TITLE:  A Real Woman  (1/1)
AUTHOR:  Isahunter  (Isahunter@aol.com)
RATING:  R
CATEGORY:  V, MSR
SPOILERS:  (Never Again, Small Potatoes) Up to Triangle, S6
ARCHIVE:  Yes, with my name and addy attached
FEEDBACK:  Yes, please!
DISCLAIMER:  These characters aren't mine.  They belong to Chris Carter, Ten-
Thirteen, and Fox.  I'm making no money on this (damn!) and it is only written
out of respect.
SUMMARY:  Mulder reflects on his partnership with Scully.
NOTE:  This is the sequel to "A Real Man."  It can, however, stand on it's
own.  Additional comments at the end.

For Diadem.  And for Heather Scotland, who asked.

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I want a real woman.

I don't mean some shop-aholic, make-up caked, hair-teasing bimbo.  I want a
real woman.  I want a woman whose eyes are registered as lethal weapons with
the FBI.  I want a woman who can make the most sensible of business suits look
as sexy as the skimpiest of lingerie.  I want a woman who, with one look, can
make me feel like the most eager of horny adolescents...or can shame me into
pouting like an unrepentant little boy.  I want the woman who's looking at me
now.

As she sits down in the window seat of the 747, fidgeting with the golden
cross around her neck, I know she has no idea just what a great view I have
standing above her.  The collar of her suit jacket has gaped open lazily,
revealing a more than ample amount of cleavage over her silk shirt.  The
slithery fabric slides back and forth with every breath she takes, caressing
her in ways I can only dream of.  I suck in a shuddering breath, my hands
fumbling to stow our belongings and shut the compartment without smashing my
own fingers.  The crimson silk and creamy wool of her suit make her skin glow
like the inside of a sea shell.  She looks soft, and firm, and about as plump
as a ripe peach.  It is all I can do to tear my gaze away.

As I sit down next to her, she crosses her legs...her shoe dangling helplessly
from her toes, barely hanging on, much like my own sanity.  Her slender ankle
is just inches from my shin, and if I concentrate hard enough, maybe I can
will her into tracing that foot up and down the length of my calf.

I want a real woman.

I want a woman who can make the most boring of medical terms sound like the
most erotic of confessions.  I want a woman whose smiles and giggles are so
rare and beautiful, I'd turn myself inside out just to cause one.  I want a
woman who can hold my rapt attention with barely a word spoken, whose
brilliant mind has me so wrapped up in knots that I can't sleep at night until
I've heard the sound of her voice.  I want a woman who can make science sound
like poetry, and who can turn an argument into the most passionate of mental
stimuli.

And she wonders why I tease her with outlandish conjectures.

I want a woman who can hold her own, run with the boys, and still make me feel
like the manliest of men at the end of the day.  A woman who matches me in wit
and humor, who challenges my ideas without disputing the intelligence behind
them.  I want a woman who, standing next to me, can make me feel like the most
honored of loyal subjects before a queen.  I want a woman who can seduce me,
effortlessly, with one arch of her amber brow, with one quirk of her cream-
puff lips.  A woman who has no clue just how sexy she is.

Or maybe she does.

As she sits there, staring out the window, I wonder if she's aware that she
keeps biting those swollen voluptuous lips.  I wonder if she knows that the
soft sighs she keeps emitting makes me want to drag her onto my lap and crush
those plump lips beneath my own.

I nearly kissed her once before.  If she hadn't nearly collapsed in my arms,
we might have been lovers by now.  God, the thought makes my blood pump faster
than ever.  Sadly, it all seems to be leaving my brain, delaying coherent
thought.  The book in my hands is nearly forgotten, yet my eyes continue to
skip over the words.  For all the attention I pay them, they could have been
written in Sanskrit.  I wonder if she ever thinks about that "almost kiss."
How could she not?  It is all I ever think about.  We pretend as if it never
happened, but in my head...ahh.  In my head, it didn't end with a simple kiss.
In my dreams, we tear the walls down.  Sometimes, I catch her watching me.
Those crystal blue eyes cut through the space between us like lasers, and all
I want to do, all I can think of, is taking her, right then and there.  I'd do
it in an instant if I thought she would let me.

We are the best of friends.  Partners.  Mates, in more than one sense of the
word.  But not the way I'd like it to be, the way I need it to be.  I have
drowned myself inside her more times than I can count, but only in my head.  I
think she is afraid to ask for anything more.  Yes, this woman of mine fears.
I have seen absolute terror shake the tranquil serenity of her eyes more than
once, because of me.  Love and Death...I can't imagine two things Dana Scully
fears more.  Except, maybe, the truth.  But considering what she has seen,
what I have shown her and what she has bravely fought because of me, she has
good reason.  Anger is no stranger to her either, and I'm not ashamed to say
that I cause a great deal of it.  You cannot really blame me.  I drag her to
the ends of earth, only because I like having her by my side...and I
occasionally leave her behind, because I want to keep her safe enough to be
there in the future.  I am not the kind of man to let her anger deter me.
Sometimes, I deliberately provoke her just to watch those pretty eyes of hers
flash.

She's not perfect, but she's about as close as I'm ever going to get.  I said
I wanted a real woman, and believe me, she's it.

As the sound of her heel, nervously tapping on the floor, finally reaches my
fuzzy brain, I do the unthinkable...I place my hand on her firm thigh.  God,
the touch in like lightning up the length of my arm, sizzling and crackling,
pooling like electricity in my groin.  Ah, shit.  Can she feel my fingers
twitching?  Does she know I'm having trouble breathing?  Does she really think
I was trying to comfort her, or does she know the truth...that I would do
anything, give anything, just to touch her?

Doesn't she even notice?  My palm feels so charged, I'm sure it will burn a
hole right through her slacks.  Oh, God.  Now all I can think of is my hand on
her naked flesh, my fingers drifting higher and higher, my flesh coming into
contact with the mother of all infernos.  Hot, humid, forbidden.  Yeeesss.  I
force myself to look away, to focus on the printed words before me, but
nothing can banish the images in my mind.  Doesn't this affect her at all?

I don't want to move, I don't want to breathe.  It is too good.  Even this
little bit of contact is almost more than I can bear.  I try again to read my
book, but I seem to have become dyslexic.  My blood is singing in my veins.
My slacks are too tight, and the sweater I'm wearing is unbelievably hot.

The way she invades my thoughts is becoming a nuisance.  These days, I can
rarely focus on my work.  I find myself staring at her, remembering every
little slope and curve of her naked body.  Yes, I've seen her naked
before...but not that way I would have wanted to.  I didn't have a chance to
linger.  But I remember everything.  That's the benefit of an eidetic
memory...I can see Dana Scully naked anytime I want.  But even clothed, she is
a temptation.  I'm constantly wondering just what she'd feel like, naked and
writhing, below me.  Would she fall still and stop breathing when she comes,
or would she thrash and moan like a woman possessed?

Sadly, I'll never know.

But *he* knows, I'm almost sure of it.  Ed Jerse knows what it is like to make
love to my partner, to watch her expression contort in the throws of passion.
At least I think he does.  Whether she slept with the man or not makes little
difference.  She still gave him something she never gave me.  A piece of her
soul, a piece of her body--in the form of a tattoo.  Forever branded by
another man.  Some would think she did it to punish me, and that might be
true.  But there is a far greater punishment that she doles out even now.

As I wrap my fingers tighter about her thigh, reaffirming the link, I know
exactly why I hate Ed so much.  Because when she let him touch her like this,
she really meant it.  She gave him every bit of her trust and passion, leaving
me standing in the dust.  She flirts with me, drives me wild with her playful
innuendoes, believes in me when no one else in the world does, and has even
shot me to save me from myself.  But she's never let me love her.  She's never
let me inside.  I don't just mean sex, though that's a part of it.  God, even
Eddie Van Blundht got inside of her soul quicker than I ever could.

Maybe I am just a loser.

I wish she'd look at me that way.  Lose herself so completely in the moment
that she'd forget to guard those precious walls.  Give herself to me honestly,
completely, branding a piece of her heart for me, forever.  I wish she'd tell
me she loves half as much as I love her.

I want a real woman.

I want a woman who is not afraid to shake the very foundation she stands on,
to turn herself inside out, just to reveal whatever truth she hides.  I want a
woman who will have the faith that I will never desert her, never betray her,
never give up fighting for her.  I want a woman who will follow me into hell
itself, if that is what I ask of her.  I want a woman who will never
compromise what she believes, who can make me see the justice of her ideals,
and can make me want to argue just as fiercely in her defense.

I want a woman whose every touch, every expression, holds more precious value
than Fort Knox.  A woman who has no need for fancy words or reassuring
sentiments, because her every action tells me just how much she cares.

I want a woman who knows me better than I know myself.  Who can sense my mood
without a word, and knows instantly just what to do to make me grin.  I want a
woman who can spark such rage and protectiveness that I'm willing to take on
the world.  A woman I am not afraid to be weak before.  A woman who will wrap
her arms around me and make me forget anything but her, soothing me with more
gentle concern than I could ever deserve.

Sometimes, I imagine waking to feel her snuggled up beside me, her legs
tangled with mine, as cozy as life-long lovers.  I imagine wiping the tears
from her eyes as we witness our grandchildren walking for the first time.
Sometimes...I think too much.

After a while, I know I must return my hand to the arm rest.  I nearly moan at
the loss.  Of her heat.  Her warm curves beneath my flesh.  I am suddenly so
empty I can't stand it.  I will her to move closer, to do something, anything,
to let me know she didn't want the contact to end.  And then, magically, she
hears my thoughts.  She nestles closer, shivering almost imperceptibly,
placing her hand on my chest.  I wrap my arm around her, so very thankful for
the right to hold her.  Without even thinking, I place as kiss to her hair and
hear her sigh.  Her hand, making slow circles over my sweater, is too sweet
for words.  The best of friends.  She is what I need, what I want.  What I
have to have.  The air I breathe.  The woman I love...and she will never know.

I feel a low growl working its way up my throat with the smell of her hair,
and I cannot stop myself from saying, "Hey, Scully, ever think about joining
the Mile High Club?"  She merely giggles, gifting me with a rare gem I will
always treasure.

I want *this* woman.  And maybe, if I'm lucky, she wants me too.

END.
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Note: I cannot take full credit for the "registered as lethal weapons with the
FBI" line.  Although I have altered it, the original idea appeared in a
magazine I read.  No infringement intended...I just loved the concept and had
to share it with others.

Comments appreciated: Isahunter@aol.com

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