Title: Illogical Author: cratkinson Email: cratkinson@mail.com Website: www.geocities.com/cratkinsonflynn Date: March 7, 2001 Archive: Yes, please just let me know Feedback: Please! Spoilers: None, it's just adolescent fluff - set sometime before Millennium. Rating: PG-13 to R, depending on your appreciation of a good make-out session Classification: MSR, V, H? Keywords: MSR Disclaimer: These characters are the property of 1013 Productions and Fox Television and are not mine in any way. Summary: This is what happens when Scully finally realizes what she wants and goes after it. Notes: I've always thought that if Scully ever admitted to herself that she wants Mulder, she would go about getting him, methodically and logically. This is my interpretation of those events. Obviously, most of Season 7 and ALL of Season 8 have been ignored. Thanks again to Heidi The Brave and True. Couldn't do it without you, babe! ~~~~~~~~ Illogical by Cratkinson ~~~~~~~~ Oh, shit. I stare at the wall past the foot of the bed in my motel room. Oh, hell. The hands that clutch the book in my lap are numb. Oh, great. I shake my head in a dual attempt to deny this sudden certainty and to shake it away. It won't go. It likes being there. It is happily ensconced in my brain, humming a little ditty and causing a major earthquake in my tidy, compartmentalized mind. Oh, damn. This is going to be bad. ~~~~~~~~ My week-long attempts at denial are getting me nowhere. Neither are the rational, logical conversations I keep having with myself. Or the lists of Pros and Cons I made, all of which are heavy on the Cons side. I know what I know. I'm in love with my best friend and co-worker. In love - different from the flat-out simple love I've always acknowledged to myself. I've loved him for years - counted on him, trusted him, even needed him. But I am struck with the realization that I also want him, desire him, and can't imagine my life without him. I suppose you could say I don't spend a lot of time analyzing my own emotions. I just don't have much use for the information, so I don't gather it. I tend to make my decisions with the factual, logical portion of my mind. It works for me. Actually, I think it would work better for most people. Emotions are messy, unpredictable, and unstable. Buying a car, renting an apartment, choosing a career - these are things best done logically. But most people make these decisions emotionally and it usually causes problems. I like logic. You can count on it. This is not logical. ~~~~~~~~ For many people, this wouldn't be a problem, this falling in love with Mulder. For many people, it would be joyous and beautiful and exciting. It terrifies me. Mulder is not a rational choice. He doesn't suit me. He's volatile, temperamental, and disorganized. He is pushy and obnoxious. He's into sports. He doesn't give a damn about appearances. He's too tall. He's too physical, always touching and patting and caressing. He doesn't take serious things seriously and he doesn't think silly things are silly. He's illogical. And on paper, he's not exactly . . . enticing. Nearly forty and never married. Lives alone. Shows no real interest in dating, despite reflexive double-entendres and automatic leers. Knows Ed Wood movies by heart. Willing to touch and sniff almost any noxious- looking substance. Unapologetic about his . . . solitary pleasures. Shows no ambition in his career. Obsessed with aliens, mutants, and conspiracy theories. On paper, he's actually a little creepy. Of course that doesn't hold up once you meet him. Paper can't tell you about the humor always lurking in his eyes or about the way he watches the world - not missing a single detail. You can't know how gentle he can be with those hands. Or the way he can stomp down on his own fear and horror to help someone in trouble. It certainly can't describe the passion he brings to every facet of his crazy life. Whether it's the New York Knicks or the aforementioned aliens, he is passionate about everything. It's beautiful. I don't really do passion. I do determination, and between passion and determination, the two of us have made it to pretty much the same place in life - together, fighting for the truth. ~~~~~~~~ This is a problem. I can appreciate that. I've been trying to approach it in my usual problem-solving style. Identify the source of the problem, identify the means to fix the problem, plot the course of action, and take said course of action. This might be an uncomfortable problem, but logically, I should be able to solve it just like any other. My brain can't get past the first one. What is the problem? Obvious choice: I'm afraid of rejection. No, I don't think that's it. I've known for quite some time that Mulder has feelings for me. I don't honestly think he'd send me packing. There certainly is the issue of possibly wrecking our friendship. But that doesn't work either, as I've always been one of those people who believed that the best relationships start with friendship. Logically, this would be the *ideal* start of a relationship. Then there is the partnership thing. But though the FBI doesn't encourage it, they don't really have a policy against this kind of involvement, so it's not likely to get us censured or even talked about any more than we already are. But there is more to it than our personnel records. If we get together and it doesn't work out, how could we continue to work together? And if we get together and it *does* work out, how could we continue to work together? He'd probably drive me insane. Could I stand to have him that close all the time? Don't get me wrong. I love him. I even like him. But the man can be trying. He can be astonishingly unobservant and neglectful for a brilliant and perceptive man. He can be sullen, grouchy, and moody. He can be selfish and obsessive. He can also be hilarious, kind, considerate, and sexy as hell. He's a lot to swallow in one gulp. And what if my little fantasy of how good we will be together is all just based on anticipation? What if I've loved him so long that I have built up an impossible dream and the reality will crush it, along with my soul? What if he's a really bad lover? Or abusive? Or overly needy? Okay, these I can throw right out the window. I already know he's needy. That's not a surprise. And abusive? Who am I trying to kid? This man couldn't hurt someone he loved. It's not possible. And as for being a bad lover - well, there's not much question about that, either. He's already a better lover than most I've had, and he's never even kissed me. You can just tell these things about a man. You can see it in the way he touches things, the way his eyes follow the line of whatever is in his sight, the way he looks at you. And Mulder is a good lover. I can see it when he looks at me. So what is the problem? ~~~~~~~~ The problem is, I finally determine after another week, that I am scared. I am chicken-shit afraid. Afraid of rejection. Afraid of being one of that group labeled "Ex-girlfriends of Fox Mulder." Afraid of being part of *any* group that includes Phoebe Green and Diana Fowley. Afraid that he'll take over my life. Afraid that he won't take over my life. Afraid that I'll hurt him somehow. Afraid that he won't let himself be happy. Afraid that I won't make him happy. There it is. What if I can't make him happy? What if I'm not enough? What if I nit-pick him to death? What if *I* am a really bad lover? What if he's not turned on by me? What if he wants me to remain untouchable? What if I can't make Mulder happy? Yellow-bellied fear. That is the problem. The second step is to identify the means to fix this problem. I know that instantly. I'll do what I always do - I'll face it. I will stare it in the face until I know I can handle it. The fear might remain, but it will be balanced by my own knowledge that I can function in its presence. I ignore the tiny part of my brain that is laughing at my rationalizations and just turn on my famous determination. I will make this happen. I can't let fear rule the day. I'll face my fear. It's time to plot my course of action. ~~~~~~~~ "Mulder." My heart jumps slightly at the sound of his voice. It has never done that before. Or maybe it's done it every time and I just haven't noticed. "Mulder, it's me." "Hey, Scully. What's up?" "Umm, I need some help. Do you have an hour or so?" "Sure. Are we moving furniture or something?" I chuff a laugh into the phone. "No, just talking. Why?" "Well, I just got back from a run and was just wondering if I should shower first." "Please shower. A girl can stand only so much manly odor." "Yeah, I know how you respond to my pheromones, baby," he says in a mock-sexy voice. Believe it or not, I actually get a little breathless at his tone. If he only knew what his pheromones do to me . . . I am reminded of something I once read that said if a woman likes a man's body odor, they are more likely to stay together. Was that in the New England Journal of Medicine or Cosmo? I don't care. I like the way Mulder smells. In any condition. "You know it, babycakes," I say in a matching tone and then in my normal voice, "You want to come over here or should I go over there? Or should we meet somewhere in the middle?" "Are you cooking?" he asks hopefully. "No," I reply, "but I can order pizza." "Why don't you get the pizza on the way over here? I'll be clean, shiny, and odor free by the time you get here." "Okay, sounds good. Just make sure you're dressed, too." "Fun hater," I hear just before the phone goes dead. I thumb my own phone off and tuck it away, feeling the unfamiliar pull of a grin. ~~~~~~~~ So here I stand, pizza box balanced between wrist and hip, my hand poised to knock, and I can't do it. I am here to carry out my plan. Crazy. Insane. What am I thinking? I knock. ~~~~~~~~ I chew my mouthful of cheese, tomato, and crust and watch him carefully. He just stares at me, a piece of pizza frozen halfway to his mouth. He is wearing his panic face. "Uh, Scully, maybe I'm not the best person to ask about this." He looks at the food in his hand and tosses it back into the box on his coffee table. He wipes his hands on his jeans and slumps back into his couch, staring somewhere over my shoulder. "Why not?" I ask, determined to remain logical and calm. "Because!" he explodes, suddenly standing up and striding around the little room. "What do *I* know? How could *I* help? I'm not any good at relationships. I just don't think I could help you with . . . with your . . . love life. Besides," he mumbles this last part, "I'm not very objective." I reach my hand toward him and twitch my fingers in a 'come here' gesture. He walks over to stand in front of me, his eyes on his bare feet. I take his limp hand in mine and tug on it until he looks at me. His panic face is still carefully in place, but what surprises me is the misery in his eyes. I know at once that it is time to end this. "Just let me finish." He nods, his eyes not leaving mine. I pull firmly on his hand and he sits down on the edge of the table. His gaze burns steadily into me and I am suddenly the one who needs to pace. I stand up and begin walking around, continuing my speech. "Mulder, I told you I needed advice about my love life. Well, this is something I've been trying to figure out for myself for a long time." I take a deep breath, determined to stay on track. "I have found myself with . . . feelings for an inappropriate person. I've been working on solving this problem and I think I've come up with the solution, but I thought I'd run it past you first to see if I'm on the right track." My pacing has taken me behind him, but he doesn't look up. His shoulders are slumped, his T-shirt stretched tightly across his back. His hands are cradling his face and he takes a deep, ragged breath as I watch. "What's the plan?" he asks. His voice sounds almost normal. I walk back over to him and sit down on the couch. Both of us are staring at his feet now, though I'm sure I'm the only one thinking about how nice they are. "I thought I'd just tell him. Just face it head on. Lay it all out and see what happens. It's risky, I know, but I trust him." At this, he jerks his head up and his eyes meet mine. The misery has been replaced by a kind of cold, angry despair, and it is enough to make me recoil. I've never seen quite that look in those eyes before. "Sounds great, Scully. Good plan." His harsh voice and the look in his eyes make me rush ahead, losing a bit of my composure but still secure in my goal. I reach for his hand again and as I slip my fingers around his, I launch into the part of this conversation I've rehearsed more often than I can recall. "I thought I'd just take his hand and tell him. Just look right at him like this," I meet his stormy eyes with my own as I continue, "and say it. I'd say, 'Mulder, I'm in love with you,' and I'd hope. I've been hoping for a long -" ~~~~~~~~ I always figured he'd be a good kisser. I've been watching that mobile mouth of his for so many years, imagining it locked against mine. His kiss is hard and passionate and so very Mulder. He holds me too tightly to breathe and my eyes close of their own accord as my mouth opens to his questing tongue. My body is on fire and my arms clutch back at him, my own tongue battling his for control. After the first passionate, desperate minutes, the kiss gradually quiets until we are tasting each other, really exploring and learning this new terrain. A minute or an hour later, he is simply holding me tucked under his chin, a spot I'd like never to leave. He heaves a sigh and squeezes me, shifting us until we're on the couch and I'm settled across his lap. I nuzzle my face into his neck, enjoy the heat and scent of his skin. When I get my breath and my composure back, I pull away from him, look up at his soft, warm eyes and brush my fingertips across his forehead, smoothing away the lines there. "You didn't let me finish. I've been working on that speech for weeks." He just pulls me back against him and kisses me again. As his mouth meets mine, gently but firmly, I forget all about speeches and determination. I just let myself enjoy the pull and slide of his lips on mine. He pulls away just the tiniest fraction of an inch and when he speaks, I can feel the words against my mouth. "We don't need speeches, Scully. That's one of the things I love about us," and then he seals his mouth to mine, settles back into the couch and kisses me like he will never stop. I'd be fine with that. I'm struck with a brand new realization - this doesn't feel the least bit odd. It feels more right than anything I've felt for a very long time. This is Mulder - my friend, my partner, my love. This is comfortable. This is perfect. The kiss, for a short while just a soft, quiet learning thing, begins to rev up again. His hands stop brushing along my sides and make their way up to my face - one cupping my cheek and one sliding into my hair and staking its claim on the back of my head. The pressure from his mouth grows stronger, the invasion of his tongue more insistent, and his slight sounds of pleasure grow into moans of pure need. His every movement sends jolts of sensation through me, from his thumb sweeping across my cheek to the pounding of his heart beneath my breast. I try to pull him closer - a nearly impossible task. I can hear the little grunting noises I am making deep in my throat and know that I might be embarrassed about it later, but I can't seem to stop them. I can't . . . I want . . . I need him closer. My arms clutch him but it isn't enough. I suddenly feel desperate - I can't get enough contact. Enough pressure. Enough Mulder. I pull away from his kiss, delighting in the way his mouth blindly follows mine. With a wrench, I pull out of his grasp and stand up. His eyes and his mouth fall open at the same time, his breath coming in strong gusts and his hair deliciously mussed. Before he can say anything, I climb back into his lap, straddling his thighs this time. Oh, yesssssss. That is what I needed. Now I have him pressed tightly to me - chest, belly, and thighs. I prop my elbows on his shoulders, languidly letting my hands drift through his hair, feathering it up, smoothing it down. I study his beautiful, unusual face, leaning in occasionally to taste a bit of skin here or learn a texture there. The corner of his jaw - salty and strong and prickly; the skin right below his eyebrow - softness stretched smoothly over bone; his earlobe - so soft and malleable. My tongue touches, then surrounds, then creates a little suction. His groan is my undoing. I wrap my arms and legs around him, attaching myself to his torso like a limpet, pulling him as close as I can - and then I devour his mouth. His luscious, tempting mouth. It isn't a kiss, it's a feast. There is no finesse. There is just his mouth and mine, our breath, our liquid thrust and parry. His hands wander over me, sending zings of pleasure across my sensitized skin. He buries his hands in my hair and then slides them down, down, down, covering my ass and pulling me tightly to him. He grinds himself into me, letting me feel exactly how I affect him. I surprise both of us with my moan. It seems to come from somewhere near my toes. His eyes, hot and bright, stare into mine for one long moment . . . and then he wraps his arms around my back and holds me close to him as he surges up and over, settling me on my back and himself over me, his hips cradled in the vee of my thighs. And I thought before that he was close enough. This is much better. In fact, it's perfect. His weight is the most delicious pressure. He holds himself slightly above me on one elbow, his eyes taking in every inch of me and his hand following closely thereafter. His warm palm slips along my bare forearm and across the fabric of my blouse and finally comes to a rest on my shoulder - his fingertips lightly grazing my throat. This is all wrong. This is not enough. I want to feel him - to feel his hot skin on mine. Every inch, every freckle, every pore of his in contact with every pore of mine. I lift my hands, reaching for the buttons running down the front of my shirt. As I free the first one and slide my fingers down to the next, Mulder's eyes jerk up to mine, wonder and lust fighting for dominance in his gaze. Then his free hand slides from my shoulder, gently and slowly across the mound of my breast and covers both of my hands, stilling their actions. "Not yet," he mutters, his face a crazy mixture of certainty and amused dismay. "I can't believe I'm stopping you, because Christ almighty, I've dreamed of this moment for a very long time, but . . . I want you to keep your shirt on." He grins ruefully. "I . . . I want you so much, Scully. I love you, you know that. But I . . . I want to go through that stage. You know - the one where I know I'll see you and I know I'll manage to kiss you and maybe cop a feel, and I'll try to get as far as I can until you stop me." The grin grows playful. "And I'll go home, in pain and dying of anticipation for the next time." I stare at him, feeling sure that the shock must be written pretty clearly on my face. He returns my gaze as long as he can and then drops his head, nuzzling my collarbone with his nose. His voice, when I finally hear it again, is muffled and he sounds almost . . . sheepish. "I just want to enjoy every possible step we can take." He pauses as he slides his mouth from the point of my shoulder to the hollow at the base of my throat. "I don't want to miss anything with you. I want it all." His warm, wet mouth presses into my throat, and I blame it for the sudden tightness there. It doesn't explain the prickling under my eyelids, though. I pull my hands from beneath his and cup his face in my palms, turning it up so I can see his eyes. They shine with hope and something . . . joyful. They are beautiful. "That sounds really . . . lovely, Mulder. I'd like that." I lift my head and touch his lips with my own, suddenly reveling in the fact that I can - that his mouth is mine for the kissing. This little touch soon sparks a bonfire and it is all I can do to drag myself from his lips, from the comfortable, sheltering weight of his body. I stand next to the couch, shakily smoothing my shirt and looking at him stretched out - long and lean - on the black leather. I can't help it. I have to test my new freedom. I lean down and kiss him again - a soft, chaste kiss - and then stand up straight. I know there is a smile on my face. If it's anywhere near as big as the one on Mulder's, I look like an idiot. I don't care. "I'd better get going," I say, still watching him watching me. Then I realize I am making no effort to do so and I throw myself into motion, gathering up my jacket and purse and moving to the door. "Well . . ." "Thanks for coming by, Scully. Drive safely." I turn toward this strange, bright voice and lift my eyebrow, hoping he'll read the message in my expression. Don't tease me, Mulder. Don't leave me hanging. "So . . . whatcha doin' tomorrow?" he asks in an unconvincingly nonchalant tone. "Nothing much. Why?" I respond with the traditional phrase and in an equally unconvincing manner. "Maybe I'll stop by," he says, the smile back and his eyes crinkling deliciously. I look at him for a minute, enjoying the sight before me - my best friend, in jeans and a T-shirt, hair rumpled, mouth looking well- kissed, teeth showing and eyes shining. A beautiful sight, indeed. "That'd be nice. Please do," I reply and open the door. ~~~~~~~~ I wait in the hallway, listening intently. I hear the door latch, the rattle of the chain, and the deadbolt sliding home. I finally hear him move away from the door and allow myself to slump back against it. Oh, shit. I stare at the hallway wall across from Mulder's door. Oh, hell. The hands that clutch my purse are numb. Oh, great. I shake my head in a dual attempt to clear it and to talk myself out of knocking on his door and throwing myself at him. It is tempting. But not as tempting as the thought of spending my time with the love of my life - with this man - slowly building things, holding hands, sneaking kisses, making out on couches and in back seats, arriving at his house with one thing on my mind and leaving more frustrated and even hotter than I arrived. Oh, damn. This is going to be so good. ~~~~~~~~ end, Illogical ~~~~~~~~