From: Tory Anderson 
Date: 12 Jan 2005 17:38:44 -0800
Subject: New: Let Me Touch You For A While 1/1 (R)
Source: atxc

TITLE:  Let Me Touch You For A While
AUTHOR: Tory Anderson
E-MAIL: tory_anderson@yahoo.com
DISTRIBUTION:  anywhere with these headers attached

RATING:  R for non-explicit sex
CATEGORIES:  S, A
KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully sex

SUMMARY:  A hot and lonesome night in Texas.

Disclaimer:  Anybody mentioned belongs to 20th Century and...
who else?  I forget.  Chris Carter?  In any case, they're not
mine.

Takes place sometime early in the first season.


* x *

Let Me Touch You For A While
by Tory Anderson
tory_anderson@yahoo.com
www.geocities.com/tory_anderson


It was almost two in the morning, and her partner hadn't
returned to his hotel room yet.  Lying quietly on top of
the scratchy sheets, wearing only a tshirt and panties,
she wondered if she ought to be concerned.  She didn't
hardly know him, certainly not well enough to know if this
was normal behavior.

The walls of the motel room were thin, and she could hear
strains of bluegrass wandering up from the bar downstairs,
hand in hand with the shouts of drunken men and shuffling
chairs.  Somehow, this sweaty hotel room didn't equate with
the glamorous vision of field work that she had hoped for.

She wondered if her partner was down there.

Maybe it was the Texas heat - maybe it was the stars twinkling
in the sky outside her window - maybe it was hearing a raucous
laugh from under the floor coupled with a lonely cry from
down the hall.  It was all suddenly too much to take.  She
slipped on a pair of pants and headed out the door.

It was even hotter inside the bar than it was outside, and
twice as humid.  She made her way to the counter and ordered
a beer, wrapping her hands around the cool glass and spreading
the condensation along her skin.  She took a long swallow,
letting the liquid chill her inside before sliding onto a slick
vinyl barstool and finally taking a look at her surroundings.

It was a cheap bar, no different than a hundred others she'd
been to since she was old enough to bluff her way in.  A mournful
woman sang about leaving town over the rumbles and shouts of
grizzled men in trucker hats and the crack of cues on solids
and stripes.

She was looking for the one that didn't belong, and found him
easily.

He was sitting, alone, at a table beside the mirrored wall,
his back to his murky reflection.  He was staring down into a
glass of ice cubes, his hair falling over his face and hiding
his eyes from her.

She thought that maybe she ought to pay for her drink and
leave now that she knew he was all right.  It was only a short
stumble up the stairs and into his bed - he would be fine.
That was why she had come, wasn't it?  To make sure he was all
right?  And now that she knew he would be, she wondered what to
do.

"Can I get you something else, red?" the bartender drawled.

She didn't look him in the eye as she replied, "Wine, please."

The man paused for a moment - it was probably the strangest
request he'd had in years - but he rummaged around under the
counter and produced a dusty bottle of sauvignon.  He was
about to turn to his next customer when she blurted, "And a
glass of whiskey, please, neat."  He complied with a grunt.

What was she doing?

She carried her wine and the glass of whiskey over to her
partner's table.

"Hey Mulder," she said softly, pushing the full glass over
beside his empty one, "I thought you could use a refill."

"Thanks," he mumbled.  He kept his eyes hidden from her, but
she could see the red flush of alcohol staining his cheeks.

"How long have you been down here?" she tried to keep her
voice non-judgmental.  After all, she had joined him.

He shrugged, "I dunno.  When'd we leave the station... six?
Since about then."

She didn't have anything to say to that, and took a careful
sip of her wine.

"Mulder," she said finally, "what are you doing here?"

He looked up at her then, and she noted his wet and bloodshot
eyes.  He was crying, silently and almost invisibly, but that
one lonesome tear was there.  She downed the rest of her wine,
and nodded at his nearly-full glass.

"Come on," she said, "finish your drink.  Let's get out of
here."

His arm trembled slightly as he lifted the glass to his lips
and drained the whiskey in one long swallow.  Mulder grimaced
and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  She left two
bills on the table, then helped him to the door.

There was no cold snap of fresh air to shake him out of his
drunkenness, only the languid coastal heat.  "I don't feel
so good," he murmured, leaning his forehead against the wall
of the motel.

"I know," Scully said, "you should lie down."  Without
hesitation, she slipped her arm around his waist, under his
shirt, feeling his warm moist skin under her fingertips.
"Come on," she whispered.  "I know a way to make you smile."
He leaned his weight on her, and slowly she managed to get him
up the stairs and into his room, which he'd left unlocked.

She maneuvered him down onto the mattress, disentangling
herself from his octopus arms. "Call me if you need anything."

"I need something."

"What?"

"Just let me touch you for a while."

"Mulder..." she trailed off.  She didn't have anything to say
to that request, but she couldn't leave, either.  Finally, she
closed her eyes and extended her hand to him.  Maybe she could
make him smile.

He didn't reply, just grabbed hold of her hand.  She watched
outside of her own body as he rubbed his thumb over the fragile
blue veins in her wrist.  He pulled her down onto the bed, and
she watched her body fall onto the mattress beside his, watched
as he rolled her onto her back and kissed her lips, tasting
the wine and the whiskey mixed together.

He slipped her clothes off quickly, without finesse, and she
lay there, still and silent.  He pushed into her, grimy sweat
coating their bodies.  She was dry inside, and it was painful,
but she clutched his tight shoulders and bit her lip.  What
would it take?

He was rough, taking pleasure for himself blindly.  Her head
hung over the edge of the mattress and as blood rushed to her
brain, a layer of saltwater formed in one eye, trailing down
her forehead and into her hairline.  He repositioned his body
above hers, propping himself up on one elbow, planted firmly
on her hair.  She cried out in pain as her scalp tightened, but
he took the sound for pleasure and increased his pace.  Finally
he finished, his animal grunts making her jaw clench, and
collapsed his boneless weight on her small frame.

With a spurt of violence, she shoved his body aside, and he
fell over onto the bed, dead to the world.  He snorted, then
rolled over, presenting his back to her.

She sobbed silently, trails of ruined black mascara streaking
her pale cheeks.  She pushed herself up on her elbows, and
caught sight of her own reflection in the warped mirror on
the opposite wall.  Her skin was white in the moonlight, with
angry red splotches around her waist where Mulder had grabbed
her too tightly.  Her eyes were ringed in soot, and her hair
was tangled and wild.  What had she done?

It wasn't supposed to happen this way.

She stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the lights.  She
refused to acknowledge her reflection in the mirror as she
scrubbed the makeup from her face and mopped the accusatory
stickiness dribbling between her legs.  The coated tissues
floated down from her fingers and stuck to the inside of the
plastic trash can.  She covered her body up with her discarded
clothes and turned off the light.

He lay where she had left him atop the covers, and she watched
him for a moment.  A small smile curved his lips.

She crossed the room, pulled the ratty curtains shut, and closed
the door quietly behind her.



* x *



Three hours later, the sun peered in through the thin,
worn-out curtains like a military searchlight.  The heat was
already becoming unbearable.  Mulder struggled up into a
half-sitting position, surveying his room like a crime scene.
The bed hadn't been slept in, but the covers were slightly
ruffled.  The door was unlocked.  He was naked, and sported
one hell of a headache.

He tried to remember the details of the night before, but it
was fuzzy and disjointed.  After the meeting with the sheriff,
he'd come back to the motel and immediately headed to the bar
downstairs.  After two or three drinks, his memories started
to blur.  There was a big man, a trucker named... Jeb?  Ted?
Joe?  ...something like that, who had tried to befriend him,
challenging the morose man to a game of snooker.  Mulder had
declined, just wanting to be alone to wallow in his misery.

He remembered a woman who had been sitting at the bar, a
tall lithe woman wearing western-style boots, a miniskirt, and
a cowboy hat.  Her hair was blonde but her eyebrows were brown,
and seeing he was alone and looked to be in relatively good
health, she had decided to join him.  He was partial to her
company, and they had drowned their sorrows together for a
good four or five hours before his conversational skills
nosedived, along with his face, into the sticky wooden surface
of the table.

Then what?  How had he gotten back here?  Had the little
cowgirl ridden him all the way to his hotel room?  He remembered
a vague image of watching her walk out the door, and he had
laughed bitterly.  It didn't jive with the whole getting-laid
deal, but it was the only way to explain his current state
of undress.  He decided to pursue this avenue of investigation
further.

In the bathroom, he found the toilet seat down, and the lid
closed.  He was certain he had left it up - as certain he could
be about anything from last night, at any rate.  He peered into
the garbage can - jackpot!  A heap of crumpled-up tissues lay
at the bottom, wadded together in flagrante delicto.  So the
cowgirl had come home with him, after all.  Who else could it
have been?  He congratulated himself - it had been a long time
coming.  He hoped that he had practiced safe sex.

There was a sharp, precise knocking on the front door and
he rummaged around the bathroom, snatching a towel from the
counter and holding it precariously around his hips.  The
bright sunlight made his head hurt, but the look on his
partner's face made it hurt even more.

"Sc-" he cleared his throat, "Scully."

"Mulder," she returned evenly.

Well, at least he had remembered her name.  And apparently
she knew his.  That was good.

"The sheriff called," she said after a moment. "They've found
another body.  We should head out."  She surveyed his state
of undress and sniffed the air delicately with her nose.  He
frowned.  "I'll come back for you in fifteen minutes."

She pivoted on one sensibly low heel and started to walk away
down the corridor.  "Scully," he called to her.  She paused,
but didn't turn.  He stared at her rigid back, feeling just like
a fool.  "Look, Scully - uh - I don't know if you - uh - heard
anything last night but... I'm sorry.  I don't usually do that
on a case, and well... it won't happen again."

She bowed her head, and said nothing.

"Okay, well, uh... I'm just gonna wash up, here... I'll meet
you downstairs in fifteen, okay?"

Just silence.

"Okay, then," he muttered.  He was about to close the door
when she turned back to face him.

"About last night, Mulder," she said. "Don't worry about it.
Really.  We'll just forget it ever happened."

He nodded to her, and she lifted one corner of her mouth in
a tired but sincere smile, then walked off toward the lobby.
Mulder exhaled, and moved inside to take a shower.  Maybe his
partner wasn't such a tight-ass, after all.


* x *


the end.

This story was inspired by, and contains lyrics from Alison
Krauss' song of the same name.  How many references can you
catch?

Does that make this SongFic?  Dear god, I hope not.
www.geocities.com/tory_anderson

    Source: geocities.com/vienna/stage/3343

               ( geocities.com/vienna/stage)                   ( geocities.com/vienna)