From: Valeanna1 Date sent: Mon, 9 Mar 1998 17:14:52 EST Subject: "Buying" (1/1) by J. C. Sun Title: Buying Author: J. C. Sun (valeanna1@aol.com) Category: VRAO Rating: R for sexual content, profanity and generally disturbing themes. Summary: Scully muses upon life, love, and her relationship with Mulder. Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully ain't mine. Thanks to Punk, last bastion of good grammar. .Buying J. C. Sun 3.7.98 The truth, it exploded upon me. White flashes. Jolt from sleep, the sweat slicking my back. My breath coming quick, fast, panting, my hands knotting in the sheets, fingernails digging into naked thigh and the sweat print of my head upon the pillow. The still night room, moonlight streaking from the window, the slow perfect summer night, landscapes of my dresser, the night wind from an open balcony door, clothes dotting, here, there, dropped shirt, his pants on the armchair and the silvering his back, picking out the dip, the arch and the harsh line of his thighs, the round cup of the back of his knee, the taut fall of his ass underneath the sheets, long runner legs spread wide, toes hanging off the edge. The truth. The truth. It's love. Love. And it's not a flower. It's not a rose. It's not looking at someone and being happy just because they're there. It's not even a razor blade. It's not that. It's the rust on the razor blade. It's the rust on the razor blade at your throat. It's the unnecessary threat. The insult in the threat upon your life. It's life that'll kill you, but it's love that's going to fuck you over. It's love that's going to fuck you over. Life will make you die. It'll break all your bones and give you a dozen unpleasant diseases and if you're really fucking lucky you'll wither up and shrivel like an exposed apple. But it's love that's going to make you weep. It's love that's going to send you screaming into the raining sky. It's love that's going to make you shudder with anger. It's love that's going to make you cry. All of it. This entire fucking existence. We live. We plod along with our stupid little existences and we chase aliens and the aliens chase us and we get exposed to second hand smoke just so we can shoot ourselves in the foot chasing after a man that never lived to contract a thing that never existed and was tested on prisoners that never was in a Russian gulag that does not exist and was run by a Nazi fucking SOB that committed suicide before Auschwitz. We do all this. And yet, we manage to survive. We're fine. We're OK. It's just when love kicks in, that's when the therapy bills get bad. That's when your shrink knows you better than you do. That's when you run after you fool partner, hating every step, hating the stupid idiotic cases in the rain, and the fucking cheap motels, hating him, hating the way his eyelashes kiss the pillow when he sleeps, hating the way he looks in the morning, downy soft, hating the way he looks in the evening, grainy, edged, three seconds from collapsing and he's needing you so bad that it's a physical taste in his mouth, and that when he lays you out on the floor, when he pins you down on the linoleum, wrenching your arms above your head and the entire brunt of his weight slamming down on your mouth, the bristle of his five-o-clock shadow bloodying your throat, his hands sliding up to push your skirt up to your waist and peel your underwear down as you go through your best impression of a woman in the throes of passion. Except, well, that this isn't an impression. It's real. It's too fucking real, and there's no way to separate yourself from the writhing, moaning thing down *there* and the rational, logical thing up here. It's all intertwined, meshed so tight. You can't pull away precisely because your partner is such a fucking asshole, because he's on top of you, and those are your arms and those are your hips pushing up into him and that's your mouth screaming his name. His last name of course. He doesn't like it when you say his first name. Bet you that he likes it when *she* says it. Admittedly, it wasn't the best of first meetings. Being in a railway car and the two of you being tied up and she looking like Bitch Incarnate with a full platoon of UN peace keepers at her exquisitely tailored back, and she looking down at you like you were some lower form of life while she's cooing over your partner, running those enameled nails down his shirt and calling him Fox and him just looking back up to her half-afraid, half-aroused. Look at it this way. You're wearing the scaled-down, Broad Street knock-off Guccis made out of plastic. She's wearing the real thing. Made out of Komodo dragon leather to boot. You screw your partner on the dusty floor of your office. She probably does it in style. Dinner first, some tony Uptown restaurant with waiters that have a real French accent. Long ride back to the Park Avenue pad. Then champagne. Sexy negligee. Canopy bed. Post-coitus cigarette while lounging on an authentic Empire-style loveseat. And you're making do with rent-by-the-month from Furniture Warehouse. That's when you hate yourself. That's when this whole insult thing *really* bites. It just totally fucking bites. You're going through his tie drawer, and you find this box rammed all the way back, this gold-embossed leather box containing these links, these little tiny things with a fox done up on the front in some sort of coat in arms. Very expensive. Very tasteful. And her writing, this thick, smooth black thing with long, elegant downstrokes and these swooping F's, her writing on a little scrap of paper so fine that it's like parchment. No name, but it's not needed. Just the note, the look of the words, the sheer glossy perfection of them. Just how fucking much *does* she make as a UN secretary? How much to pay for that smooth loveliness? How much does she pay to keep Mulder in her bed? How many pieces of information? How much per month? Or is it strictly case by case? One kiss will get you the address of the man who exhumed the bodies in Minnewaka, Kansas. A hand on the breast will purchase the information that there will get you a copy of Jessica Lau's medical report. Sex on a Friday afternoon on the chaise lounge will get you the location of the merchandise swap that's going to occur Saturday night. I suppose that's how we got the tip. I suppose that's how we ended up on a stakeout in a Taurus and his face like an clenched fist. I suppose that's how half the Sixth Precinct ended up descending on a warehouse by the Hudson. That's how they seized three hundred pounds or so of cocaine and another hundred of heroin. That's how we managed to get our hands on a small black briefcase containing the papers. That's how we lost them again. Lost them to the men in black, the ones who stopped our car and shoved Mulder out in a replay of Ellens Air Force. I guess, too, that's how Mulder ended up on my doorstep, sobbing, trembling, gun to head. I guess, too, that's why he wept as we made love, why he shuddered and shivered and cried. I guess that's how he came to be sleeping in my bed. I guess that's how I came to love him. I guess that's how things are. .end Feedback is worshipped at valeanna1@aol.com