TITLE: WLG2DWI

NAME: Mik

E-MAIL: mikdok@hotmail.com

CATEGORY: SRA

RATING: NC-17. M/Sc. This story contains f/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution.

SUMMARY: Mik wrote MSR?????

FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist...Flames? Send 'em to my brother, he's having a barbecue.

TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: Sixth Season, no spoilers. They are against my religion.

KEYWORDS: story angst Scully Mulder NC-17

DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, Dana Scully and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything.

This is a little gift for the Pooh Girl, because she sent me a lovely pressie, in a very pretty box. And, yes, some days you just need a red fish. Thank you, O Huntress of midis and maxis for everything else. 

WLG2DWI

by Mik

It's that song. That damn Tina Turner song going through my head. I think I first heard it while I was at Quantico. It always made sense to me. What's love got to do with it, anyway? It comes down to a physiological need to reproduce. It's what draws the boys to the girls, and it's what makes the girls let the boys.

Oh, we dress it up, put lace on it, cover it in chocolate, but it's just sex.

I know that. I've always known it. It's damned unsatisfying. To leave a woman and know it was just about sex. Look, I've never been a pipe and slippers kinda' guy. I was raised behind that Ozzie and Harriet facade, and I know what goes on when the shades are drawn and the doors are closed. Not for me, no thanks. It's easier to look at the flickering pictures and earn

myself a ticket to Purgatory, or go blind, or grow hair on my palms, or whatever the threat du jour is.

But then...

Sometimes the flickering pictures are just in my head. The day she walked in, and told me she was looking forward to working with me. So damned earnest, so damned cute. I hated her, first blush. But, then there was

that next picture, her coming to me, terrified, dropping her robe, trusting me to look at her in nothing but bra and panties. I wanted her, second blush.

How many years have I tortured myself, standing just a fraction too close for regulations or manners, just to get a whiff of her perfume, or feel the silk of her hair? I told her once that I loved her. I mean, said the words 'I love you'. She rolled her eyes and walked away. I've told her a million other times, but didn't say the words. Kissed her once, almost kissed her twice. And in my head, I've done more, far more.

In the dark, on my sofa, I've had her over my desk, in the back seat of a rental Ford, every hotel we've even stayed in, even in her bed. I've made tender love to her, I've fucked her 'til she screamed. She's been passive, submissive, aggressive, wildly vocal, and stoically silent. But never, ever, in all the ways, in all the places, has she ever said 'I love you'.

She doesn't love. At least, not me. She's loyal, faithful, tender, maternal, and dedicated to our cause--my cause...no, our cause. But, she doesn't love me. She's not even attracted to me. There's never been a moment, saying good night at the hotel door, when I've felt the slightest tug to stay; I've never heard even a tremor of invitation in her voice, a glint of desire in her eyes. She has her patented 'see you tomorrow, Mulder' smile, her patient 'good night, Mulder' voice.

How many nights have I stood there a moment after she shut her door, wanting to kick it down, march in, sweep her into my arms and kiss our way back to her bed? I know exactly what I would do, how I would seduce her. I know her body intimately though we've never been intimate. I know the white column of her throat, the freckles across her shoulders, that her nipples are a soft, golden brown and they harden at a glance. I know her firm, round belly, that her navel is sensitive and the small of her back is an erogenous zone. I know her pussy is a nest of darker hair, and her flesh swells and flushes when she's aroused. I know she tastes sweet and I know she rocks her hips as she comes. I know I would fill her and make her make soft little sounds, but she would never say 'I love you'.

Which is why I've never done more than close my eyes and touch her in my imagination.

What's love got to do with it?

Everything, damn it.

-THE END-