From: pdeniability@my-dejanews.com
Date: Fri, 25 Sep 1998 14:06:00 GMT
Subject: NEW Momentary Lapses II: Delirium

MOMENTARY LAPSES II:  DELIRIUM

Title: "Momentary Lapses II:  Delirium" (1/1)

Author:  Plausible Deniability

Address:  pdeniability@hotmail.com

Category:  VR, MSR

Rating:  R (sexual situations)

Spoilers:  None

Keywords: Mulder/Scully

Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the television program "The X
Files" are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox Broadcasting, and
Ten-Thirteen Productions, and have been used without permission.  No copyright
infringement is intended.

Summary:  Mulder's perspective on the events in "Momentary Lapses" by Dasha K.

THANKS to Dasha, the genius behind this story, who asked me to post it against
my better judgment.  She deserves all of the credit and none of the blame for
what I've written.  And thanks also to Becky and Hindy, whose comments were
invaluable, as always.

----


You know, doctor, I used to consider myself a civilized man.

Then again, that was before the fever hit me -- before I touched my partner
in a very unpartnerly way, and the red haze of lust drove me to her bed not
once, not twice, but three separate times.

Sure, I've had a few bizarre theories in my life, and some oddball interests.
Essentially, though, I always considered myself a buttoned-down, suit-and-tie
sort of person, the product of good neighborhoods and the best schools and
generation upon generation of hardheaded Yankee practicality.  I had urges
like the next man, but I never worried for a second that they were going to
get the better of my rational side.  After all, that's what separates us from
the animals.

Or so I always thought.  But where Scully is concerned, I suppose, I made the
mistake of relying on her to be the rational one.  She's the woman, after all,
and what match is a man's rationality for a woman's, when it comes to sex?
Especially when the man has the woman on the brain, in his blood, under his
skin, and his fever just keeps climbing...

It's not like I could really have seen it coming, that first time.  After a
raw February in DC, a month of shabby President's Day sales and leaden skies
and slush melting against the curbs, we were just relieved to find ourselves
in Miami.  The case wasn't much -- not very important, not very challenging. 
We were only there a day and a half before we'd wrapped it up and were ready
to head home again.  But we couldn't get a decent flight out until the next
morning, and it was warm and sultry, and the night was young.

So we found ourselves on South Beach -- where Art Deco meets white sand,
bohemian and funky and chic, a mythical sort of place peopled by
barely-dressed women and hardbodied men with dark tans and white teeth.  The
whole strip throbbed to a conga beat, hot and crowded and electric.  We found
a Cuban restaurant that overlooked the beachfront and got the last available
table outdoors.

Scully flirted like crazy with the waiter.  It took me by surprise, the way
she was so ready to smile at him.  He was swarthy and charming and he rolled
his Rs, and I would have felt decidedly threatened if I hadn't had the strong
conviction that there was never going to be a Mrs. Alejandro.  Scully let him
talk us into ordering mojitos, and that was the beginning of the end.  You
see, what sounded like it was going to be a girlie drink actually wasn't, and
the rum that laced my sugar-water burned its way hotly down my throat.

So we were sitting there drinking and waiting for our puerco asado.  The
sinking sun was glowing on the surf, and the girls on inline skates were
swinging past in their string bikinis, and Scully's hair was blowing in the
faint breeze.  And as much as I was enjoying the view, the dark eyes and the
long legs on the sweet young things, I also noticed just how many of the men
around me kept turning to look at my pretty partner.

Or at least, the straight ones did:  the young guys and the married men and
the old Cuban gents in their guayabera shirts.	Who could blame them?  She
had her chin cupped in her hand, and her eyes were shining, and the salt air
had whipped her hair into a glorious mane that robbed her of any hint of
offices and timecards and ordinary workday life.

She didn't look like my partner.  She looked like a woman -- like a woman
with sun-kissed cheeks and slightly swollen lips and maybe, just maybe,
bedroom eyes.

But I was still being good.  *Civilized*.  My smile was abstract, and I was
careful as we walked back to the hotel not to let my hand brush hers.

So could I help it if I needed my laptop?  Could I help it if I had left it in
her room?  I picked it up and was even turning toward the door.  In fact I
really think I would have made it out, mojitos notwithstanding, if she hadn't
been poised there at the window.

A storm was moving in.	You could hear the thunder far off in the distance. 
The breeze was picking up, that thrilling tropic breeze that smells of palms
and the Caribbean and sets the human heart to racing.  As she stood there
looking out, the sheer white window curtains lifted and billowed around her.

I just stopped and stared, struck to the bone.	The *want* hit me so hard and
so suddenly that it literally knocked the breath right out of me.  I fought
it for a second, gulping air, and then some primitive galvanic response
shoved me powerfully in her direction.

I grabbed her arms and twisted her toward me, forcing her up against the wall.
"Mul -- " she started to say, eyes wide, but I stopped her protest with my
mouth.

I still don't understand what came over me.  I only know there was a roaring
in my ears, and heat licking at my veins, and I wanted my hands to be
everywhere at once.  I kissed her so hard I'm sure I bruised her lips.	And
then kissing wasn't enough, and hands weren't enough, and the bed was the
only answer. Frenzied -- that's how it was.  All night went like that, until
by the time morning came, we were both battered and drained and I actually
staggered when I tried to get up and walk.

But I did get up, and I did walk.  And, lo and behold, civilization
reasserted itself.  A shower, a shave, a tie; soon I was sitting on the plane
with Scully, talking business, and it was like the night had never happened.

Like it really never happened.

I never dared to bring it up.  I was too ashamed.  What do you say to your
partner when rum and lust have gotten the better of you, and you've become a
caveman?  It wasn't rape, I knew; but it wasn't civilized either.

I was never going to do that again, I promised myself.	I'd had a bad case of
what Shakespeare called the fire in the blood, but that was past.  I'd gotten
it out of my system.  I was a rational man, a Twentieth Century man, and I
respected Scully too much not to keep those feelings under control.

Months passed.	Cases came and went.  Eventually serial murders took us to
some godforsaken corner of Wisconsin, where we wound up in a foot chase on a
dairy farm, trying to bring down a big, bloated con man who had lured five
people to their deaths.

You have to admire the pluck of a woman who charges so fearlessly after a
goon three times her size.  I was running at a pretty good clip, but Scully
was only a few feet behind me.	It wasn't long before I caught the guy.  He
doubled over, wheezing, and I snapped the cuffs on his thick wrists.  Then I
turned back to check on Scully.

My heart stopped.  She was standing several yards back, and blood was
streaming from her nose.  It ran over her lips and covered her chin.  She was
holding a tissue to her face, but it was red and her fingers were red and
there was red dripping on her jacket.

I grabbed our suspect and yanked him almost off his feet, hauling his fat ass
with me in a half-run to where she was standing.  "Are you all right?" I
demanded, fear lending my voice a breathless quality.

She didn't answer, just bobbed her head up and down a couple of times weakly.
 I stood and stared, my heart lodged in my throat.  Oh God no, not that, not
now...

She wiped ineffectually at the blood with her sodden tissue.  "I fell," she
mumbled.  "I think I broke my nose."

I sagged with such intense relief that I had to brace myself with a hand on
the suspect's shoulder to keep from losing my balance.	It wasn't cancer. 
She'd just had an accident. She wasn't going to die on me just yet.

I'm sure it hurt, of course.  I gave her my handkerchief, and she held it to
her nose on the drive from the farm to the police station, wincing with every
bump in the country roads.  But she got it checked out at the hospital, and
it wasn't broken.  They just gave her a handful of acetaminophen samples and
told her to keep it iced.  I drove her back to our motel to get some rest.

I tried to lie down for a while myself, on the bed in my room, but I couldn't
seem to relax.	I still had the jitters from that field, remembering what it
had felt like when I'd turned around and seen the blood flowing from Scully's
nose. I got up and paced a little, trying to walk the feeling off.  It didn't
work. Finally I hunted through my pockets for change and took a stroll to the
motel's vending machines.

I let myself in Scully's room as quietly as possible, in case she was
sleeping, but she raised her head from the pillow as soon as I slipped in. 
"I just came to see how the patient is doing," I said, setting the Cokes and
the ice bucket I'd brought on her night table.

She watched me from over the cold pack she was clutching to her swollen nose.
"Very funny."

I sat down on the edge of her bed, feeling it dip under my weight.  "You know,
that scared the shit out of me," I said, trying to make it sound casual.
Trying; but failing miserably.

She set her ice pack aside, and wiggled into a sitting position.  "I'm fine."

It was what she always said, no matter how false it was, so it didn't comfort
me at all.  I hung my head and struggled for words to express the worry
gnawing at me.	Finally I managed, "For how long?"

She moved down the bed, and set her small hand on my shoulder.  "No one knows
how long they have."

I gave a hollow little laugh, more melancholy than accepting.

"Mulder," she chided, and put her arm around my shoulders.

It was a simple hug, nothing more.  I smiled wanly, and turned to hug her
back. It felt good, holding her in my arms.  She felt warm and soft and
reassuringly alive.

"Oh, Scully," I sighed.  "It's so hard, sometimes."

She reached up to stroke my hair.  "I know, Mulder."

I gently kissed her forehead.  She looked up into my eyes and smiled.  I
smiled back.  Slowly, I leaned in for a second kiss.

That's how the fever got the jump on me.

The next thing I knew we were lying on her bed, and I was tearing her clothes
off her, and her willing hands were working at my buttons.  I was breathing in
harsh pants, kissing her, touching her, crushing her under me, frantic, wild-
eyed, starving.  The feeling built and built, until I was completely out of
control; but even the furious culmination that followed just seemed to whet my
appetite for more.

So much for my promises to myself.

Poor Scully never knew what hit her.  I kept her up all night and into the
morning like that, until the sun was high in the sky and I made myself get up
and go back to my room.  She fell into a deep sleep.  In fact, it's probably a
good measure of the abuse I'd put her through that at a quarter to three I had
to use the fireman's carry to get her into the shower so we wouldn't miss our
flight.

But I still couldn't talk with her about it.  What apology is adequate to
that sort of behavior?	What excuse can a supposedly civilized man make for
that kind of savage possessiveness?

And Boston...well, Boston was the worst bout yet.

We'd been in the city for four days, puzzling over the murders of six
900-number customers.  All of them had been having extramarital affairs, all
had sought help from psychic hotlines, and all had been found headless. 
Somerville and Cambridge, Brookline and Newton; we'd trekked all over the
greater Boston area asking questions.  Finally, we'd both agreed to call it a
day.

At least in Miami I'd been drinking, and in Wisconsin I was still reeling from
the grip of fear.  Alcohol.  Fear.  Both operate powerfully on the limbic
system, the primitive center of the human brain.  But this had been a typical
case, an ordinary day.  I didn't even have an excuse.

Except maybe...well, it isn't an excuse, exactly, but Scully certainly looked
lovely that day.  And Boston reminded me of my adolescence, of hopping the
ferry off the Vineyard and escaping for a while, of sunning in the grass by
the Charles and flirting with the college girls, of lunch at the No-Name and
baseball at Fenway -- in short, of everything that had then been good in my
world.

Scully and I had dinner in the North End, in an Italian place which probably
made no impression on her at all, but which rang with happy associations for
me. I was all set to spend the evening showing her the town -- walking along
the cobbled road past the Old North Church, maybe, and gazing out across the
water toward Old Ironsides, or taking the T to the Common and strolling
through the Public Gardens.  But she pulled the rug out from under me.	"I'm
tired, Mulder," she said with a barely-concealed yawn.	"I just want to go to
bed."

So I sat alone in my hotel room, all keyed up with no place to go.  I listened
to the sounds through the connecting door, and pictured her undressing.  I put
the TV on and tried to get interested in a mafia movie.  I thought about going
out by myself, and decided it would just be too pathetic, a thirty-seven year
old man out mingling with all the college kids.  I did sit-ups until my abs
burned.

And then I thought some more about Scully...

The next thing I knew I was opening the door into her room.  It was like an
out of body experience:  I could see myself walking to the bed and lifting
the sheet, and yet I seemed to have no power to stop myself from doing it. 
She was lying on her side, turned away from me.  She wasn't wearing a thing. 
As I slipped into bed beside her, I could make out the dim outline of her
tattoo in the darkness.  I had to know how it tasted --

Do you see what I mean?  These are not the actions of a rational man.

Why she didn't throw me out I'll never know.  But that's something I've come
to realize about Scully:  she looks all proper and contained on the outside,
but on the inside she's like a banked fire waiting to blaze up.  And I am
acquainted with the inside of Scully, intimately acquainted...

She lets me lose myself, if that makes any sense.  When I'm making love to
her, I can forget the real world and my real worries.  Not that she makes me
do all the work; not by a long shot.  She doesn't mind it when I just lie on
my back and stare up at her while she's on top.  She doesn't seem to mind
anything I do. Do you know what it's like to be with a woman in bed, and have
her so turned on, she's purring under you?  God, if they could bottle that
feeling, it would make oxygen obsolete.

Which is why I think I could spend my whole life with my head between her
thighs.  Yes, I would happily live that way, letting the room service trays
stack up in the hotel hallway, if only Scully would let me.  Who needs food
and a paycheck and the light of day, when the alternative is making Scully
moan? Not me.

What a dangerous notion...

This kind of thinking could bring civilization to its knees.

Damn it, what's wrong with me?	I'm supposed to be a sensible man.  I have an
Oxford degree and a good job and commendations out the yin-yang.  How did I
get this caught up in her?

It's a fever, I'm telling you.	A disease.  There has to be some kind of
medical term for this condition.  It deserves a label, this power she has to
make me hard even when I'm trying my best not to think of her that way.  A
Latin label, I mean.  I already know I love her.

Yeah, I love her.  I figured that part out all by myself.

Which is stupid, isn't it?  Stupid because it's so one-sided.  I mean, every
single time it's been me forcing myself on her:  me taking advantage of the
mojitos in Miami, me twisting her sympathy into something it wasn't in
Wisconsin, me stealing into her room like a common thief last night. 
Scully's never once made a move in my direction.  Love?  I'm just deluding
myself.  This one-sided thing is properly called stalking.

But I can't help it, when I keep learning so many spellbinding Scully
secrets. Her tattoo tastes like the salt on a margarita glass, like pure
serendipity, like finding a lottery ticket and hitting the jackpot.  She's
shy about making noise, but she loves it when I kiss her neck.	And do you
know what?  I just found out last night that Scully will laugh if I crack a
joke in bed.  Not just smile tightly in that
haha-very-funny-you-poor-immature-loser kind of way, but really laugh, a
wonderful sexy throaty laugh.  Especially if she's just come. Who knew nice
Catholic girls could be so deliciously abandoned?

One thing they say about Catholic girls is certainly true:  they do give the
best head.  I know, I probably shouldn't have let that particular personal
detail slip, but I just couldn't help it.  You'd talk too much, too, if you
were this ridiculously grateful.

What a curse, what an unfunny cosmic joke it's so damn one-sided.  One-sided
gratitude.  One-sided delirium.  What I wouldn't give if, just once, Scully
were to make the first move.  Then I could tell myself it wasn't entirely my
problem. Then I could dream that I wasn't the only one in the grip of this
disease.

Maybe I should just stop beating myself up about it.  Sure I'm out of
control, but she's sapped my resolve.  How can I possibly keep my hands off
her in this weakened state?  How can I possibly think clearly when I'm on
fire for her?  I'm not responsible.  Besides, you know what they always say
-- starve a cold, feed a fever.

Anyway, is it really so wrong when I love her?

Jeez, I'm a sick man.  A sick, sick man.  I have no sense any more of what's
reality and what's just self-justification.  I'm lying here trying to make
sense of something that has no rhyme or reason.

Lying here, not the least little bit able to sleep...

I hear soft footfalls.	The connecting door swings slowly open.  I look over
in surprise.

Scully comes through the doorway into my room.  Her faint smile simultaneously
questions my absence from her bed and dares me to remedy the oversight.

Huh?

Well, what do you know.

I hide my amazement behind a teasing comment.  "I knew you'd come tonight,
Scully."

Her smile widens, and she moves slowly towards me, hips swaying.  I watch her
with a galloping heart.

Okay, maybe I'll make just one more promise to myself:	This time, I'm not
going to lose my cool.

Well, not much, anyway.

****

END