by Livia Balaban
In response to the anonymous MSR-SMUT challenge:
"mulder is the one reluctant to start the relationship not scully. scully is ready and is pushing mulder but he has cold feet."
I have conveniently disregarded the 'omniscient POV or Scully POV' requirement of the challenge 'cuz, hey, it's not like this counts toward our final grade or nuthin'. I'm a rebel! I'm running with scissors!
Rating: NC-17
I have cold feet.
I'm not sure there's any other way to explain it to her, without making the situation any worse than it already is. She's always so kind and protective of me. She'd just try to do something for me if I told her the truth, and it would be Scully the Protector aiding Mulder the Victim again and she must be so sick of that shit.
I love her more than anything, I know she knows that, but there's so much I can't give her.
So I'll tell her *part* of the truth. I have cold feet.
She deserves so much more.
* * * * *
"You have *what*?" Oh, she's not taking it well.
"I'm sorry, Scully. I can't do this. I can't do it to you. You deserve so much more than I can give you. You should have it all."
She's staring at me blankly. "Do you mean to tell me that years of playful, bantery passes, countless witty innuendoes, literally *hundreds* of hours of watching me sleep while you're driving - don't think I haven't noticed you doing it - were all just a game to you?"
I don't like that she's pissed, but I guess it's the best way for this to end. "No, that's not it. I just can't go any farther with you, Scully. I have cold feet."
"So you keep saying, Mulder." She's grimacing. "Cold. Feet. Is it a euphemism for fear of commitment? Low self-esteem? Get over your fear of change and let's move forward, together. It's time, cold feet be damned."
"No, Scully. It's literal. I have cold feet. Cold hands too, if you hadn't noticed. Cold ears. Even my nose is cold. I have, er, bad circulation."
"I'm aware of your chilly appendages, Mulder, and your low blood pressure. I'm also aware of your abnormally low body temperature, your gastrointestinal difficulty with ibuprofen and green peppers, and your lactose intolerance. I don't care. I wouldn't kick you out of bed for wearing socks, you know."
"Scully." For cryin' out loud, woman, you're gonna make me say this out loud? I accentuate the next few words with exaggerated motions of my eyebrows. "I have - you know - *bad circulation*. Blood doesn't go everywhere it should. Like certain extremities."
A light goes on behind her eyes, and it immediately turns into indulgent frustration. "And you haven't seen a doctor about it? Oh for goodness' sake, this isn't the dark ages, Mulder. There are a half-dozen sound treatments for erectile dysfunction in common use."
Ew. Doctor Scully to the rescue. This is *just* what I was trying to avoid. "Could we just go back to saying 'cold feet', please?" She squints at me, as if narrowing her field of focus will help her understand my intention. "For me?" I add sheepishly.
She rises from my couch, and walks toward the door. Damn. Well, I guess this is they way it should be. She stops short of the door, pulls a pad from her leather case, and scribbles a few things on it. She tears off the top sheet from the pad with an annoyed flourish, and slaps it down on the hall stand by the door.
"Fill it and we'll talk," she says, as she picks up her case and her coat, and leaves abruptly, without looking back. I give myself an agonized count of twenty to finally rise and look at what she's left for me.
A prescription. For Viagra.
Okay, so I couldn't do it because of the feet. But if the feet cease to be an issue, I couldn't do it because...? The truth is, she *still* deserves more. But hell, if I'm what she wants, then I guess I'm in no position to argue.
Or complain.
I grab my keys and wallet, and head out. Oh, we're paying cash for *this* sucker. No way I'm putting something like this on my Bureau health records.
* * * * *
<gasp> Oooookay. *This* is more like it.
<moan> I KNEW you'd like it there. Yeah.
"Unh," is the best she can manage now, and I don't mind one little bit. C'mon, Scully. Tell me what you want. Oh God, this is good.
"Mmmmmmmmore, Mulder. Harder. Harder." Your wish <slam> is my <slam> command <slam>.
This shit is a fucking miracle. For only a brief moment I stop and toy with the idea of withdrawing and admiring my profile in the mirror. Me in all my rock-hard glory.
But fuck that, 'cuz Scully is nearly clawing at my shoulders to get me going again. I guess I've been admiring a little too long.
"Yes, Mulder, you're glorious. Now keep going. I mean it." Oh man <thrust>, she's incredible <pound> when she's worked up <pound> <pound> <pound>.
<groan> Yeah.
<moan> Fuck, yeah.
<hoarse cry> Oh, fuckin' yeah.
"Faster...harder...oh, God, Mulder, I'm so close..." <hammer> <hammer> <hammer> <hammer> <hammer> <hammer> <hammer>
Hotgodalmightyholyfuckingdamn!
* * * * *
"Mmmcrrrrrd," I manage to mumble through the four inches of pillow I'm face-down in.
"Huh?" she asks weakly.
I manage to raise my sweat-soaked head just enough to get out a brief repetition for the home audience: "I'm cured."
Scully laughs the laugh of the sexually exhausted, rolls over, and falls dead asleep. In the wet spot. My head drops heavily onto the pillow, and I remember the wisest thing I ever heard about sex. Dr. Ruth Westheimer of all people said it in response to a caller who asked, "How do I know if I've satisfied my wife?" With her thick little accent, she replied, "If she's unconscious."
Shit, I'm thinking about Doctor Ruth as I'm falling asleep next to Scully. I grit my teeth and prepare for freakish dreams of tiny women.
=====
End.
The Sequel to "Cold Feet", "Freakish Dreams of Tiny
Women", can be found by clicking here.
Acknowledgements: I pay respectful homage to Lysandra's now-legendary 'thrustfic' herein. I am grateful for her keen eye and that of the lovely and talented Ms. Sebasky.
