From: "alanna" Date: Sun, 14 Feb 1999 13:13:33 -0600 Subject: Attractive (1/1), by alanna 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"