From: "Dawson E. Rambo" Date: Thu, 25 Mar 1999 07:31:16 -0700 Subject: NEW: "Porcelin" by XFBandit MSR, V, A Porcelain By XFBandit Edited by Scott Carr http://www.azstarnet.com/~drambo/bandit.htm Disclaimer: Not mine, never were. No money, etc. Rating: PG Classification: V,MSR Feedback: Soitenly. XFWriter@azstarnet.com Summary: On a hot summer night, would you give your love to the wolf with the red roses? No, wait...a vingette about a long, dark night in a Las Vegas motel room. Cliche, done before. This is a mood piece, gang. -1- MULDER: Amazing that we made it almost six years without this happening before, when you stop to think about it. I got my statement from American Express the other day, and when I went to file it with the rest, a sudden thought struck me. The file was thick, dating back almost seven years, and just for shits and giggles I sat down and started going through it. It's a map of Scully's involvement in my life. Hotels. Meals. Car rentals. Airline tickets. The occasional upgrade to business class. The odd cellular phone replacement charge. So, I counted. I got a legal pad and a gnawed nub of a pencil I usually did the Sunday "Post" crossword with, and started totaling 'em up. 743 nights spent in a hotel room. 412 rental cars. 653 meals. And on and on. Almost seven hundred nights spent in hotel rooms in forty-nine states and more than a few countries that the FBI doesn't enjoy jurisdiction within. Can't seem to find an X-File in Hawaii, dammit. Almost seven hundred nights. All of them, alone. Until tonight. The Gods of Hotel Room Management had never really smiled on Scully and me, but they had also never really shit upon us either. We were both usually so happy to get _back_ to the rooms from whatever case we were on that we'd never encouraged them to smite us. Well, except for that vampire case. But that didn't count. Not really. In all that travelling, we'd never had a reservation lost or a room sold out from under us. Until tonight. Here, in of all places, Las Vegas. Hotel capital of the world. Also home to the American Heart Association's annual convention. Which, of course, is currently in progress. Which is why the Perky!Clerk at the reception desk here at the Golden Fleece Motor Lodge carefully, slowly and repeatedly explained to my visibly and highly annoyed partner that not only was there only one single room left in her entire motel, but as far as she could tell, there wasn't a room left anywhere in the city, and unless you personally happened to know Steve Wynn, we were just the hell out of luck. So, we took it. Walking through the parking lot to our room, I remember thinking that I had slept in Scully's bed once before, but this was going to be the first time that I was conscious to enjoy it. Of course, I replied to myself, if Scully finds out that I'm enjoying it, she'll kill me. Which is why I'm in the cold porcelain tub right now. It's a long story. I'm sure it'll bore you. Oh. You want to hear it anyway? Ok. -2- See, when we opened the door, Scully looked at the single bed and groaned. Softly, under her breath, a whiny little thing that made me think of three-year-olds up past their bedtimes and spoiled Daddy's Girls that wanted a Diet Pepsi NOW, please. Up until that moment, I'd been *sincerely* looking forward to crawling into bed with her. I knew that nothing was going to "happen." I knew she knew. And I knew she knew I knew. Ya know? But that...sound. I know I'm oversensitive. But it hurt. It's not as though I felt that Scully was thinking, "Oh, *GOD*, I have to spend the night with Mulder in that *tiny* bed! Ew! Gross!" I really, truly didn't. It was more, "Oh, man, I can't believe I have to *deal* with this." Which, after five-almost-six years, was just about as bad. I had been mentally fantasizing about the fantasy I was planning on having later that night when we did crawl into bed. You want pathetic? I was actually looking forward to the moment when we slid underneath the sheets, so I could fantasize *then* about what might happen, even though I knew nothing would. Now, that's pathetic. Fantasizing about a fantasy-to-be. The pleasant anticipation of that flew out the window the moment I heard that sound. Scully marched right in, dumped her bag on the side of the bed closest to the door and primly declared that she was taking a shower immediately. I waved towards the bathroom and plopped down on the bed, reaching for the remote. Ninety-three cable channels and not a thing on. I settled for something having to do with bear cubs on "Animal Planet," while I listened to the water running. Normally, I'd have been thinking about a naked Scully in the shower. That fantasy held little pull for me at that moment. My eyes slid off the screen and focused somewhere in the middle distance. Sorry, Scully, I thought. Sorry the idea of spending the night sleeping next to me is such a big deal. Feeling vaguely depressed, I gathered my own shower stuff. Scully came out twenty minutes later, rubbing a towel through her head. "Give it a minute," she said to me. "The water was running cold there towards the end." I didn't respond. I slid into the bathroom and shut the door behind me, easing down onto the edge of the tub. The bathroom was tiny, but it had enough room for me to put my feet up along the edge of the tub and lean back against the wall. So, I relaxed, waiting for the hot water to regenerate, thinking. I knew it was no big deal, not really, not to Scully. And it shouldn't be to me. Sleep is sleep. It doesn't mean anything. We're going to close our eyes, and sleep. Big deal. But it was. It *was* a big deal. After a while, I got into the shower. The water was tepid, but usable. I showered quickly. My watch told me it was closing in on midnight. When I came out of the bathroom, I had on track shorts and a soft cotton t-shirt. Scully was reading, wearing PJs. I climbed into my side of the bed, being extremely careful to leave a gulf wide enough to park a truck between us. I turned away and closed my eyes, willing myself to sleep. Ten minutes later, the light clicked off, and Scully settled in. We slept. -3- For how long, I don't know, exactly. Because sometime during the night, I woke. Pressed against Scully. She, facing away from me, her back to my front. With the most immense erection I can ever remember having nestled quite nicely between the taut cheeks of Scully's little ass. I panicked. What if Scully wakes up? She'd *kill* me! Really! Her pistol was within arm's reach. She's already shot me once. And to add insult to injury, my arm was wrapped around her middle. It wasn't touching anything dangerous, but I could feel...something a few millimeters north of my right thumb. If I moved my hand the slightest bit, I'd be rubbing the underside of her left breast. Danger, my mind screamed. For two long minutes (years?) I didn't move. Didn't breathe. Then, slowly, I withdrew my hand, listening for the slightest change in Scully's breathing. There was none. Then, moving even slower, I backed away. I let out a slow, soft sigh. Scully hadn't woken up. I rolled softly onto my back and stared at the ceiling. This wasn't going to work. I grabbed my pillow and a spare blanket from the top of the closet shelf, and headed into the bathroom. The tub had dried, and so I climbed in, made my bed, and settled down. Which is where I am now. Waiting for morning. Trying to think up an excuse for being in here. -4- SCULLY: I wasn't asleep. How could I be? Well, that's not completely honest. I woke about twenty minutes before Mulder did. I froze, realizing that I wasn't alone, that there was someone else in bed with me, and they were touching me. Then I remembered who it was, why were here and so on. No big deal, I thought. He threw his arm around me in his sleep. Cute, actually. Touching, really. I moved back a little, liking the feeling of his warmth against my back and- Then I felt it. A long-standing curiosity was suddenly satisfied. And then a soft sadness washed over me. He wasn't reacting to me. It was...biology. One part of my body had rubbed up against another part of his, and in combination with a full bladder, a nocturnal asexual erection had occurred. I rolled my eyes in the dark. Oh, Dana, how utterly *romantic.* But for a moment, just a moment, I wanted to believe that he was aroused because of me, because of the closeness of *me*, because of the scent and feel and touch and closeness of *me.* Is that so wrong? It had been a very long time since I'd shared a bed with a man. Any man. The last time I'd had a warm body in my bed, it'd been that little rat dog. Notwithstanding the Bureau's policy on partners of the opposite sex sharing a motel room while on assignment... It felt great. And then I heard his soft gasp. I know Mulder. Better than he thinks I do. I know he'd be mortified if he knew I was awake. That I knew about his erection. For the longest time, he did nothing. Then he withdrew. Slowly, painfully, trying not to "wake" me. I felt him settle onto his back. For a moment, I considered "turning over in my sleep" and draping an arm across his chest, snuggling up against his side, just to see what he'd do. But, knowing Mulder... I was saved from the temptation by the man himself. He grabbed his pillow and moved to the bathroom. To sleep in the tub. He's in there now, ashamed. Ashamed of being human. Of being male. Of having a perfectly normal reaction under totally innocent circumstances. Well, maybe not totally innocent, but completely above-board. I knew it wasn't me. I see the way he looks at me, and I return those looks every once in a while, when I feel my control slipping, when I want him to know how very much I do love him. I think we're in love with each other. I know I'm in love with him. And I'm pretty sure he's in love with me. It's just this life we lead that keeps us apart. That and the fact that we'd drive each other insane if we were in a relationship. And all the usual reasons. The nameless, faceless men that seem to pop up at every opportunity. The Bureau. My mom. The ghost of Mulder's father and (forgive me, Mulder,) the ghost of his sister. He's not even my *type*. But that doesn't matter when the night is long, and the bed is both cold and empty. All that matters is the man in the bathroom, the man that cares so much about my feelings that he'd rather spend the next three days with a crick in his neck and a sore back than risk offending me by having a perfectly understandable, totally innocent and rather impressive erection in his sleep. I glance at my watch, hitting the little button to light it up. 1:45. Screw this, I think. Standing, I walk to the bathroom, pushing the door open slightly. Mulder's dozing in the tub. I sit on the edge of the tub, my night-vision allowing me to see his face. His arm is lying against the rim. I reach out and tickle his palm. He comes to, slowly. "Wha...? Morning?" I say nothing. I stand, tugging at his hand. "Scully?" he asks. I tug, gently. "I..." He can't finish. If he could see my face, he'd know that I know. I'm glad it's dark. I lean back, pulling Mulder out of the tub. He comes. Reluctantly. I lead him back to the bedroom, around to my side. I push his shoulders, and he sits on the bed. Reaching, I grab his T-shirt and pull it over his head, leaving his chest bare. I point, and he scoots up the bed. I shed my own top. I climb in beside him and curl up, my left arm thrown over his chest, my left leg over his hip. The contact of our nakedness is startling. Delicious. "Scully-?" he starts to ask. I put two fingers across his lips, silencing him. I don't want to say anything. I just want to enjoy this one night. If he makes a move towards me, I'm going to let him. I'm going to let him touch me in places where no man has touched me for years. I'm going to kiss him, if he kisses me. I'm going to make love with him, if he asks. Until then, I'm going to hold him as best I can. *** THE END Editoral Policy on Sequels: Bandit does *not* do sequels. This piece was designed to explore the mood in a dark motel room in Las Vegas, Nevada. It's not about sex. It's about *need* and *desire* and *longing*. It's about wanting something so bad, you'd be willing to sleep in a tub. -- Dawson E. Rambo | drambo@azstarnet.com Author, Programmer, Dreamer, Romantic This writing business. Pencils and whatnot. Overrated, if you ask me. Winnie the Pooh (A.A. Milne) (From ''Fighting Words,'' edited by James Charlton) ------------------------------------------------ http://www.azstarnet.com/~drambo/index.html