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The Week

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He has come to live for purposeless Saturday mornings, particularly those with no ghosts and ghouls, mass murderers, and psychopaths. He can’t remember the last time in his life he enjoyed waking up in that peaceful lull of early dawn light, when the city was as asleep as it would ever be. Fox Mulder can hardly believe his new-found love for sloth, because he was never one comfortable with the anxiety of inaction.

“Favorite hop.” He’s stretched out next to her, propped up above on his right hand, his left fingers lightly wisping the ends of her katana-blade hair.

She’s laying back on stretched arms, hands clasped behind her, no trace of insecurity and looking rather like a canary-eating cat, all closed eyes and sly smile. “Cascade.”

“You know how this goes Scully.” She sighs in a huff of amorous exasperation rather than agitation, though he’s currently obsessed with eliciting both sounds from her as frequently as possible. “You can’t play ‘getting to know your ridiculously good looking partner,’ with one-word answers.” He is always a man on a quest for knowledge.

“Well…” she lightly clears her sleep-rough throat and swallows, “the Cascade was the first commercial hop from the USDA-ARS breeding program. It uh, it was obtained by crossing an English Fuggle with a male plant, which originated from the Russian variety Serebrianka with a Fuggle male plant-“

“Keep saying Fuggle.”

She opens one eye and snorts, reaching up to flick the end of his nose. Eyes closed, she continues, “Anyway, it’s a West Coast kind of hop-“

“Yech… IPAs…”

Another flick, this one landing blindly over the mole on his cheek. “But I like it most because it’s a San Diego beer. And it takes me back.”

He smiles softly. Scully may be stone-cold science, but behind every Britannica fact in the mega-computer of her brain, there is heart.

There is no spiral into San Diego’s trespasses against her body, or Mulder’s trespasses against her family. They’ve somehow attained equilibrium since his expedition to Stonehenge.

He is brought out of poetic waxation by another flick, this time connecting with his earlobe. “Will you-“ a grab of her wrist and a gentle tug back on her own ear, nipping teeth and constrained chuckle, “fucking stop that.”

Her canary eating cat smile has remained in place. “You know the rules, Mulder. Tit for tat.”

He’s dropped his arm down, heavy head resting against his bicep, nose in her neck and he begins to octopus, tossing his leg over her and bringing his other hand up along her chest. “Mmm yeah, I know that game,” he swipes a thumb across her nipple but brings his hand back to her waist after, and cuddles in. He’s not one to rush a Saturday morning.

“Ummm… Hallertau,” he continues their factual expedition.

“Interesting choice.”

This is the part of the game he’s had to get better at. Mulder can recite every ghost story he’s ever heard, can read the genetic makeup of every cryptid, but what he may love most about Scully is that’s she’s forced him to expand into a real-life kind of plane. He’s even replaced a couple of books on his shelves with things like Bringing Fossils to Life or Espresso Coffee: The Science of Quality.

“So the Hallertau,” he continues, “started off in Germany as a land-race hop. It’s perfect for European-style lager, with a mild, spicy flavor.”

Her eyes are still closed as she indulges his cuddling, and her eyebrow is quirked, impressed, as she “Mmms.” She’s found she enjoys being wrapped up in this man, where in every relationship previous, she’s imagined herself a cat, struggling to the out of the clutches of whatever person dare love her.

“But,” he continues to slowly wrap around her, kisses her cheek and lays his head back down in her neck, “the real reason I like Hallertau best is I found an illegally posted recipe online for Shiner, and that’s the hop they recommended.”

Truth be told, she’s charmed. Mulder has become her pint of ice cream, particularly on these lazy mornings where their demons dare not tread. She doesn’t think she could handle him this way, all the time; those demons are the same ones that will purchase a plane ticket and buy-off half a day’s use of a snow-cat, that will walk the fires of hell in the face of fear, to keep her safe. But here, on Saturday mornings, she’s quite content to let him woo her in the way he knows to best, by combining wit with a constant quest for knowledge and a sprinkle of romanticism.

But she also cannot resist the opportunity to give him shit. “You found an illegally posted recipe online?”

“Yes…”

“Mmm-hmm…”

“Oh, fuck off, Scully,” he laughs, and he sandpapers her shoulder roughly with his stubble. “Frohike may or may not have looked it up for me, but last time I mentioned him in bed, you created Rule Number 3.”

Rule Number 2 was that Scully was absolutely not to mention brain matter, intestinal seepage, or bodily functions not limited to but including frothing, vomiting, and urine when discussing a case while having sex. Things normal people do.

Rule Number 1 was that Scully was absolutely never again to shout “Oh my God, Walter!” when she came. Rule Number 1 was created before Mulder had figured out how playful his little spitfire could be in bed.

Her eyes have yet to open. Her smile has yet to dissipate. “Next question.”

“Favorite dinosaur.” He can’t believe he doesn’t know the answer to this question.

She kind of can’t believe it either, and he’s making it very difficult to remember when he’s going at her neck like a horse nibbling sugar cubes. “Um…” she feels his smarmy smile and she gives a sharp tug to his hair in retaliation. He answers with an amused little moan that sends signals straight to her pussy as he goes back to work on her neck, appreciating the little thrust she gives his thigh, still wrapped over her. “I’ve always found the triceratops to be particularly cool.”

Scully vocabulary reduction, point to Mulder. He takes a break from her neck to pull away and look at her. “Particularly cool?”

One eye back open, and a sigh of tolerance. “Okay, look, I saw Land Before Time approximately 17 times with my nephew, and Cera was always my favorite.’

Mulder makes his Tofutti Rice Dreamsicle face. “Scully, Cera was a bitch.”

That earns him a slap to the shoulder. “Not that I want to debate the intricacies of a cartoon with you on a Saturday morning,” her slapping hand disappears below the sheets where he’s been pipe-thick and hard between them for the past several minutes. She begins to tug lightly on him and his hips begin a soft dance. He’s biting his bottom lip in a crooked smile that is driving her quietly mad, but she won’t surrender this game to him. “But, they never would have taken down Sharptooth without Cera, and she was a highly misunderstood character. I mean, look at her father! She never had a chance at being normal.”

He bursts out in a little huffing laugh; at some point during his diatribe, his fingers have begun to slick over and around her – one of his favorite wet hot dances to participate in. “Scully, I am not gonna discuss your daddy issues with you while I’m finger deep in your pussy and you’re giving little Spooky the tug job of his life. I’m not that kind of therapist.”

“Don’t be crass Mulder. My daddy issues and your daddy issues are probably half the reason we’re in bed together,” she shoots him a cocky little grin, telling him simultaneously that his joke was taken in the nature it was meant, and that she knows exactly what she’s doing to him. “Little Spooky, Mulder?”

He’s ready to finish his half of the question, because he’s also ready to throw her back on the bed and pound until he’s finished off in her, so he ignores her and quickly moves on. “Velociraptor.”

She’s fully awake now, and has moved out from under him to straddle his thighs. Her cat ate the canary smile has turned into a wicked cat tortured the canary, pulling out all its feathers before putting it out of its misery kind of grin. She slicks herself down past his knees, headed south, and Mulder finds he does not give a shit that he will absolutely need a shower after this or risk tearing out all his leg hair when he dries, because fuck she is so wet for him.

Scully wraps those blowjob, come fuck me lips around the head of him and he can feel her tongue working against him, soaking him until he’s as wet as her. She pulls off him, wraps her hand around his shaft and glosses him down firmly, then tongues up the underside of him while still gripped at his base.

Mulder’s on his elbows watching, all wildcat hair and slack jaw, intent as ever.

She flicks at the slightness of his frenulum, then again at slit of his urethra, and when he realizes she is fingering herself he drops his head back and lets go of his first guttural groan. “Jeeeeeeesus.”

She continues flicking at him and alternately mouthing his glans. “You’re awfully religious for a Saturday, Mulder.”

“Uh huh,” he can’t help but pant. “And you’re awfully chatty for a woman mouthing my cock.”

She taps said cock twice against the flat of her tongue as punishment, then looks up at him as she begins a steady handpump. “So… why is it your favorite?”

“Huh?” he briefly has time to admire the strength in her thighs, supporting a self-finger fuck and a hand job cum blowjob all at once.

“The velociraptor, Mulder.”

He had a dark feeling they would be mid-sex or mid-something by the time she brought this up, which was specifically why he’d chosen this dinosaur. The answer was easy to spurt out. “Best dino in Jurassic Park. Now get over here, Scully.”

The hand job slows and she grasps him at his base again, thumb and two fingers holding him back, and he swears to her God that he will murder this woman, if she gives him blue balls today. “Not good enough Mulder. Besides. Those aren’t even Velociraptors. They’re ah….” She falls forward for a few seconds and fuck, he can feel her cumming on top of his thigh, flooding across his leg.

He brings his head back up, belly rippling in laughter. “Did… did you just cum talking about dinosaurs, Scully?”

She ignores him and after a moment, slides back down to continue her tease of his dick. “The dinosaurs in Jurassic Park are- “

“Yeah, yeah, Utah raptors, potato fucking potato, it’s only a couple of feet of height difference.”

“Not what you said when I told you Little Spooky was closer to six than eight inches.”

His little smile turns predator snarl and her ass is in his hands in a second. He lifts her and slams her hips home, burying himself in one quick pump. “That feel like six inches to you, Scully?”

“Not- ah… Not at the moment,” she groans into his neck.

He pumps her mercilessly for minutes, alternately holding her fast and grinding against her. His pelvis is soaked, flooded, and he knows he’s made her cum again (well technically she got herself off the first time, but he’s not going to sweat the details).

He’s not doing all the giving. She’s riding him with everything she has. She nips at his jaw, tugs his ear lobe, sinks her teeth into his trap. “C’mon, fuck me, Mulder. Harder, c’mon, fuck me.”

His steady stream of ah’s and uh’s turns guttural, and he’s buried, head in neck, himself in her, and if he can start every Saturday for the rest of his life this way he knows it will have been a life well lived after-all.

He tugs her against him as his breathing slows and he collapses them back on his bed. Once moderate motor function returns he flexes in her once, twice, and grins into her moan. “That feel like six inches to you, Scully?”

She snickers into his pecs, sated and lethargic. “Look, you’re the one that named him Little Spooky.”

“Hmm. You love Little Spooky though, don’t you?”

She lifts her head, and with a simultaneous snort and shake of her head, mutters, “Rule Number 4. We’re forgetting that we ever named your penis.”

“You really are like Cera, you know that? Bossy as fuck.”

That earns him one final slap, this time to his abs as she swings off him. They’re both still sensitive enough to hiss a little. She tosses a t-shirt at him as she heads for his bathroom.

She comes back, leaning for a minute against his doorframe. Mulder is propped up back against the headboard in his plaid pajama pants, shirtless and sex-rumpled, glasses on and armed with what looks to be a crossword puzzle and a government issue black pen he is running back and forth over his bottom lip. Scully’s smile softens, has lost its hunter’s edge.

This man, free from most of his haunted past, who tests and tugs and teases on a Saturday morning… this man, who as little as a year ago tried to convince her it was him by coming up with obscure facts such as her brother’s name was Bill, but now spends hours teasing tendrils of information. This is man is quickly becoming her favorite Mulder.

She slides in next to him, head on his shoulder. “Aviso,” Scully says after a few relaxed and silent moments.

“Mmm?”

“Five down. Aviso. It was a-uh,” she stifles a yawn, “it’s the term the Portuguese used for their dispatch boats. They used two different classes, 1st and 2nd rate. The U.S. used dispatch boats as well. In fact, up through World War 1…”

Mulder smiles as her voice washes over him. It’s April 8 in the year 2000. The world hasn’t ended and he got the girl. Mulder won’t kid himself – he knows their demons lay just outside the salt-line of his bedroom door. But each Saturday they get like this, he’s determined to keep fortifying their foundation, building it brick by brick, reinforcing. He’s determined to build it so strong that death itself won’t be able to crack it, to tear them apart.

Her voice fades back in. “Mulder?”

“Hmm? Aviso. Yeah, got it.”

“Wow you really zoned out.”

He looks her way. “Why, what’d I miss?”

“The part where I said pay attention because I was only gonna say it once.”

“Hmm?”

The cat-canary smirk has come back. She leans over and whispers in his ear. “You’re right. I love your spooky dick.”

It is the last thing that he could have ever expected her to say, and his burst of laughter is enough to make them both jump a little.

Fuck, he loves Saturdays.