Author:  Plausible Deniability

Address: pdeniability@hotmail.com

Archive:  freely

Category: S

Rated:  NC-17 for adult situations

Spoilers:  Slight spoilers for Detour, Fight the Future, Triangle, and Arcadia.

Keywords:  MSR

Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the television program "The X Files" are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox Broadcasting, and Ten-Thirteen Productions, and have been used without permission.  No copyright infringement is intended.

Summary:  Mulder buys Scully something colorful to wear.  Really it's just an unapologetic PWP.

THANKS to Becky and to Dasha, my talented and much-appreciated betas.

FOR Jerry, who asked for a particular flavor of smut.

****
 

"A sweater set," Scully whispered in disbelief.  "A damned cornflower blue embroidered sweater set."  And, looking at it, she felt something inside her snap.

Damn it.  How could Mulder do this?

She'd found the unwrapped shirt box sitting on her desk, left there for her at the end of the day.  She hadn't quite believed her eyes when she'd removed the lid and drawn the layer of tissue paper aside.  Bright, colorful clothing.  How -- how incredibly presumptuous, she'd thought, her first delighted impulse quickly flaring into irrational fury.

What the hell was Mulder thinking?  This wasn't Superstars of the Superbowl or some cheap souvenir keychain.  This was a personal gift -- a thoughtful, personal, presumptuous gift.  She hadn't worn anything this bright since Arcadia, and even then she had only dressed in colors because she had been posing as Laura Petrie -- as Mulder's devoted wife, she thought resentfully.  Otherwise, she was a cautious, conservative grey, black, and navy girl.

"How could he do this to me?" she muttered under her breath.

It wasn't that she didn't like the gift.  The sweater set was beautiful, and even if it hadn't been, she wasn't one to greet a thoughtful gesture with ingratitude.  She knew the set was meant to replace the blouse she'd had to throw away last week, when Mulder had poked some odd sort of growth on a Texas telephone pole, and the hideous lump had exploded in a bloody mess all over her.  It was the very first time she'd worn that white silk blouse, and she'd been so dismayed that Mulder had eventually volunteered to pay her back.

The upsetting thing, she ranted inwardly, was that Mulder had no right to keep blowing hot and cold on her this way.  It was football videos one day, and sweet, thoughtful embroidered sweaters the next.  Damn it!

"I am so fed up with this," she said to the empty office.

And she was fed up, completely fed up.  Just where did they stand, anyway?

She stared down at the gift, wishing she knew what Mulder's problem was.  Why couldn't he just deal with her like an adult, face to face?  Why play these cagey junior high games, why wait all day to sneak this gift to her, why buy her something he must have known she would adore and then do all he could to dissociate himself from it?  There was no card in the box, no note, no nothing.  She knew it was from him, and yet it could have been from anyone.

What were they, she wondered, eighth graders?

This sweater set -- bright, feminine, as colorful as the summer sky -- really was the last straw.  The boiling point.  The limit of her patience.

It was time to get down to business.

****

Mulder was lying listlessly on his couch, one arm hanging over the side, watching "Win Ben Stein's Money."  That Jimmy Kimmel had a pretty sweet job, he thought.  Jimmy didn't even have to read the questions for half of the show.

A sharp, insistent knock on the door interrupted his private efforts to win five thousand dollars.

He got up and opened the door.  "Scully," he said in surprise.

She was standing in the hallway, practically glaring at him.  He felt a stir of unease.  Waves of Irish temper radiated from her like heat from a thermonuclear reactor.

She pushed past him into his apartment.  "Mulder," she said, turning to face him with her hands on her hips, "there's something I want to know."

He eyed her warily.  "Sure, Scully."

"Okay, here it is:  what's wrong with you, Mulder?"

He frowned.  "What are you talking about?"

"I want to know what your problem is, Mulder.  You act interested in me one day, and then the next day you treat me like your pesky tag-along kid sister."

"I do what?"

"Mulder, what the hell was the meaning of giving me that sweater set today?"

He sagged in relief.  "Oh, that.  I owed you, Scully, remember?  You had on that new outfit in Texas, and you told me not to touch that thing -- "

"Mulder, cut the crap.  If you owed me, why the big mystery?  You must have been hiding that box somewhere in the office all day.  But why?  Why not just hand me the damned thing?  Why not just say, 'Scully, this is to pay you back for the blouse that I ruined last week'?"

He opened his mouth to reply, then realized that he didn't know how to answer.

"You were going to kiss me in the hall last year," she accused, "and you tell me you love me under the influence, and you hold my hand, and now you give me thoughtful presents -- "

"Scully -- " he said.  "Scully, don't be so angry."

"But I *am* angry, Mulder!  I'm angry that you make me think you want me when you obviously don't."

"What?"

"I'm tired of it," she said, her voice shaking.  "I'm tired of you putting me through this --"

"What makes you think I don't want you?"

She laughed.  "You don't want me, Mulder.  You want the unthreatening, impersonal, round-the-clock convenience of centerfolds and 900 number operators.  You have no interest in someone who might actually care about you."

He flushed angrily.  "Now wait a minute -- "

"Mulder, spare me the excuses.  You're a grown man and you're not accountable to me.  All I want is for you to leave me out of it from now on.  Just stop it -- please.  Leave me alone."

He stared at her.  She looked offended -- grandly, magnificently offended.  Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were blazing.  He wished she were mad at anyone but him, so he could enjoy the sight without feeling all the heat of her outrage directed his way.

His brows drew together.  "Just what did I do that's so damned wrong all of a sudden?"

"I told you, I'm tired of your putting me through this.  Stop getting my hopes up when you don't want me."

He advanced on her.  "Damn it, that's the second time now you've said that.  What do you mean, I don't want you?"

"You don't want me, Mulder."  Her breasts rose and fell with each angry breath.  "If you wanted me, you would have made your move long ago."

He towered over her, forcing her to move backwards just so she could keep looking him in the eye.  "So it's my fault?" he demanded.  "So I'm the one who's been playing hard to get?"

"I've never turned you down, Mulder.  You're the one who insisted on last names.  You're the one who practically ran screaming from the room when I brought you wine and cheese in Florida.  You're the one who makes a joke every time things turn serious."

"You're wrong, Scully."  He had backed her against the wall, his body pinning her to the cool plaster.  His legs were between hers so that she could feel his erection pressing against her through their clothes.  He leaned into her, one forearm braced on either side of her head.  "You don't know how much I want you."

"Then why don't you prove it?"

She stared at him.  He read the challenge in her gaze.

He ground into her, his hard cock against her belly, her breasts crushed against his chest.  He bent his head and kissed her, his mouth fierce on hers.

When he lifted his head their eyes locked again.  They were both breathing hard.

He took one hand from the wall and slid it down, slowly and deliberately, over her breast.  She started involuntarily.  Mulder slid his hand lower, over the flat sweep of her abdomen, and drew her skirt up.  He worked his hand inside her clothes.  She drew a sharp breath, and twisted the material of his shirt in her hands.

He pushed her underwear down off her hips until they dropped to the floor.  He leaned his weight on her, keeping her pinned to the wall -- he wasn't sure at this point if it was part of the game, or just instinct -- and unfastened his fly, releasing his aching erection from the confines of his jeans.  Then he lifted her up the wall.  Her eyes glittered at him as he let her slide slowly back down onto his cock, until he had buried himself in her up to the hilt.

She let her breath out in an explosive gasp as he filled her.  He wasn't sure what kind of noise he made.  He had never heard anyone make that noise before.

He pulled back and started fucking her slowly against the wall, looking her in the eyes, listening to the little sounds she was making.  It was happening, he was giving it to Scully, he thought, and could scarcely believe the staggering satisfaction of the thought.

The height difference made it a little difficult; he had to stand with his feet back and well apart.  But being flexed like a bow gave him some interesting leverage, and, Jesus, he'd never felt each thrust all the way up his spine like this before.

"Mulder," she gasped, her eyes half-hooded.  "Oh, Mulder, God, it's about time..."

It was about time was right.  He growled and shoved into her.  He dropped one hand down and found her clit, rubbing it rhythmically.

She gripped his arms, her nails digging into his biceps.  "Anh," she grunted, and bit down on her lower lip.

"Do you believe me now?" he panted into her ear.  "Do you believe I wanted you?"

But she didn't answer, didn't even nod, unless you could count the way that her head bowed as her face twisted into an unfamiliar grimace.  She made a breathy moan -- "Anhhunhunh" was the way it sounded -- and Mulder felt her begin to contract powerfully around his cock.

"Oh, Jesus," he whispered, and then felt his own orgasm boil up, felt the swell of excitement as he thrust into her still harder, as deep as he could go.  He stilled, and groaned as he exploded into her.

Gasping, he clung to her.  His knees had gone weak, so weak he felt unsteady on his feet.  He pulled out, and gathered her against him.

Together, they sank slowly to the floor.

****

"I still don't understand," he said, as they lay side by side in his bed a couple of hours later, "why giving you a sweater set made you so angry at me."

"It wasn't the gift," she said.  "It was the inconsistency."

"Didn't Emerson say 'a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds'...?"

Scully sighed, but it was not really an unhappy sound.  "Why do men always need to have it explained to them why a woman is angry?"

"Why do women always get angry for reasons so obscure that they have to be explained?"

"Why do men always leave the toilet seat up?"

"Why do women never want to have sex three times in the same night?"

She snorted.  "Well, I know that one's not true."

"Isn't it?" he asked, his hand sliding beneath the sheets to find her breast.

"Of course not," she said.  The way his fingers were circling her nipple gave her voice a slightly breathless edge.  "In fact, I can disprove your hypothesis right now, with plenty of hard, empirical evidence."

"It's hard...?" he said, in a teasing tone.

Her hand, too, slid beneath the sheets.  "Ummm...yep."

"Well, start convincing me, then," he said.  "You know how open I am to extreme possibilities."

****

END

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