From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 25 Mar 2004 22:24:20 -0000
Subject: THE CATNIP CONUNDRUM, by J. LaVa (1/1), "Humbug" Post-Ep, MSR, R by Jacquie LaVa
Source: direct

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THE CATNIP CONUNDRUM
By Jacquie LaVa

MSR, UST, AU/RST

Spoilers: "Humbug"

PG-13 to R

Quick Note:  I found this on my hard drive and on my site, and
realized that I'd never posted this publicly.  Of course I remember
writing it, actually it was a DP penance fic that I dedicated to Steph
(who'd been the one to catch me out!)

So I decided to remedy the situation, and post it.  Hope you enjoy!


Summary: 'Funny how you never really see someone, until you see them
-'

 

"The Catnip Conundrum"

 

"You see, I've seen the future and the future looks just like him.
Imagine going through your whole life looking like that..."

Famous last words, I suppose. The carny people left town and I stared
after their car, my mind in an utter fog, mulling those words over and
over, hearing them in my head. I turned to look at the man whose
overall physical appearance prompted Dr. Blockhead to point and accuse
the world of wanting perfection. Standing next to me was just Mulder,
I thought. My partner. Just a guy I worked with, someone who watched
my back and accompanied me on wild field cases. Someone gentlemanly
enough to open doors for me and guide me with one carefully polite
hand - but who was savvy enough to treat me with the respect befitting
an agent of his equal.

Just Mulder...

Funny how you never really see someone, until you see them. I know
that probably doesn't make a whole lot of sense. In fact, right about
now, I probably don't make much sense. I feel as if I've been knocked
sideways twice, and then stomped on, for good measure. Talk about a
one-two sucker punch...

Catnip. That's what the man is. Pure and simple. Why the hell have I
never seen this before now? I consider myself an aware, intelligent,
intuitive person. I've been by his side now, for how long? Over two
years. Well, not counting that small period of said two years, when
neither of us could figure out what happened to me... it's still a
very gray area for me, and truthfully, right now I'd rather not
remember. I am trying my hardest to get on with my life. The life I
share with my partner, my best friend...

My Catnip.

My father used to call me 'Kitten' when I was a very young child,
before I was old enough to read and before our mutual love of classics
led us to refer to each other as 'Ahab' and 'Starbuck'. I remember how
much I loved the idea that I could be a soft little kitty, curled up
in a warm corner of the room, with a bellyful of milk in my tummy and
a gentle hand petting me to sleep. And at night when I lay in my bed,
with my father sitting next to me stroking his big palm over my hair,
after I'd downed a Tippy-cup full of milk... I became the 'Kitten' he
always called me. Warm and safe in the blankets, falling asleep under
the hand of someone who loved me and cared for me.

Dana the Cat... as I got older I found I rather liked the idea of
likening myself to a sleek little feline. And cats like their catnip,
don't they? They like to roll in it, breathe it in, lick it off their
paws - purr louder and louder as the tempting and addictive qualities
of the stuff render them higher than a kite.

Cats love catnip. Trouble was, I always went looking for it, but never
found it; always wanted that addictive feeling, of knowing I'd found
the one true source of that fabulous high. But I could never locate
the source.

Until now.

Until right now, tonight, sitting next to me in the rental car,
driving back to DC. Hands on the wheel, strong and elegant palms and
long fingers with neatly-trimmed nails. Gripping the wheel easily,
driving with confidence.

I sit in the passenger seat and I try so hard not to stare at him. I
fight the lure of his profile, all noble nose and pouty lips and
strong, stubble-laced chin. I tell myself not to follow the motion of
his Adam's apple as he occasionally swallows the liquid from a
lukewarm cup of coffee those full lips drink from. I scream at myself
to quit allowing my eager eyes to trace over his wide shoulders,
slender waist and long legs, muscles shifting and tightening as his
foot maneuvers accelerator and brake pedals.

I may as well tell myself not to inhale oxygen.

Because now I've seen him in a different way; now I've acknowledged to
my heart and my head the presence of catnip in my immediate vicinity.
And Dana Scully may be all professional and scientific business,
sitting there so prim and proper in her dark FBI-type suit... but Dana
the Cat just woke up from her long nap. She wants to stretch and yawn
and unsheathe her claws; wants to meander over to the closest warm
spot, and claim her catnip.

Wants to claim her Mulder.

I shake my head, hard, as this thought pops into my head. My Mulder?
Mine, other than being partners and friends, occasional lunch-mates
and frequent vehicle-mates? When has Fox Mulder ever been mine?

I force my gaze out the window to my right, staring sightlessly at
mile-post markers zipping by on the Interstate. Outside the car
twilight has softened the sky into a muted gray-blue, and stars are
already trying their best to wink down at us. If I look hard enough I
can just see the North Star, usually the first one to appear at deep
dusk. The silence in the front seat doesn't bother me, but the fact I
was staring at Mulder sure does.

I don't know where this is coming from. I don't understand why all of
a sudden I should care how thick his eyelashes appear to be, or how
sexy his hair looks when it's slightly mussed. I shouldn't be
contemplating the heat I know must be contained in that body of his,
or the blatant sexuality I can almost smell. I never have before...
why now?

Because a man who pounds nails through his nostrils pointed it out to
me. Silly and stupid beyond measure, but there it is.

Of course I thought Mulder was a good-looking man, two years ago when
we first met. God, how could I not? The day we met, it was all I could
do not to gawk at him. I'd always been fairly self-confident around
men, could usually hold my own in conversation and enjoyed dating even
though it had of late been sparse. In our line of work going out
socially isn't always easy to do; we're on call most of our off time.
Come to think of it, there has been a viable lack of so- called off
time, since I first partnered up with Mulder. But I haven't minded. My
evenings could have been worse than having to share my free hours with
a tall and dark, handsome man who leans too far into my personal space
and employs a mixture of flirting, sarcasm, self-depreciation and
boyish charm - and a wickedly dry sense of humor - when dealing with
me.

That mix is even more heady when I let myself accept that he cares for
me.

Out of the corner of my eye I glance his way again, watching the
movement of his fingers as he fiddles with the radio volume and
punches at buttons. I've always been a sucker for well-defined,
elegantly-masculine hands, and Mulder's are especially attractive to
me. I've imagined those hands on my body, more than once. I don't like
to admit it, but I have. In the past two years I've been fortunate
enough to feel their easy tenderness. Mulder has touched my face and
my cheek, my shoulders. He's held my hand more than once, always in
concern or solicitude.

Just once, I wonder what they'd feel like, in passion? How warm, how
strong, how sensual? How talented?

<Stop it, Dana!>

This is not good. I force myself to look away again, heaving a silent
and shuddery sigh. Even though I have spent some past moments
imagining, still I've felt comfortable around Mulder, even when he's
at his most impish and flirty. My attitude toward him has ranged from
indifferent to downright indulgent. Sometimes he's just this large,
clumsily-graceful puppy, tripping over his own tail, all legs and big
feet and affection. Sometimes he's fiercely protective, tough as nails
and harsh, a worthy defender. Sometimes his insecurities come crashing
to the forefront of anything else he may have going, and it manifests
into a humility that I can't understand and have little patience with.

Mostly he's just Mulder... beautiful, flawed, sexy as hell.

Catnip.

I lean my head back and close my eyes. It's getting darker out, and
I'm tired but too keyed up to sleep. I offered to drive but Mulder
just shook his head, claiming he was too wide awake and would fidget
like mad if he didn't have something to occupy his hands.

Well, Partner... I could give you something to occupy those luscious
hands of yours...

As soon as the thought leaves that secret spot in my brain, I almost
gasp aloud. Jesus, what is WRONG with me? Just because some nut-case
in a carnival brings to my attention the utter perfection of one Fox
Mulder...

And yet, I can't blame Blockhead. I've probably been subconsciously
sexually aware of Mulder right from the get-go. I'm a normal, warm-
blooded woman, after all. I'm not blind and I'm certainly not stupid.
I see the way women stare at him, look him up and down. I see the
blush on their cheeks when he smiles at them, speaks to them.

And I know my own face has registered those same reactions. I've had
to force my gaze from his lips, refusing to further contemplate the
way they'd feel, anywhere on my skin. The wet heat of his tongue, the
full bottom lip brushing against my very sensitive nipple -

Oh, hell. I have GOT to stop doing this. Not only am I in immediate
danger of soaking my panties, I am also acting like the most
superficial twit in the world, little better than some airheaded
teenager. There's so much more to Mulder than a handsome face and a
sexy body. He's brilliant, driven, loyal and trustworthy. He's witty,
charming, hard-working and dedicated.

He's smooth-skinned, tanned, tightly muscled, long-legged, broad-
shouldered, thick-haired, hazel-eyed...

Shit.

I can feel myself flushing all over, unable to control the thoughts
that have now gone so far beyond proper professional conduct between
two co-workers. Not to mention the damage I could do to our
friendship, of thinking this way about my partner. My friend. The man
I could so easily lo...

Fuck! Don't even think it, Dana. Don't let it touch your mind, not
even a minuscule portion of your brain matter. If you do, it'll never
dislodge itself, and you'll burn up with curiosity. You won't be able
to stand it until you know for sure. You know yourself, Dana the
Cat... and your curiosity will be the death of you, just like all
cats...

Don't.

I steal a glance at Mulder under half-closed eyes. And as if on cue,
he turns to me and smiles gently, the utter dazzle of white teeth and
full lips, river-clear hazel eyes and strong jaw irresistible to me. I
manage to smile back without drooling all over my chest.

And I accept this one truth: it's too late to act cool, too late to
pretend it's nothing more than the warm fuzzy I feel from being around
my friend. Too late for all of that. Dana Scully just went down for
the count, and The Cat's out of the bag, looking for catnip. Reaching
out one small paw, toward the temptation sitting far too close in the
confines of the compact rental car. Too close, too warm, too much...

When my hand flutters between us, halfway to his knee, Mulder lifts
his fingers from their grip on the wheel and catches hold of mine,
clasping generously, squeezing my hand a little. His voice is a
honeyed rasp in the darkened car. "You okay, Scully? Tired? It's been
a long drive. Why don't you lean your seat back, and get some sleep?
I'm okay to drive the rest of the way."

God, no. Bad idea, sleeping at a time like this, when awareness of
Mulder is flooding me. I talk in my sleep. Missy used to get a real
kick out of listening to my rambles and writing them down, then
reading them at the breakfast table the next morning. She'd embarrass
the shit out of me and usually shock my poor mother.

I just know I'd fall asleep and talk about my feelings for Mulder. I
can't risk it. I shake my head and murmur, "I'm okay, Mulder. I really
don't want to sleep."

Mulder shrugs and returns his attention to the road ahead - but he
doesn't let go of my hand; our linked fingers rest mid-thigh, the back
of my hand against the denim covering his leg. I can feel the way his
muscles bunch, can feel the heat of his skin underneath the faded
material. I manage to keep my eyes front and center, appearing to be
fascinated by the double yellow line that stretches for miles beyond
us. But my thoughts are a long way from here; I give into the urge to
allow my brain to take over in the most un-professional manner...

And, God help me, I fantasize.

Behind my unfocused eyes I let it all play out the way I know it could
play, if only our situation were different, if Mulder and I had met
under normal circumstances. I'd accept his flirty smile, respond in
kind to the outrageous things I know he'd say to me. I'd dress up for
dinner and I'd wear that expensive perfume that currently has no place
in our basement office. I'd put my hair up and gloss my lips with
brighter color; I'd wear stockings instead of panty hose.

I'd sit on the same side of the booth, right up next to the sexy man
in the perfectly-tailored suit, the one who has his hand on my knee
and trails his fingers up and down my inner thigh.

Dana the Cat loves to be stroked on her legs...

We wouldn't have much of an appetite, only nibbling on the dinner in
front of us. We'd drain the wine bottle but most of our meal would go
untouched. And we'd be in agreement, that sitting side by side in a
tastefully-appointed restaurant is nice but lying face to face on a
wide, comfy sofa has more possibilities...

Mulder would break a few speed limits, all the way back to his place.

The apartment would be quiet and dim; we'd only turn on a few lights.
There'd be no need to play any games, tease any longer, put off the
reality of what's shared in our hearts. We'd sink down on the sofa,
remove each other's clothes quickly, with a single-minded goal of
getting ourselves naked in record time. At last I'd see Mulder, all of
Mulder. The skin covering those long, sleek muscles, tanned and
smooth. The true width of his shoulders, the real narrow of his hips.
The fullness of his penis, an appendage whose length and breadth I've
only guessed at. All of him, strong, overwhelming; a jungle cat
preparing to mate with its smaller, more domestic feline.

All of him, mine.

Mine. I'd moan it in the air between us as his mouth buries itself
against my breast and my hands fist in his hair. Mine, as his arms
press me close, as his kisses steal my breath and his tongue licks at
my teeth. I'd scream it out loud if I could free up my mouth. If I
wanted to free it up... which I would never want to do. Never. Kisses
that go on forever, that's what I'd love to feel. Mulder's lips,
everywhere on my body, deep and tender and hot and wet and so very
delicious.

I'd roll in him, breathe him in, lick him off my paws - purr louder
and louder as the tempting and addictive qualities of Mulder render me
higher than a kite. My catnip... and my need would know no boundaries.
My desire would be dictated by not only the outer wonder of him, but
his inner perfection as well. That dedication and loyalty, the drive
of him, the honor and the truth of him. All of Mulder - beautiful,
flawed, and sexy as hell...

I bring my wildly wandering thoughts up short, when I hear a tiny gasp
work its way out of my throat. Sometimes the images behind the eyes
are more than discretion can handle. Luckily, I don't think Mulder
hears the small sound I make, and hopefully he doesn't notice now
flushed I am, perspiring and a little shaky.

As much as I'd like to dream on, to picture the two of us in much more
sensual and blatant positions... I have to get a grip on myself, at
least until I know for certain how I want to proceed. Admitting the
addiction is the first step, isn't that right? Well, I admit it. If
Mulder is my catnip then I confess I'm well and truly caught up in his
power. I find myself comprehending more fully why this man makes me
react the way I do; it's more than the physical, this I know. And
someday, I might do something about it, something more than just a
fantasy in my head as we speed north to DC.

But for now... I think I'm okay where we are. Good friends and great
partners. Caring or each other, watching each other's backs, finding
our way as we work together toward our mutual goals. We're all right,
for now.

I lean my head against the seat, one hand still curled loosely on
Mulder's thigh. He murmurs a soft, "Night, Scully," and I answer him
just as softly. And before I drift off to sleep I feel his warm hand,
stroking over my hair.

I think I purr.

End