By Xtreme Unction
xtreme_unction@hotmail.com
 

RATING: R for profanity, MT, and sexual themes
DISCLAIMER: This work was for love, not for profit.
It is intended as an homage, not an infringement.
ARCHIVE: Mulder's Refuge ER-X; all others, please
request permission first.
SPOILERS: Everything up to S7, including FTF

NOTES: Written for the Mulder's Refuge November Fic
Contest.  Thanks to Sixth Extinction for all the
insights and the extraordinary "beta."  Dedicated to
T, who laughed when I first told her I was writing
fanfic, but then promptly demanded a "proposal fic"
if I was wasting my time anyway. <g>
 

* * *
 

Part I - "Oh, my God!"

I woke up with the mother of all headaches in an
unfamiliar hotel room.  I have no idea how I got
here, but right now I really don't care.

Priorities.

I tried to ignore the shooting pain centered in the
area between my eye sockets as I stumbled into the
bathroom to take a leak.  Through squinted eyes I
noted the strong steady stream banking off the side
of the bowl and sighed deeply.  God, it feels good to
pee.  You know that feeling of finally emptying one's
bladder after holding it for too long?  Physical
satisfaction of the purest, most basic kind.

Why do I always raise the toilet seat, I asked myself
irritably.  And why the hell do I always put the seat
down, despite the fact that no woman ever uses my
bathroom?  Except Scully sometimes, but those times
are few and far between.  I know it's the polite
thing to do, basic good manners my mother hammered
into me, but why do I waste the energy when there is
no one around to notice?  All I do is put it up again
the next time I need to go.  And then, like a fool,
down again.  Up, down, up, down...whoa, that's making
me dizzy and nauseous.

I caught myself staring open-mouthed into the mirror,
dick still in hand, when I realized something.  I was
thinking along these lines because the toilet seat
was ALREADY UP when I came in the bathroom.  What the
hell?  I'm too fucking polite to leave the seat
up -- I think we've already established that -- so
someone else must have.

Why can't I remember anything about yesterday?

I flushed (and put the seat down despite myself),
then sat on the edge of the tub to figure out where I
was.

First of all, this is a huge tub.  With Jacuzzi jets
and gold fixtures.  Since when do I stay in hotel
rooms with bathtubs built for sex?  I'm sure
accounting will have a cow when they see this on my
expense report.

A quick look around confirms my suspicions: a glass
shower enclosure in the corner, thick luxurious
bathrobes on marble shelves, a large basket of bath
beads and lotions on a pedestal by the door.  Toto,
I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore.

Lightning bolts of memory flashed through my head
painfully.  A dark, smoky bar.  Kissing the silky
curve of skin from her neck to her shoulder.  But who
is the woman?

At least I hope it was a woman, as I glance nervously
at the toilet seat.  God forbid, I had a one-night
stand with a man.  I blanch at the thought, before
saying out loud, "No way I'd have done that."  I
don't feel, er...sore...down there.  Or squishy from
lube.  But that just means I wasn't, you know...a
"bottom."  Who knows if I was "pitching" instead of
"catching" in that ballgame?

I pondered that concept for half a second before
slapping myself back into reality.  What the blazing
hell was I just thinking?  I am NOT going to
speculate on this topic -- not unless I have more to
go on than just a stupid toilet seat's position.
Jesus!

I grab my head with both hands and try to shake loose
more memories.  Not the best method, some would say,
but I was desperate.

Just as I was giving up, another bolt of recall
ripped painfully across the arid desert of my mind,
leaving me shaking.  Red hair and sparkling wine.
The smell of gardenias mixed with something deeper,
more primitive.  Come to think of it, I can still
smell that intoxicating mixture of her scents.  It's
on my hands, my face, and all over me.

The flashes of memory were coming faster now.  A
confused look crossing her face, then her mouth
dropping open in shock as I took...liberties.  Oh, my
God.

Did I just say, "Oh, my God"?

No, I am remembering HER saying it.

I am remembering Scully moaning, "Oh, my God."

What have I done?
 

* * *
 

Part II - "Things Torn Asunder"

I step out of the bathroom hesitantly, almost afraid
of what I might find.

The hotel room is mercifully empty.  My clothes are
strewn around the floor, but my gun, my wallet and my
keys are all neatly placed on top of the dresser.  I
have no luggage, which seems odd.  I also do not seem
to have my cell phone.

A piece of black fabric in the tangled mess of white
cotton sheets catches my eye.  It's a pair of women's
panties.

Torn.

Acidic anxiety eats away at my stomach lining as I
sit wondering if I raped Scully.  I am not capable of
doing such a thing, I tell myself over and over.  I
would never hurt her.  There are a million possible
alternative explanations.

Goddamn it, I wish I could remember what happened.

The panties are stained, I note with interest.  On
the outside, a drop of what smells like dried semen.
And lots of something else that smells entirely
female on the inside.  A grin spreads across my face
of its own accord.  I can't help it.  Man, I am
pig, aren't I?  Or is it "amn't I?"  Grammatical
dilemmas aside, I am somewhat relieved, since I know
this can only mean something good happened before the
panties were ripped off.

Foreplay.

And lots of it.

As fascinating as it is to ponder that, my mind
insists on a tangent.

This is a priority:  WHY do I always sniff at stuff I
cannot identify?  Why do I bring stuff right up to my
face which could be dangerous, or even deadly?  Not
that these panties look the least bit dangerous --
not in the traditional law enforcement sense of the
word.

"Am I a pervert?" I ask myself aloud.

No, definitely not.  I am pretty certain that 9 out
of 10 heterosexual men, if presented with a pair of
panties recently worn by a woman they find sexually
attractive, would take a reverent whiff.  Oh, yes.

I am impressed by how easily I can justify my
perverted actions with some bullshit statistic.

Nevertheless, I have been known to stick my fingers
in bile secreted by monsters.  I have tasted red
syrup masquerading as blood on a dead evangelist.
And that's not even the half of it.  So what the hell
is wrong with me?  I should know better.  I am a
pathetic excuse for a paranoiac.

Tangent over, I quickly bring the panties back up to
my nose and sigh.

I really need to get psychotherapy.
 

* * *
 

Part III - "When Poetry Is More Than Art"

I was lying crosswise on the bed, legs hanging over
the edge and arms akimbo, staring at the crystal
chandelier in my hotel room.  I was contemplating how
to kill myself in order to end the jackhammering in
my head, when my stomach let out a loud grumble.  I
considered eating my gun, but only for a moment, and
ordered breakfast from room service instead.

I'm at The Plaza.  That much I figured out when I
picked up the phone.  It's 7 p.m., but I ordered eggs
and toast.  And lots of coffee.  The guy at the front
desk confirmed that I checked in yesterday and paid
in advance, in cash.  It sure would be nice to know
what the hell is going on here, I mused.  I continued
my wary examination of the room.

An empty bottle of Cristal and two champagne flutes
sit on the round table by the window overlooking
Central Park.  Interesting.  Well, if this is just a
hangover, I'm never drinking that expensive shit
again.  I know I do all kinds of stupid things to
impress Scully, but I have to draw the line.  It's
Andre Cold Duck all the way from now on, damn it.

Ah, it hurts to laugh at my own lame jokes.

I brought my hands up to massage my temples but got
distracted by Scully's scent.  I think I've watched
too many MasterCard commercials.  Bottle of Andre
Cold Duck = $4.99.  Bottle of Roederer Cristal
Rose '95 = $299.99.  Bottle of whatever it is I'm
smelling on my fingers and all over my face =
priceless.  Wait, that's not how the commercial goes.
But who cares?

Okay, I am definitely a shithead, but I can't help
smiling at the thought.  I wish I could remember what
happened, but barring that, I am exquisitely happy
just to have all this circumstantial evidence around
me.  Snazzy kung-fu profiling FBI agent that I am, I
can deduce what took place here.

Then, I noticed there was a thin book lying on a
nearby chair.  I stretched and reached for it
clumsily, almost falling off the bed.  When I
realized what I was holding, I actually did fall.  My
ass hit the floor with a quiet thud that jarred every
last nerve ending in my head, but I'm proud to say I
did not puke.  It wouldn't do to have the room
service people find me in a puddle of my own vomit,
now would it?

Lying on the carpet, I thumbed carefully through what
appeared to be a first edition of Leaves of Grass.
It was one of the few that were self-published
anonymously, before Whitman got up the nerve to sign
his name to it.  Why some writers are hesitant to
acknowledge their own work is beyond me.  [*wink*]
Sure, this book was considered pretty scandalous by
1855 standards, but give me a break.  Poetry is art.
Wasn't it Whitman who said, "The poet judges not as a
judge judges, but as the sun falling around a
helpless thing"?

Thank goodness he changed his mind.  This turned out
to be his best work.  Just reading it now, I can feel
the way it transforms me from a profane, perverted
smartass to an introspective, romantic fool.  It's
one of the few books that can flick that switch
inside of me.

The dichotomy within most men is a curious
phenomenon.  I am a gentleman in every important
respect, and yet, let's face it, I am also a total
male pig.  I'm just as likely to be found reading
Playboy as Proust.  I can pick an excellent wine, but
I can also burp and fart with the best of them.  No
sense trying to deny aspects of my personality; there
is only so much a guy can do to repress his
uncivilized maleness.  A man's only hope is to find a
woman who can set aside any unnatural expectations
she may have of men's behavior based on what she's
read in romance novels.  Those Bronte sisters are
gonna be the death of my gender.

At least Scully knows both sides of me.  She makes
fun of the videotapes that aren't mine and swats me
with a rolled up newspaper whenever I do something
gross.  It's like I'm in puppy obedience school with
her.  Except puppies get cuddles and treats from
their mistresses.  I could use some cuddles, but
right now I'd settle for puppy treats.  I wish my
breakfast-slash-dinner would get here already.  I'm
so hungry that in ten minutes I'll be gnawing on the
pillows for sustenance.

My mind drifts back to the slim volume of poetry in
my hands.  I wonder where I got it.  It's not the
kind of thing you find everyday.

It's from Christie's, according to the invoice with
the certificate of authenticity I found tucked into
the protective jacket.  Looks like I went through
considerable effort and expense to obtain this.  But
why?

A memory shreds fresh wounds across my mind, leaving
blood and raw emotion in its wake.

"Mulder, I can't accept this.  It's too much."

I was standing there mutely, stunned that she would
turn away my gift.  Didn't she realize this was my
version of a diamond engagement ring?  Granted, it is
an unconventional gesture.  But when a man gives a
woman an extremely valuable present like this, it's
supposed to mean something, even if you can't wear it
on your finger.  I guess I was counting on her to
appreciate its significance.

Well, maybe she understood perfectly and just didn't
want it.

That thought was almost too painful to contemplate.

Stinging from her rejection, I struggled to maintain
my composure.  Staying calm was an immediate
priority.

Then I blinked and the memories started coming, like
an avalanche down the jagged slopes of my mind.
 

* * *
 

Part IV - "24 Hours Earlier"

I was standing at the bar in a new charcoal gray
suit, with a black dress shirt open at the neck.  No
tie, of course.  I had to buy the designer suit off
the rack (something I would not normally do) because
I couldn't wait the week it takes to have one custom
made.  At least the shirt was hand-tailored and
perfectly pressed.

Fortunately, there is no shortage of finer clothing
stores for men in New York City.  I sipped at my
single-malt and discreetly adjusted a cuff.  I
haven't felt the urge to go out and purchase a new
suit in a long time, much less ask a woman out on a
date.  I have been, shall we say, a little
preoccupied with my work these last couple of years.
I've had my priorities all mixed up, I realized and
shook my head regretfully.

But now I am ready to turn a corner.

I knew I looked decent for once, as I avoided the
appreciative gaze of a couple of women at the end of
the bar.  I am flattered, but I have no interest.
There is only one woman at the center of my
universe.  No galaxy, no constellation, nor even the
brightest supernova could hold a candle to her in my
heart.  Wish she were here already, I murmured to
myself.

The gleam of my freshly shined black leather shoes
matched my belt, my wallet, and my ankle holster.
Even my gun was all black, a SIG P228 9mm.  A
civilized man's accessories always match, I thought
with a wry grin.

My hair was cut and styled this afternoon, but the
best part of all was the shave.  It was so close that
I could slide my cheek up a woman's silk-stockinged
thigh, all the way up, without snagging a single
thread.  Wishful thinking, Mulder.  But, I told
myself, it never hurts to be prepared.

The attendant at the salon teased me as she was
trimming my cuticles and buffing my nails smooth.
"Who is this lucky woman?  Is she worthy of this
effort you are making for her, like a fine gentleman
would?"  I nodded, but kept mum.  Frankly, I was
surprised to find myself here.  Manicures aren't
exactly my thing.  "American women don't always know
a true gem when they see one," she commented in a
lilting French accent.  I smiled wistfully and told
her, "The woman joining me tonight for dinner is the
true gem.  I'm the lucky one."  That seemed to please
her enormously.

As I was leaving, she gave me a specially formulated
hand lotion for my calluses.  "Use this before you
touch her, Monsieur.  Unless, of course, she wants to
be touched with rough hands.  Sometimes that is what
excites the blood, no?"  She winked knowingly while I
did my best to hide the blush creeping up my neck.

Lotion or no lotion, I know my hands will never be
the soft, genteel hands of a pianist or a librarian.
No, my fingers and knuckles bear the unmistakable
appearance of a man who is capable of beating the
hell out of someone, if necessary.  Staring down at
my palms now, I frown at the thought of the violence
of which they are capable.  Of which * I * am
capable, I correct myself.

They say looking at a man's hands can tell you a lot
about him.  Scully is the one person in this world
who knows me best, but that doesn't mean she knows
everything she ought to know.  I hope she looks at my
hands and sees in them the lengths to which I would
go to protect her.  I would go to the ends of the
earth for her.  And I have. I hope she doesn't focus
on their sometimes brutish strength, but rather, on
their gentle reverence when I touch her: the way I
hand her a cup of coffee, the way I help her with her
overcoat, and the way I guide her lightly through
open doors with a hand on her lower back.  I wonder
if she ever notices these things.  I feel the energy
pass between us, electrifying me whenever our hands
brush, even after all these years as her partner.
Yet she seems so unaffected.

I shake myself out of this reverie and look at my
watch.  It's half an hour past the time she said she
would meet me here.

It's not like her to be late, and I'm starting to get
worried.  But then again, this isn't work.  This is
"a date," I thought with a goofy grin.

She can keep me waiting for as long as she desires.
 

* * *
 

Part V - "A Date"

When I called and asked her to meet me in the city
for a "date," she let out a deliciously surprised
laugh.  I expected to have to explain myself at
length, but there was no need.  She was quiet for a
few seconds, and then she agreed.  My heart
immediately started pounding.  I've been on pins and
needles ever since, anxiously anticipating this
evening.  "Do not screw this up!" was my mantra.

The seconds and minutes seemed to drag on so slowly.
I just want her to be here.  Now that I know what I
want, I can barely wait.  I decided to call her cell
from a phone in the lobby.

I nodded politely to the reservation clerk behind the
desk as I walked by.  The chief concierge remembers
me by name, from all the times my family stayed here
when I was a child.  Though not obsequious, he and
his staff treat me with a special level of deference
reserved for what they call "old money."  It always
makes me sad.  What they see in me is someone so far
removed from the real Fox Mulder that it's damn near
laughable.

They still think of me as the quiet, well-behaved
little boy holding Teena Mulder's hand as she crossed
the huge lobby after a day of shopping on Fifth
Avenue.  I look pretty good on paper, but it's
entirely misleading: the combination of my Oxford
education, the impeccable manners, the inheritance I
almost never touch, the clothes, the perfect posture,
and the prep school vocabulary.  If they only knew
what a disappointment I turned out to be.

For starters, they would shake their heads in
disapproval if they learned I was still in the Bureau
after all this time.  It's socially acceptable for a
smart young man to work for the government for a
couple of years, to get his feet wet in the so-called
real world.  But by now, I should have been long gone
-- off to bigger, better endeavors.  Instead, I was
working in the basement on cases no one else would
deign to investigate.  I snorted in self-derision.

I have no idea why Scully hasn't left the X-Files.  I
hope that it's because she doesn't want to leave me.
Leaving the X-Files would be leaving me, unless we
had some other...connection.

Last week, I "accidentally" saw a letter she received
from Quantico, offering her a huge promotion and a
pay raise to teach at the academy.

Okay, I admit I was snooping.

My mother always told me it was unwise to snoop,
especially among a loved one's things.  "Be careful
or you might find what you hadn't bargained for,"
she'd warn.

"But the truth will set us free!" I always countered.

"Not ALL truths, Fox," was all she would say.

Now, many years later, I finally have some inkling of
what she was trying to tell me.  It's funny how that
happens.

That letter has been weighing heavily on my mind ever
since I saw it.  After much soul-searching, I
realized I want her to take the job.  I think it's
what she would prefer, especially now that she is
undergoing fertility treatments.  It would be much
easier for her to conceive without the stress of
being a field agent.  I know it means the X-Files
will suffer, but that's all secondary.  The most
important thing to me now is Scully's happiness.
Don't ask me when that shift in priorities occurred.
I just know it has.

So, it's time to establish that other...connection.
I think I can live without having her for a partner,
as long as I can still talk to her everyday.  I can
manage to get through the days if I know I'll be
coming home to her every night.  And, although I am a
self-admitted pig, this is not about sex.  It's about
a connection between us that transcends everything
else.  Saying I love her just doesn't convey the
breadth of what I feel.  She is what makes my life
worth living.

Tonight, I plan to ask her if she will be my wife.

If she ever gets here, that is.

I look at my watch again.
 

* * *
 

Part VI -- "Nothing Important"

I tried to open my eyes, but found the effort almost
too much to bear.  The heavy weight on my eyelids
felt like twin anvils, pushing down on my retinas,
applying deadly pressure to the fine sheet of nerve
tissue lining the inside of my eyes.  I could almost
feel my corneas tearing.

"Open your eyes, Mulder.  Please open your eyes."
Scully was whispering in my ear.

I blindly reached for her hand and held on for dear
life.

"Scully," I rasped, "will you marry me?"

"Mulder, wake up!  Snap out of it."

I propped one eye open upon hearing the panic in her
voice.

One look around and I realized I was on the floor of
my living room, with the coffee table upended and
popcorn everywhere.  There was some kind of fluid in
a puddle on the floor.  I stuck my finger into it and
brought it up to my tongue.

Goddamn it!  Didn't I just say I wasn't going to do
that anymore?

It wasn't bile or fake blood.  Just Shiner Bock.

I think I remember what happened now.  Here and now,
I mean.  We were watching a movie.  I spilled some
popcorn butter on the floor but didn't mop it up.
(Mopping it up would mean admitting to Scully that I
snuck butter into the popcorn, which I cannot do.
She'd kill me.)  Then I got up to get more popcorn
and slipped on the slick spot, knocking the coffee
table over, spilling the beers and sending the
popcorn flying.  Serves me right, I suppose.

Scully was carefully palpating the growing lump on my
head.  I groaned.

"You okay, Mulder?"

"I think so.  I just had a very vivid, very detailed
dream.  I think my life flashed before my eyes."

"You were hallucinating.  I was worried about you.
You took a really hard blow to the head and kept
muttering stuff."

"Like what?"

I remember asking her if she'd marry me.  I remember
it clear as day.

"Oh, just random words.  Nothing important," she
said.

"Random words.  Nothing important," I repeated
softly.

I guess Scully has her priorities, too.

I struggled to maintain my composure, just like in
the hallucination.
 

* * *
 

Part VII -- "The Taste of Tears"

Later, after we had righted the coffee table and
cleaned up the mess, we were back on the couch.  I
laid my head in her lap as she watched the rest of
the movie.  Her fingers were softly running through
my hair and her thighs were warm beneath my head.  I
must have died during that fall.  This must be
heaven.  I prayed that the movie would never end.

"I meant it," I said softly, out of the blue.

She was silent for a long time.  I was thinking
perhaps she didn't hear me.

"I know," she finally replied.

Breathe, I instructed myself.

I reached for her hand gently.  "Say yes, then.  Make
me the happiest man that ever lived, Scully."

I watched tears brimming in eyes, threatening to
spill over.

"You need a CT and an MRI scan for that head injury."

"Say yes, Scully.  I love you with every molecule of
my being.  And I've been in love with you for
years..."

"Mulder, settle down.  You're scaring me with these
outbursts."

"I want to spend the rest of my life with you."  I
continued, heedless of her protests and my own
pride.  "I want you to be my wife.  Please say yes."

She stared into my eyes for a long time, speechless.
I thought my heart was going to break.

"I will," she whispered at last.  "But you have to
ask me again when you don't have a concussion,
Mulder."

I shut my eyes gratefully.  Continuing to breathe was
a definite priority now.  It's a good thing I was
already lying down.  I felt lightheaded.

"I'm not hallucinating, Scully."

She smiled.

"No, you're not."

When she leaned over and kissed me softly on the
forehead, I reached a hand up to pull her down for
more.  I've had enough of the forehead kisses.  I
want more -- so much more than I can ever put down in
words.

Our lips met, hesitantly at first, barely touching
behind the curtain of her red locks.  She seemed
almost afraid.  I slid my tongue lightly across her
lower lip before deepening the kiss.  I heard her
moan, felt her abdomen tense, and then her thighs
shifted underneath my head.  This immediate physical
reaction nearly undid me.  It was confirmation of
something powerful I was worried only I could feel.

Too soon, she broke the kiss, leaving me trembling
with a sense of Whitman's "sun falling around a
helpless thing."  I felt her lips move to my temples,
where she was kissing away my tears and telling me
they tasted like eternity.

I wasn't even aware I had been crying.
 

* * *
 

Part VIII - "Post Script"

Middle of the night, note to self:

Must call jeweler a.s.a.p.  Move ring to the top of
my fucking list of priorities.

The Walt Whitman idea in my hallucination was very
romantic, but some things have to be done
conventionally, even by unconventional guys like me.
This time I am definitely going to get her a ring.
I'm going to get down on one knee and offer her what
little there is left of me that she does not already
possess.

But first I have to get a stupid CT and MRI scan.
She needs objectively verifiable scientific evidence
that I'm lucid.

That's my Scully, my perfect other, the yin to my
yang.

I'm going to love being married to this woman.
 

* * *
 

To read more about the unsigned first edition of
Whitman's Leaves of Grass:
http://www.whitmanarchive.org/archive1/works/leaves/1
855/index.html