Title: Not With a Bang
Author: Gina Rain (ginarain@aol.com)
Rating: R
Category: Fluff
Spoiler: Je Souhaite 
Summary: Mulder multitasks by making discoveries while 
making out.
Many thanks to: My beta, Sybil. You understand my work 
and push me (in really the only effective way) to do 
more. What more can a girl want?
Dedicated to: Lidia. It was such a pleasure meeting you 
and I wish you so much in the coming year--most of all, 
peace within yourself and the full knowledge of how much 
you are loved and appreciated. God bless and have a good 
birthday.
Disclaimer: Not mine. They belong to CC and Co.

XXXXXXXXXX


So, I was in the middle of making out with Scully when I 
made a serious discovery. 

"What?" you say. "Back up. Hold the phone. I want more 
details about this making out session. Screw the 
discovery."

Well, if you insist.

Scully and I did that occasionally. Made out. Well, 
perhaps that particular expression isn't entirely 
accurate. Since the beginning of this, our seventh year 
of partnership, we have taken our relationship to the 
physical level. That's a romantic turn of phrase, isn't 
it? Well, it's pretty much the way  I looked at it. And 
I believe she did, too. We definitely knew we loved and 
were in love with each other. But, damn, we were tired.

Who knew we could feel so old? It didn't seem possible. 
I still remember how she walked into my office. There 
was literally a gentle gust of air her hand created as 
she extended it toward my own for that first physical 
touch. It was prophetic, really. She was the breath of 
fresh air in my stale existence. I felt like an ancient 
soul before she entered the office, and a young buck 
ready for action by the time she left. But now we're 
both feeling our years and then some. I suppose knowing 
your life journey ended in a completely different way 
than you expected, and feeling you wasted a good portion 
along the way ages a soul. Supporting someone in his 
fruitless endeavor, apparently, has the same effect.

But I'm straying from the subject. Making out. Well, 
having sex. Those are two very different physical acts 
and we were only up to the sex. We began having it. 
Together. Very serious, very loving sex. But, that's the 
problem. There is a "but." 

But . . . why now? Is it because we were so damned tired we 
couldn't fight "it" anymore? Probably. And it's been 
great. It really has. I come; she comes. We all come. 
Still, there are devices that could handle that part 
quite efficiently. The stuff they have designed for 
women recently do everything but wash the dishes while 
she's coming all over the place. But . . . there goes that 
word again.

But . . . I want more. I think she does, too. I want more 
than a few unscheduled appearances in each other's motel 
rooms on the road. More than a few late-night visits to 
each other's apartments when we're feeling particularly 
lonely and vulnerable and don't seem to have anyone to 
turn to but each other. I want the jump-on-the-coffee-
table, beat-my-chest-with-both- fists, "she-is-my-woman-
and-I-want-LOVE" kind of moment, complete with her 
dissolving against the couch cushions in a fit of 
girlish giggles worthy of the young girl-woman who was 
once afraid of a few mosquito bites.

So,making out . . .no, we haven't covered that yet. We've 
only established the fact that Scully and I do, indeed, 
from time to time, when the moon isn't full, and the 
stars aren't aligned, have sex. Good sex, but more or 
less "just" sex. Everything else is subtext. That very 
morning, I'd had three wishes that could have given me 
all I wanted. Do you think I'd have had the presence of 
mind to say, "I want sex to be a true representation of 
everything this woman and I have felt for each other 
since the moment we met?" Would that be specific enough? 
Well, knowing Jenn, probably not. She'd probably make it 
some grotesque manifestation of every angry feeling 
we've had for each other and we'd end up knifing each 
other's backs right before our first simultaneous 
orgasm.

In any case, I wished for something else and ended this 
day of wishes by inviting Scully over for an evening 
with a light movie. It was hardly a date movie but 
Scully wouldn't really want to watch Steel Magnolias 
with me, anyway.  I'm not entirely sure she'd want to 
watch it by herself, either. 

She asked me about the final wish. I didn't say anything 
but she knew. In an instant, she knew.  Apparently, 
doing something nice for a genie is a big aphrodisiac in 
Scully's book.

So, we were making out (eventually, I get to the point). 
Really and truly making out. Not just as foreplay but 
kissing like a couple of Saint Bernard puppies, all warm 
tongues and enthusiasm, and lots of groping and hugging 
and cuddling when I felt her reach for my belt buckle. I 
was still deeply involved in the kissing and was barely 
aware of my zipper's downward movement until her hand 
slipped inside my shorts and surrounded my dick. 

Ah, Scully. Yes, I do want sex. But this has been so 
different. I'm not sure I'm ready for it to end.

Her eyes were tightly closed as her hand slowing slid up 
and down.  I was thinking of a particularly nasty corpse 
we ran into on one of our cases so the sex, when it 
happened, would be more than just a "Shit. Sorry about 
that," kind of event. I have to admit, though, I could 
only conjure up a picture of a naked Scully doing the 
autopsy on the stiff (pun intended). Her perfect little 
breasts bobbing a little as she sliced and diced and . . .
well, I had to get the show on the road or I'd be taking 
my bows alone while she booed from the front row.

So, I pulled her even closer to me and we continued 
kissing while I attempted to remove her pants, which 
were not magically slipping down her thighs (more good 
wish material wasted in an act of genie-compassion), 
when I heard this small, strange sound coming from her. 
If I didn't know any better, I'd say it was -- a whimper?

And, debonair romancer that I am, I immediately 
responded with what sounded like a laugh. Not an out and 
out howl, mind you, but an expression of amusement all 
the same. It was an unconscious reaction and I didn't 
want to hurt her feelings so I looked at her. Really, 
really looked at her and saw . . .

Everything.

Scully--the woman with the ability to walk into dark 
warehouses by herself, in the middle of strange cities' 
most nefarious neighborhoods without flinching; the 
woman who wouldn't hesitate to tell very bad men where 
to get off--had fear in her eyes. Did she say too much 
with that whimper? Did it reveal all? But, at the same 
time, that look of fear was mixed with relief that, if 
it did do just that, it was now out in the open. There 
was even a promise of something more in that look. 
Jubilation? Her own version of the Mulder-coffee-table 
declaration? "See this guy--the one whose dick I was 
using as a hand-warmer--that  is MY man and I want LOVE."

Forgive me. I fantasize.

The real deal was straddling my lap with her pants 
halfway down her thighs, her lips swollen, lovely and 
very, very wet and her eyes expecting more than a laugh 
as an answer to her whimper. I put my hands out and 
cupped her face. I looked into her eyes and told her 
everything right back without, of course, saying a word 
because . . . why start now?

Yes, Scully, I know you need me. Just as I need you. We 
need *this.* Not because we're sad. Or lonely. Or 
defeated. We need this because if we don't have it, we 
just may start proving some of those spontaneous human 
combustion theories. We need this because . . . well, just 
because. And it's a wonderful feeling. It's more than 
just two people exercising their tired bodies. It's us--
making love. Damn. After seven years, it's us, making 
love.

And, with the greatest of apologies to T.S. Elliot, my 
tale ends with a beginning. The beginning of a true 
romance.

This is the way our world begins . . .
This is the way our world begins . . .
This is the way our world begins . . .
Not with a bang, but a whimper.

The End

Author's Notes:
By now, some of you are probably banging your head 
against the nearest metal object, saying, "Crap. I don't 
believe she tried to cheer up 'The Hollow Men' by TS 
Elliot. Will this woman's madness ever end ???"
Well, technically, I had Mulder do it and he's in love 
so he can be forgiven, no?
Read the Hollow Men. Good angsty stuff.