such things as "contouring, to energize your legs" and
 "silky-sheer".  I decide to go with the first option, knowing that
 anything which could "energize" Scully during those horrible, exhausting
 autopsies she performs could only be beneficial.  The display provides
 samples.  I finger one of the stockings, feeling the supple smoothness.=
  My mind flashes on the sensation of taking those hose and smoothing them
 up her legs, then higher? up to her thighs, her hips, feeling under my
 fingertips those strong leg muscles I glimpsed earlier this morning.  With
 a slight pang of embarrassment I wonder if I'm destined to become one of
 those men with a hosiery fetish.  Only where Scully's concerned, I tell
 myself.  I end up picking out three pair in a skin tone which looks to
 complement her.

And now the true test of my endurance:  brassieres and panties.  While I'd
 like nothing more than to carry back to her an armful of the thin straps
 of lace thongs and push-up bras, I know it's not her style, and seeing her
 in something she doesn't like wouldn't be attractive in the least.  I move
 to the racks of bras first.  Considering the clothing I'd already
 purchased for her, I decide that black and fleshtones are the way to go.=
  I stand in front of several racks and weigh the options.

Though her traditional choices of fashion would never reveal them, Scully
 has incredible breasts.  Full and exquisitely-rounded, they seem to have
 been designed to fit perfectly within my hands.  I remember how they
 looked this morning. The harsh soap and hot water gave them a splotchy
 flush, which served only to make them even more beautiful.  It was as if
 the marks of my fingertips had already been made upon their delicate
 flesh, like ripe peaches bruised slightly by an eager hand.  I look at the
 selection of bras.  The store offers sheers, laces, satins.  While I'd
 love to see her in the etchings of lace, her honey-red nipples peeking
 slightly through the whorls, I just can't imagine her wearing that kind of
 thing.  Instead, I gravitate toward the selection of satin.  Satin, shiny
 and soft, outlining and caressing her breasts in ways I hope one day to
 do.  The one I choose has a front closure and I can already envision her
 closing it? and my hands working the clasp to open it and reveal her to
 me.  Two black and one ivory are added to the basket in my hand.

The underwear section offers as many possibilities, if not more.  I know
 how important matching sets are to women, so I search for satin.  I don't
 know all the various terms for underwear, not that it matters.  I choose
 two pair of black and one of ivory, then wonder if that will be enough.=
  To be safe, I add another two pair.  As they settle in the basket, I
 can't help but conjure an image of her in them.  The elastic hugging her
 small hips just below the soft swell of her belly, the elastic around her
 thighs forming a vee culminating at the juncture of her legs, with perhaps
 a bit of coppery-brown hair peeking out.  I remember how she looked this
 morning; she doesn't shave.  She is completely natural, which is perfectly
 HER.  I have never touched her there, but my fingers already feel the
 satin hugging her skin, the coarse, slightly damp texture of the hair.

I have to take several deep breaths to tamp down my own arousal.  All in
 good time, I tell myself.  I hope?.

The purchases are duly paid for and wrapped in tissue paper by a helpful
 clerk. She has to see my embarrassment but doesn't comment on it, ringing
 up the lingerie in silence and with a slight smile.  I'll never see her
 again so it doesn't really matter.  These are for the woman who does
 matter.

I take the bag with me this time and decide to finally venture out into the
 mall.  As I pass the toy stores and jewelry boutiques, I realize exactly
 what I've been doing with my clothing and lingerie purchases:  I've been
 planning a seduction.  Her seduction.  She has seduced me with her mind;=
  I hope to seduce her with her body, and my selection of clothing to paint
 upon her.  The realization brings a smile to my lips.  I have chosen
 clothing based on an intimate knowledge of her body, but my true desire is
 to remove that clothing from her.  How absurd, but how very perfect.

I go into the first lotion-and-fragrance store I see.  I've never been into
 one of these before, and it's not quite what I expect. I'd always assumed
 that these stores offered floral and fruity smells, but the scent which
 greets me is of almonds and patchouli and vanilla.  THIS is what Scully
 needs, not a bouquet of botanical smells.

The clerk at this store isn't nearly as demure as the ones at the
 department store;  she approaches me with expectation and doesn't back
 away at my polite smile.  I decide to indulge her.  I could use some
 advice in this arena.  She points me toward the selection of shampoos and
 I look over them, realizing that whatever I choose will most likely be
 something I also use, having none of my own with me.  Somehow, that is
 even more intimate than my having chosen lingerie.  I admit that I have no
 knowledge of whether her hair is oily, dry, or whatever, so I select what
 purports to be an "all-purpose" shampoo.  Good for me, good for her.  Good
 for us? together?  The size of the bottle certainly offers enough for
 the both of us.

On my way to the counter I see the lotions and so-called "essential oils".=
  My mind boggles at the selection;  I couldn't begin to choose the perfect
 one for her.  Fortunately, amid the labels bearing the names of various
 spices and herbs are a series of mood-based lotions.  I hone in on one
 labeled "sensual massage lotion".  Scully's skin looked so very soft, even
 when assaulted by scrubbing biohazard technicians, but I can't resist the
 possibility of smoothing this massage lotion over her skin, kneading it
 with my fingertips and soothing away her burns.  I know that won't happen
 tonight - our flesh is still too raw and sore for anything of the sort.=
  But perhaps someday.  Someday soon.

I pass a shoe store on the way back to the department store to pick up the
 first set of purchases.  I decide against buying her shoes, remembering
 that her simple black pumps were not discarded before we entered that
 decontamination shower.  Besides, I know better than to buy anyone shoes
 without their being present.  Shoes are an exact science, and Scully is
 the scientist in this relationship.

As I finally walk out of the mall, I realize that I've forgotten to buy her
 sleepwear.  Maybe that was my subconscious talking.  Maybe tonight she
 won't need pyjamas.  Maybe tonight she'll fall asleep in my arms, her only
 covering my arms, my body.

Maybe.

I place the bags in the trunk of the rental car, nestled against my own
 suits and ties.  It has become a very intimate collection.  I close the
 trunk and settle into the driver's seat, turning on the car and navigating
 the roads back to the hotel the local PD booked for us.  I have chosen
 these purchases based on an intimate and - dare I say? - loving knowledge
 of her body and soul.  She'll wear them and hopefully she'll see how much
 I care.

And perhaps tonight she'll let me take them off.

+++++

END (1/1)

Thank you, again, to Susanne for writing the lovely story, "Hot Shower",=
 and for her beta of this follow-up!  :)
 

+++++alanna+++++
http://alanna.net
"It's the best possible time to be alive,
when almost everything you thought you knew is wrong."
     --Tom Stoppard, "Arcadia"