From: "Andrea L. Hoeschen" Subject: isn't it obvious? Date sent: Thu, 25 Sep 1997 23:27:15 Title: Mashed Potatoes Author: Dynomutt E-mail: hoesc001@maroon.tc.umn.edu Rating: R for sexual content and maybe a cuss word or two Category: MSR, SRH Keywords: Mulder/Scully romance Spoilers: Never Again, Small Potatoes Summary: Immediately post-Small Potatoes. The truth is out there. Scully found it on her couch. So now the question is, what's she gonna do about it? Notes: This is a first-time XF fic. Please, be gentle. Archive at will wherever you like, just keep my name. Also, in this story's universe, I am gleefully ignoring sizable chunks of the fourth season. The big omission would be TFWID, the best evidence I've seen for the `it's all a lie' idea. Is it just me, or has the fourth season just sucked a lot of the, well, joy out of the Files? I mean, yeah, it's a drama. It's supposed to be serious and scary. But between the cancer plot and the finale, geez louise folks! Thus this amiable piece of fluff-core. Enjoy! Or not, if you're into angst. If you are, you probably shouldn't read this. If you're not a shipper, DEFINITELY don't read this. Or do, if you're into self-torture. ANYWAY, getting on with things. Disclaimer: Yeah, yeah, yeah, we all know CC, 1013, DD, GA, and a host of other people own and create these characters and would no doubt be amused and/or horrified by this use of them. Live with it. I'm not making any money from it. _Mashed Potatoes_ by: Dynomutt Excerpts from Dana Scully's Journal _March 4, 1997_ Tonight I did something stupid. Very, very stupid. And the worst part is, I'm not sure why. A bottle of wine has not really helped. Maybe I don't want to be helped. I have never been a woman who wants things in candy-box pretty packages. I've always believed in shooting straight from the hip. I want to know the good, the bad, and the ugly, just the way it happened. Just the way it is. Just the facts, ma'am. And being who I am, it is time for some hard thinking, about an unattractive subject. A time for no-holds barred. How in HELL did I end up on my sofa about to kiss (ewwwwww) Eddie Van Blundht? Because I thought he was Fox Mulder? How in HELL did I end up on my sofa about to kiss Fox Mulder? Mentally cataloguing the evening I'd spent with Mulder/Eddie, the gaffes he'd made were blindingly clear. Mulder, just wanting to chat, with no EBEs, no supernatural forces, no weird religions, no conspiracy involved? Mulder, relaxed and smiling for a whole evening? How could I have missed it-unless I hadn't wanted to see it? It's all become so painfully clear. First that ridiculous, dangerous thing with Ed Jerse- classic attention-getting behavior. Now this. It's time to face a lot of unattractive truth about tonight. Truth was, I wanted it to be Mulder on my couch. And as long as we're being honest, I wanted Mulder on my couch. Or on the floor. Or in the bedroom.. There is no one I trust more. No one whose intellect I respect more, even when he's dead wrong about something. No one who fills out a pair of red Speedos quite like (stop it!). And all the excuses I've built up for why Mulder and me is such a bad idea are beginning to look like just that, excuses, in light of The Couch Incident. Admit it to yourself, Dana, if no one else. None of those good, noble reasons like maintaining objectivity, like following regulations, like protecting the X-Files' precarious position, mattered one damn bit when you knew he wanted you. If Mulder hadn't walked in-whoa. That's a little too much honesty even for me. The Couch Incident hasn't dispensed with the biggest reasons of all, however-what happens if I'm the only interested one? What if I make a pass at him, and he's horrified? Worse, what if we sleep together, and then he decides it was all a horrendous mistake ? We're comfortable with each other. We depend upon each other, not only as professionals but as people. Could sleeping with each other alter that relationship beyond recognition? So what should I do about this information? I'm going to bed. Brilliant agent though I am, even I need time to figure this one out. _March 5, 1997_ I walked into the office this morning expecting to be greeted with a flood of barbed comment and innuendo. Not only had Mulder been completely right about this file, I'd been about to make out with Eddie as Mulder when he walked in. I would have expected him to be over the moon about it. Or at least offering to do the job right, himself. Instead, he seemed strangely subdued as we worked on the paperwork. _A month passes_ _April 4, 1997_ Mulder went to go visit Eddie Van Blundht, he claimed for follow-up. It obviously upset him; I tried to make him feel better about it. "You're not a loser, Mulder." He bit my head off. "Well, I'm no Eddie Van Blundht." Of all the possible things he could have said, I wasn't expecting that one. And it made me a little mad. "You know, Mulder, he had a point," I said coolly, and he whipped around to stare at me. "You should get out a little more often. The Lone Gunmen do not constitute a social life." As if I had room to talk. I couldn't believe what I'd just said-and then inspiration struck. "As a matter of fact, I think we could both use some normal social activity. Want to go to a movie, Mulder?" A wry smile flashed across his face, replacing the self-pity and what had begun to look like hurt. "Sure. But unfortunately, if you get bored, I won't be able to switch faces for you." I ignored that remark-I had to. I had pretty much invited it. And I was actually a little relieved he'd finally said something about it. "You know, there's a Star Wars revival playing at." He was starting to enjoy this a little too much. "Don't make me think better of this, Mulder." "Wouldn't dream of it, Scully. Want to meet there, or should I pick you up?" The die was cast. I spent the two hours between going home and Mulder's arrival frantically deciding what to wear, finally settling on a pair of black velvet leggings and an oversized chenille sweater my mother claims is the color of my eyes. Not exactly provocative, but I didn't want to look as if I was trying to attract his attention. He showed up in a muted green wool sweater and jeans, which almost made me think he'd done the same notice me/don't notice me dance, but I decided that was ascribing too much clothing anxiety to a man. We drove to the movies in a haze of shop-talk about the latest file and cheerful squabbling over which radio- station to listen to. In the anonymous darkness of the theatre, it was easy to lay my hand across Mulder's, as if by accident. It seemed easy, anyway-I had been trying to decide when and how to do it for the first half of the movie (a shame; it looked good in the previews. Should have picked something I'd already seen). I kept staring at the screen, although I couldn't tell you what was on it-every nerve I possessed was at that moment rerouted to that hand, and damned if I was going to let him know that. I mean, I had a little pride. Even if I hadn't had a date in ages. Even if this man knotted every fiber of my being. I felt preadolescent; here I am, an FBI agent, a forensic pathologist, a grown woman, flipping out over an all- but-casual touch of a man's hand. Eventually, I dared enough to look at him, just when he must have decided to look at me. It's a cliche, I know, but I honestly think I forgot to breathe. I certainly forgot to look back at the screen like a normal person, or even come up with a clever comment on the action. I was lost in hazel paradise for an interval less than a year and more than thirty seconds, until he shifted position and I caught a reflection of my drooling self in his wire-rims. Immediately, I snapped my eyes to the floor, and then back to the movie. It was all I could do not to squirm with embarrassment. I kept thinking God, he must think I'm desperate or fixated. What's wrong with me? I spent a couple of miserable minutes wondering just how big an idiot he thought I was, until I felt his long hand swallow up mine, his fingers stroking my palm. Surprised, I glanced over at him again, and his mouth curved up in a half-smile, eyes warm and dark. I returned his caress in kind, edging closer to him and feeling his knee press into mine. Whatever lingering interest I'd had in the movie had long since died; all I could do now was count the minutes to find out what happened next. Which is why I about passed out when I felt his breath feathering across my ear. "You know, his last film was a lot better. I have the video over at my apartment. Do you want to come over and watch it when this is over?" Tension communicated itself in his hand, in his leg, and I realized with some wonder that he too was excited, unsure. "Sure," I said, elaborately casual. And then proceeded to astound and horrify myself by adding, "but why wait? Unless you really want to finish watching this." I trailed off, breaking out in a cold sweat. What had I just suggested? I hoped I'd read him right, or it would be one long, long car ride in hell back to my place. Oh well, what was one more humiliation? I'd certainly been rejected before, and by guys much less. "Okay," he said, and we started struggling over legs on our way to the aisle, still holding hands. I couldn't believe it. In an increasingly happy fog, I tripped over the last person and fell against him. The contact shock burned me from head to foot. We fled up to the doors and out of the theatre. Into a cold rain. But I didn't much notice or care about the wet when he tucked me under his arm on the way to his car. The proprietary warmth of his body was revelatory; I had forgotten how much I missed that closeness, even more (even? Much more) than sex. We got into the car, and he started fumbling with the keys in the ignition. I reached out to brush back his wet dark hair, and found my hand cupping his face as he turned into it, closing his eyes. I leaned over to him and timidly brushed his lips with mine. His eyes opened. "Is that all there is?" he asked, a playful smile lurking around his mouth. Before I could answer, he slid his hand into my hair and gently tipped my head for his mouth. We kissed for a few moments in the damp cold of his car, to the amusement of a few hardy passers-by and the disapproving glare of an old lady walking by with a black umbrella and one of those mobile floor-mop dogs. When we broke apart, it was with a little awkwardness and an almost tangible regret. "Let's get back to your place," I suggested, my voice sounding strange to me. "Mm," he agreed, starting the car and wiping the steam from the window. I basked in his glances and the dry heat of the defroster as we drove back to his apartment. A wicked mental picture started simmering in my brain of what might have happened had we not stopped, but I almost laughed out loud a moment later-yeah, right. Vanilla sex with this man scares you enough, and you're going to make a spectacle of yourself in a parking lot in front of God and everybody? Somehow, I clamped down on a fit of hysterical giggles as Mulder looked quizzically over at me. "What's funny?" I swallowed. "Nothing really. Tell you later." When I'm about ninety-six and you're ninety-eight, I thought. When we got to Mulder's place, awkwardness somehow overtook us again, so Mulder fumbled in his videotape collection (the clean one, I hoped), while I perched on the couch. Maybe it was the thought of all the ramifications this would have on our work, or maybe it was the fact that we were so clearly on the verge of The Big Step between friendship and Something Else. For my part, our relationship had become one of the few constants in my life, and I'm not ashamed to admit I'm a person who needs a few constants. What if sex changed what we had for the worse? What if it changed for the worse and the sex wasn't even good? Whichever it was, we were both nervous as cats. Finding what he wanted, Mulder slipped the tape into the machine and flopped down beside me on the couch. The soundtrack filled the room, erasing the stilted silence of anticipation. I leaned into his side, savoring the scratchy wool of his sweater under my cheek, his warmth, the clean scent of him, and he pulled my legs across his lap. For a little while, that was enough, but soon we both wanted more. Mulder's hand started stroking my calf, his other arm tightening around my shoulders, fingertips brushing across the sensitive skin inside my elbow. I turned into him, running my hands around his body and tugging his shirt out of his jeans. As he bent to kiss the hollow of my throat, I slid my hands over the warm skin of his back and found myself straddling his thighs. His eyes were very green and very dark when they met mine, and his hands glided over my body, up my legs and under my sweater. My pulse was pounding in my ears as I guided his hands to the front-hook of my bra, and threatened to stop altogether as he cupped my breasts, caressing my nipples with his thumbs. My own hands roved, leaving shivers in their wake when they grazed his nipples, and tightening his stomach as they slid to the button of his fly. "Mulder," I said breathlessly, not quite a question. "Scully," he rasped, and the feel of his breath on my breasts, his voice beneath my hands, drew a whimper from me. I felt his erection growing against the juncture of my thighs. I couldn't remember when anything had felt so good. And then his lips closed around my breasts and I started writhing with the pleasure of his tongue, the delicate prickle of his stubble against my smooth skin. With breathtaking suddenness, he swept me onto my back on the couch, pressing me down into the old springs with his body. As he returned to the hollow at the juncture of my neck and collarbone, I tugged at his jeans, slipping my hands down into them, rejoicing in the feel of silk and hard male body beneath my fingers. He exhaled roughly and ground his pelvis into mine as I arched up to meet him- And we rolled off the couch. For a second, I could have died but then I saw the look on his face of mingled arousal, shock, and chagrin. A laugh just spilled out of me, and suddenly we were both in howling hysterics, in each other's arms on the crummy carpeting in front of a movie we weren't watching. It was for some reason, purely, sublimely, ridiculous. And wonderful. What was all that crap about sex changing relationships I'd been fed all my life? He was still Fox Mulder, and I was still Dana Scully, and a commingling of bodily fluids wasn't going to make us strangers. And for a second, my skeptical self was even convinced that Fate had sent us rolling to the floor to pound that into our heads. But only for a second or two. A few moments later, I was wiping my eyes and trying not to giggle anymore (it was beginning to hurt), and Mulder rolled onto his back, rubbing the side he'd fell on. Letting out a deep sigh, he slanted a look at me and purred, "Was it good for you too?" "A little rougher than I like, actually." I reached over and lightly punched his arm. "Ouch, dammit!" He reached over and pinned my arms above my head playfully. "I have enough black-and-blue marks, thank you. I suggest we try this again in a safer place. How about right down here?" His free hand drifted back beneath my sweater, drawing lazy circles above the waistband of my leggings. "Uh-uh. I'd prefer not to collect any bruises at all, and if you do it right," I graced him with a sultry smile, trying to ignore how good his hand lazily caressing my stomach felt, "I'll be black-and-blue all over if we stay here. No way. Bed or nowhere." "Bed it is." He lithely got to his feet and pulled me up, then scooped me up into his arms, grinning wickedly at my involuntary squeak of surprise. "But do try to stay on it. I bruise like a peach. I had no idea you'd be so.athletic, Scully." I womanfully resisted the tempation to whack him one again. I figured I could come up with something to drive him nuts when we were safely in the bedroom. As he elbowed the light on my wall, I could feel him suppressing a snicker. "Can we name our first child Eddie?" Okay, that deserved pain. "Ow! Scully." _The End_ You like? You loathe? All questions/comments/feedback to Dynomutt at hoesc001@maroon.tc.umn.edu. And remember, all you mean and nasty flamers out there, the Karmic Credit Plan-buy now, pay forever. Is the pleasure of making me cry worth being a termite in the next life? (copyright apology now to the owners of _Dead Again_, but to you as to CC, I make no money here).