Look What They've Done to My Song, Ma
By Brandon D. Ray
publius@avalon.net
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Anywhere and everywhere, so long as my name
stays on it and no money changes hands.
FEEDBACK: Oh, hell yes....
Ephemeral: *FEEDBACK*publius@avalon.net
SPOILER WARNING: None, really. A rumor from season 6, right at the
end.
RATING: NC-17
CONTENT WARNING: Hmm. Sex. Yup. Some of that. Quite a bit of it, in
fact.
CLASSIFICATION: SRH; MSR
SUMMARY: The songfic to end all songfics. Don't I just wish... ;)
DISCLAIMER: Nope, I do not own these characters or situations. If I
were THAT smart, I would be rich.
Look What They've Done to My Song, Ma
OR
Fate Takes a Hand
by Brandon D. Ray
There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
Julius Caesar, Act IV, Scene iii
by William Shakespeare
# # #
Happy bridegroom, Hesper brings
All desired and timely things.
All whom morning sends to roam,
Hesper loves to lead them home.
Home return who him behold,
Child to mother, sheep to fold,
Bird to nest from wandering wide:
Happy bridegroom, seek your bride.
Epithalamium
by A.E. Housman
# # #
Would you like the sex, or just a little head?
The Opening of Misty Beethoven
# # #
Philosophers will probably never settle any of the eternal questions,
any of the things which really matter: Predestination versus free will;
the existence of God and a higher purpose for humanity; why the Redskins
can't seem to beat the spread. But. There is no denying that, every
once in awhile, Fate takes a hand, and everything is thrown
higgledy-piggledy.
And today is one such day. Follow along, and you will see.
# # #
November 21, 10:13 a.m.
A certain basement office in a certain well-known government building in
a certain city on a certain seacoast of a certain major country
Or was it October 13, 11:21 a.m.?
No matter. Onward.
Fox Mulder bent over his desk, trying to make sense of the expense
report he was working on. It was from the Case of the Giant Rat of
Sumatra, which had been only a couple years ago, but already the
deadline for filing his travel reimbursement claim was fast approaching,
and he had promised Skinner he'd turn everything in by the close of
business today.
He was actually close to being finished. All he had left to do was to
justify the loss of two flashlights, another Sig Sauer, three boxes of
ammo for same, a crate of raw, unsliced zucchini, and the destruction of
a thirty foot yacht belonging to a United States Senator. It was the
zucchini that he was really struggling over; despite his legendary
photographic memory, he couldn't for the life of him remember why he'd
bought them, or what he'd done with them.
Speaking of vegetables, Mulder's own personal zucchini was bulging in
his pants like a son of a bitch, an inescapable consequence of the
presence of the petite, perfectly proportioned red-head sitting across
the room. Her natural pheromone was bad enough; today she was obviously
in heat. His trained investigator's nose had detected this fact the
moment she stepped off the elevator that morning. It was all he could
do to refrain from ripping her clothes off and giving her a shagging she
would never forget, right there on his desk.
<<Someday I'll find the words to express my true feelings,>> he thought
wistfully. <<Someday I'll find a way to tell her how tenderly I feel
about her.>>
At that moment, the song playing on the radio ended. It might have been
Metallica, or the Dead Kennedys, or Frank Sinatra. It might have been
Devo, the Bee Gees, or Sarah McLachlan. It might even have been Twisted
Sister, Olivia Newton-John, or C.W. McCall.
But what had been playing on the radio didn't matter. What mattered was
that a few moments before the D.J. had received a call on the request
line, and was about to play a certain song. This decision was of no
great moment in the course of human history. It would not topple
governments, cause presidents to die (whether anyone was watching or
not), or even unleash a swarm of killer bees.
But for two agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, reviled and
despised by their colleagues, hunted like rats by their enemies,
trusting no one but each other -- well, let's just say that hearing this
particular song at this particular moment would change their lives
forever. These few words, written by a man who was now dead, with worms
and other nasty creepy-crawlies consuming his remains, would in a matter
of minutes wipe away five, no six, no five years of restraint,
discretion, and all that stuff. It would pierce their souls and form,
at last, an indissoluble bond, a bond which would never be dissolved.
In other words, Fate was about to take a hand.
# # #
Dana Scully bent over her desk, trying to make sense of the expense
report she was working on. It was from the Case of the Giant Rat of
Sumatra, which had been only a couple of years ago, but already the
deadline etc. etc. etc. and so on and so forth. You get the picture.
She wondered with amusement how Mulder was going to justify the crate of
raw, unsliced zucchini which she had surreptitiously charged to his Amex
card. She remembered in loving detail -- well, okay, in lustful detail
-- just exactly what she had done with those zucchini, but there was no
way in the world she was going to tell HIM about it, much less put it in
writing on her own expense report.
Speaking of vegetables, Mulder's own personal zucchini was in blatant
evidence this morning, and she kept casting covert glances at the bulge
in his pants. Her mouth watered at the thought of his manhood, proud,
erect and unencumbered, and slathered with melted butter. She had
deliberately chosen not to bathe for the last three days, so that he
would be sure to smell her essence as soon as she stepped off the
elevator (it was, after all, his birthday, assuming that it was October
13, 11:21 a.m., rather than November 21, 10:13 a.m.), and she was
pleased to see this graphic evidence that her strategy was bearing
fruit. Or bearing something. She squirmed in her chair, trying to find
that small, hard lump with which she liked to pleasure herself, as she
imagined him ripping her clothes off and giving her a shagging she would
never forget, right there on his desk.
<<Someday I'll find the words to express my true feelings,>> she thought
wistfully. <<Someday I'll find a way to tell him how tenderly I feel
about him.>>
And then Fate took a hand.
# # #
"That was The Village People with their classic hit, 'YMCA'," the D.J.
said, his voice booming through the tiny basement office. "In a moment
we'll continue with our 24 hour disco-swing-country marathon, but first
we've had a little request I'd like to play. This song in no way, shape
or form fits in our format, and the programming director has previously
informed me that he will eviscerate me and throw my remains to the
animals at the National Zoo if I ever play any Johnny Marks, but I just
can't resist. Ha ha, just a joke, folks."
Mulder's head jerked up and he tore his eyes away from their close
examination of his partner's bosom -- it was, of course, perfectly
proportioned -- and he momentarily set aside the question of whether she
was wearing a bra. He, of course, owned every Johnny Marks song ever
issued, along with a complete collection of The Clash, Men at Work,
Alice Cooper and Benny Goodman. Not to mention the Grateful Dead. He
wondered which of the Master's songs the D.J. was about to play, and his
eyes flew to the calendar. October 13. Or November 21. Of course.
"You've heard of Dasher and Dancer, Prancer and Vixen --"
The words sent a jolt through Mulder's spine. Despite the few seconds
of warning, he wasn't prepared for this, and his eyes filled with
tears. This song...this song had been so special. He vividly
remembered curling up in front of the television with Samantha, fresh
from their bath (they always bathed together; they were that close),
wrapped in a towel still warm from the dryer. The dear little Styrofoam
snowman, the sweet little reindeer, the soft, whuffly Bumble which
turned out to be so gentle and friendly once his rotten, necrotic teeth
had been pulled by the elf (even if the elf DIDN'T have a license to
practice, unlike Mulder's beloved partner, who could walk into any
Emergency Room in the world and instantly be accepted as a licensed
professional, even without written credentials).
Yes, Christmas used to be a special time in the Mulder household,
despite the fact of their Jewish heritage. Or perhaps because of it.
Before the dark time.
Before Samantha was taken.
He leaned back in his chair, tears streaming down his face, and hoped
that Scully would notice. Or maybe he hoped she wouldn't notice. Or
maybe he hoped both things. Anyway, he tried to concentrate on the
words of the simple, lovely song from his childhood. And suddenly it
struck him:
This song was about his relationship with Scully. It was. It really
was. "Vixen." That had to be Scully, he reasoned. After all, if he
was a Fox, then she had to be a Vixen. His Vixen. Shaking his head
sorrowfully, he closed his eyes and listened to the words blasting from
the speaker.
# # #
"Comet and Cupid, Donner and Blitzen --"
Scully sat bolt upright as the words penetrated her consciousness. She
had always hated this song, hated it with a passion, since it had been
playing on the radio that night when she was ten, that one Christmas Eve
when she had tried to sneak an extra helping of dessert and been caught
in the act. She'd been such a good little girl otherwise; she had never
broken any rules, or even had an impure thought, and the shame and
humiliation of the spanking, of being sent to her room for three days
and being forced to subsist on bread, water and brussels sprouts, had
permanently scarred her. That particular experience also went a long
way towards explaining some of her more unusual fetishes, but that's
another story.
Ahab had been such a meanie, and for just an instant she took vindictive
pleasure in the knowledge that he was dead, and was at this moment being
eaten by worms and other creepy-crawlies.
But now she listened, really listened, for no apparent reason, for the
first time in 26 years, nine months and 19 days (or 26 years, ten months
and 28 days, depending).
<<My god!>> she exclaimed internally. <<This song is about us! About
me and Mulder!>>
Who could deny it? The symbolism was so clear: Cupid, the goddess of
love, who with her arrows had pierced Dana Scully's soul way back on
March 6, 1992, when she first walked into this office and realized that
she had finally met her soul-mate. And Donner -- that was German for
"thunder", and there was no denying the way that the blood thundered
through her veins and her arteries (and as a licensed physician,
recognized to practice at a moment's notice, without written
credentials, anywhere in the world, Special Agent Dana Scully, M.D., was
well aware of the difference) every time she looked at her partner, or
even smelled the residue of his essence on those mornings when he came
to work without bothering to shower.
She leaned back in her chair, tears streaming down her face, and hoped
that Mulder would notice. Or maybe she hoped he wouldn't notice. Or
maybe she hoped both things. Anyway, she tried to concentrate on the
words of this song from her childhood. This song that she had always
hated. With a passion.
# # #
"But do you recall the most famous reindeer of all --"
Of COURSE Mulder recalled -- he had an eidetic memory, after all, and he
remembered every word she'd ever spoken, every look she'd ever cast his
way, every time she'd ever screamed at him because he touched the small
of her back while she was having her period.
God, how he loved this woman.
# # #
"Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer, had a very shiny nose!"
Scully's own nose was getting shiny, as tears welled up in her eyes and
slid down her cheeks, lubricating her face (go figger the evolutionary
utility of THAT). She sniffled slightly, and hoped that Mulder would
think she just had a cold. She was flatly determined that he would not
pierce her reserve and professionalism. She was dead set on being
treated as an equal and a partner, and not as a sidekick and a piece of
ass.
<<Oh, God, his ass....>>
# # #
"And if you ever saw it, you would even say it glows!"
Mulder's own face was glowing; he just knew it. He could feel the flush
on his cheeks, although where the hell that flush was coming from when
all the blood in his body seemed to be pooled in his groin he had no
idea. His zucchini was throbbing with love and, more importantly,
lust. If this song didn't end soon, he was going to split a seam
(again).
# # #
"All of the other reindeer used to laugh and call him names --"
Suddenly Scully felt sad. It was so unfair the way the other reindeer
-- er, agents -- treated him. So unfair. He was such a decent, warm,
thoughtful human being, with such a dynamite ass; how DARE they call him
"Spooky"? She didn't care about herself; she didn't care that they
called her "Mrs. Spooky" and "Ice Queen" and "Cootie Girl". It was his
feelings that mattered, his self-esteem that was on the line. She was
willing to tolerate any indignity, any humiliation, any hardship, if it
would make him happy at last.
But she was damned if she was going to tell him the truth about how she
felt.
# # #
"They never let poor Rudolph join in any reindeer games!"
Mulder shook his head in sorrow as he realized the truth of that line.
Poor Scully. Poor, poor Scully. She could be having a normal life: A
husband, children, a house in the suburbs, maybe an adulterous affair
once in awhile. If it weren't for her association with him, that is.
It was because of that association that no one in the Bureau, no one in
the government, no one in the entire goddamned country would have
anything to do with her. Men fled at her approach (and not only on
those days she forgot to bathe), because of the aura of the bizarre
which had rubbed off on her because of her work on the X-Files. He
would do anything if it could be undone, if she could have a happy,
normal, excruciatingly boring life, just marking time and never
accomplishing anything important or interesting until the day she died
and her body was eaten by worms and other creepy-crawlies.
He would do anything, that is, except give her up.
# # #
"Then one foggy Christmas Eve, Santa came to say --"
Scully's eyes popped open as she realized that it HAD been foggy that
morning, way back on March 6, 1992 (okay, so it wasn't Christmas Eve),
when she had driven to Washington to report to Section Chief Blevins and
begin her career with the X-Files unit and Fox Mulder. And Blevins even
reminded her of Santa Claus, just a little. All he would need would be
a beard...and a pipe...some dimples...a red suit with white fur
trim...and a belly which shook when he laughed like a bowl full of
jelly. Other than those discrepancies, it was a perfect match. (Of
course, he had also been dead for almost a year, or a little over a
year, depending, and his body was no doubt being eaten by worms and
other creepy-crawlies, but that was a side issue. A rather pleasing
side issue, all things considered, but a side issue nonetheless.)
# # #
"'Rudolph with your nose so bright, won't you guide my sleigh tonight?'"
Mulder's eyes popped open as he realized, suddenly, that all these years
Scully had been his guide through the fog of conspiracy, heartache and
despair. Through the long search for the Truth, through the long search
for Samantha, Scully had always been there at his side, holding a
flashlight the size of a zucchini and illuminating the path before
them. And he also realized, suddenly, that her flashlight was really a
symbol for something else, something more intimate and special in their
relationship. And he also ALSO realized, suddenly, why her flashlight
was always coated in delicious-smelling (and tasting) residue on those
occasions when he happened to pick it up.
# # #
"Then how the reindeer loved him, as they shouted out with glee --"
<<Love!>> Scully thought with stunned surprise. <<That's what this
feeling is; that's what it's been, all these years! What a fool I've
been! How blind I've been!>> And suddenly she felt an unquenchable
urge, an overwhelming desire to climb up on her desk and shout out with
glee!
# # #
"'Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer, you'll go down in history!'"
Mulder was torn from listening to the song -- the sweet, beautiful song
-- by a rustling on the other side of the room. It was his partner, his
beloved, his Scully, climbing up on her desk, shoving papers out of the
way, and in the process displaying more leg than seemed humanly possible
in a woman as vertically challenged as she was. As she finally stood
onher desktop, her eyes shining with unshed tears, or maybe she just had
a cold, he noticed the large, soggy spot on her chair, and his eyes
widened as he realized that this was incontrovertible evidence of her
arousal, her desire, her blatant horniness.
And he suddenly realized, after five, no six, no five years of silence
and denial, that this was the moment of truth,or perhaps the Moment of
Truth. He rose to his feet, no longer caring that the evidence of his
own lust swayed in front of him like a telephone poll under a circus
tent, crossed the room and climbed up on her desk next to her. Scully
was already shouting, screaming, yelling at the top of her lungs,
calling out things like, "Yippee! Hooray! Hubba hubba!", and he
quickly joined her in her vocalizations.
Then their eyes met, and they both realized that the moment was here,
the inevitable moment which neither of them had ever expected to come
(so to speak).
In an instant, they closed the gap between them, their bodies colliding
like an offensive tackle taking out a blitzing linebacker. Mulder knew
that he would pay for this tomorrow, in the form of bruises, contusions
and perhaps a few broken ribs (but no STD's, since there were no such
infections in the X-FIles universe, and even if there were, neither
Mulder nor Scully would ever be stupid enough to expose themselves to
such things), but he didn't care. All that mattered now was his desire,
her desire, their desire, and goddammit he was going to prong her to
within an inch of her life in the next few minutes, or know the reason
why!
For her own part, Scully was more than ready. In a few furious seconds
she had torn Mulder's clothes from his body, while he did the same for
her. Buttons flew everywhere, cloth ripped, and then they were finally
together, skin to skin, no more barriers, lost in a sea of flesh and
desire. Scully flopped down on her back like a landed fish, and Mulder
sprawled on top of her an instant later, like a noseguard making an open
field tackle.
Scully felt his throbbing member brush against her thigh, and she
immediately realized what he wanted and spread her legs for him. He
penetrated her in an instant, gutting her like a trout (to continue with
the landed fish metaphor), spearing, probing, exploring, and generally
discovering and claiming for his own her most intimate nooks and
crannies. Scully groaned with pleasure. "Filet me, Mulder! Oh, please
filet me!"
Mulder groaned with pleasure. She was so hot, so wet, her legs were
spread so wide, that he could hardly feel anything at all. At the same
time, she was so tight, and had such exquisite muscle control that she
could probably blow candles out on demand, and the way she was
manipulating his love muscle with her, um, self, was just too incredible
to believe. He knew he wasn't going to last very long, but he
desperately wanted to please her, and so he focused all his willpower on
holding back.
Scully knew she wasn't going to last very long. She thought about
mentioning to her partner -- lover! -- that she had never had an orgasm
in her life, at least not with a man (and with damned few women), and
that she never expected to, and that he should just take his own
pleasure, but the pressure building up inside her, the tension building
up, the glorious, wonderful feeling spreading outwards from her labia
majoris (for Special Agent Dana Scully, M.D., recognized to practice at
a moment's notice, without written credentials, anywhere in the world,
always insisted on using the correct medical terminology), gave her an
intuition that this statement might not be entirely true for very much
longer. Apparently all she had been missing was the right man to push
her over the edge.
And then suddenly she was there! Oh, it was wonderful! It was
glorious! It was the 1812 Overture, it was the Washington Post March,
it was Toccata and Fugue in D Minor! She was soaring, she was bursting
with joy, she wanted to sing, she wanted to dance, she wanted to put a
little seltzer down his pants (although he wasn't wearing any). She
wanted to scream her pleasure from the rooftops. And she wanted to do
it again.
She looked up into her partner's -- lover's! -- eyes, and saw the same
realization there. HE wanted to do it again, too! And she could tell
from his expression that he was reading HER eyes, and knew that SHE
wanted to do it again. And she knew that he knew that she wanted to do
it again. And she knew that he knew that she knew that he knew...well,
you get the picture.
In a flash, they were on their feet, bare-assed naked, laughing with
joy. In another flash, they had gathered up their torn, discarded
clothing, and were dashing out the door and heading for their cars.
Neither one of them said a word; neither of them raised the question of
"your place or mine". Now, for most people this might have presented a
problem, since given two independent variables there is only a 50
percent probability that they would both choose the same answer. But
for Special Agent Fox Mulder and Special Agent Dana Scully, M.D.,
licensed to practice medicine anywhere in the world at a moment's
notice, without written credentials, their own perfect, unspoken
communication (which really merited an X-File all its own), guaranteed
that they would both arrive at the same apartment, within seconds of
each other, still bare-assed naked and still laughing their silly heads
off.
As the door to their office swung shut once again, a shadowy figure
emerged from a corner of the room, where he had stood unmoving and
observant throughout the entire spectacle. You probably think this
shadowy figure is about to strike a light to his Morely, but this isn't
that sort of a story. Instead, the fluorescent overhead light glints
off his glasses, not to mention his bald head, and Walter Skinner smiles
an uncharacteristic smile as he sniffs appreciatively at the aroma of
sex in the room.
He had known these two had to get together eventually, whether Chris
Carter liked the idea or not, and this morning he hadn't been able to
stand the UST any longer. He had been the one who called in on the
request line to Mulder and Scully's favorite radio station. Somehow, he
had intuited that hearing that particular song at that particular time
would finally push the two into each other's arms (among other
anatomical gyrations and complexities). He had then slipped into their
office when they weren't looking, and stood quietly in the corner,
watching his plan unfold. He had been delighted to see everything work
out just they way he had planned -- and he'd gotten his own rocks off,
to boot.
Tucking his zucchini back in his pants, and turning off the lights,
Walter Skinner left the room and went back to his office, all the while
thinking that now he would have to give some thought on how to get
Fowley and Spender together.
Fini
--
"It's not till you get back to nature that you realize EVERYTHING'S out
to get you."
--Special Agent Dana Scully, "Quagmire"
===============Okay, I succumbed. I've established an online archive of my own X-Files
fanfic:
http://www.avalon.net/~publius/MyStories.html