SUMMARY: On the hottest night of the summer, Mulder stops by with a bottle of tequila and some limes.
DISCLAIMER: Blah, blah, blah, Mulder and Scully don't belong to me.
WORD COUNT: 2356
DATE POSTED: April 1998
God, it is too hot for humans to survive, I think, sitting on my mother's porch, hoping for a breeze to come in. For the fourth day in a row the high has been in the upper 90s and let's not even discuss the humidity. It's disgusting, despite having taken two showers today, my body feels coated in a layer of silty grime. The sun is setting, which is a blessing, but I know the temperature will hardly drop during the night.
I have taken a long-awaited week of vacation time, and I'm housesitting for my mother, while she is in San Francisco, visiting Ginny, her old college roommate. The first few days were bearable. The air conditioner blasted cool air into the house and I played a little piano, read, caught up on email to old friends, puttered around the garden a bit. Then, this afternoon, as the heat grew more suffocating outside, the central air made a horrible screeching noise and then no sound at all. When I called the repair technician, he had the nerve to laugh. "Little lady, this is the worst heat wave D.C. has had in years. I won't be able to get out there for, oh, maybe a week." I slammed the phone down and let loose a string of swear words that I am sure sent various relatives of mine spinning in their graves.
So here I am on the porch wondering what to do. I could go back to my own apartment in the city, but truthfully, the air conditioner there barely works. I keep meaning to replace it, but it always seems like I'm off in some crazy rural village on Bureau business, no time to appliance shop. There is Mulder's place, he has a fairly decent air conditioner, but we decided (okay, I decided) that we needed a week away from each other. In fairy tales, it never says what the Prince and Princess do when they live happily ever after. Well, sometimes they get annoyed with each other's company and need a break.
Visions of chilly hotel rooms dance in my head, but there is some March on Washington this weekend, and I know that all the hotel rooms for hundreds of miles are booked. I am stuck, dammit, stuck in this never-ending heat wave. I pout on the front porch, wearing only a pair of cut-offs from high school I found up in my old room and a navy tank top. I am about as far from calm, cool, collected Special Agent Dana Scully, dressed in her immaculate Ann Taylor pantsuits, as you can get. I am sure I look like a madwoman, perched on the front steps like this.
A familiar car swings around the corner and pulls up to the curb right in front of the house. Shit shit shit, it's Mulder. How dare he interrupt my vacation time like this? If it's for a case, it had better be something good. He had better have Cancer Man personally stowed away in his trunk. I specifically told Mulder to interrupt my "personal time" only if it was of the direst importance. He whined a bit, but I pointed him in the direction of his "personal video library" and he seemed to calm down a bit.
Mulder jumps out of the car, looking strangely jaunty for someone in 90 degree heat. It's strange to see him dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. And, oh my god is he really wearing a pair of Birkenstocks? I really don't know this man at all. He waves and walks up to the porch, carrying a brown grocery bag.
I sigh. "Mulder, I'm on vacation, and didn't we have a conversation about you not coming out here? I seem to remember it rather vividly."
He grins, damn him. "I know, Scully, but I got this sudden psychic vision that you were in dire need of help."
I roll my eyes. "I am, the air conditioner died here and I'm sweltering."
Mulder sits down beside me and pecks me on my sweaty cheek. "I have just the thing, burritos from Carmencita's and get this-" He reaches in the bag and pulls out a large bottle. "A nice bottle of Cuervo Gold. Just the thing to wash down the food. I promise, we'll eat and then I'll take off."
"Tequila, Mulder?" I say, making a face. "I have some-umm-bad tequila memories from college."
"Awww, Scully, you just don't know how to drink tequila right."
"You know I really don't like to drink-" I say. God, I can already taste the hangover in my mouth.
"Listen, I once spent two months in Mexico, in San Miguel de Allende, and I learned the proper way to drink tequila. Trust me."
I always thought it was trust no one. Hmmm.
We make a makeshift picnic on the living room floor, after setting up several strategically placed fans around the room. Actually, we argue quite a bit about where to put the fans, but I win since I was the physics major. And I have to admit, the food is dynamite.Carmencita's makes tortillas that taste like heaven in the mouth and if I had to choose between eating their flour or their corn tortillas for the rest of my life, I would probably go mad with the decision. Let's not even get into the tomatillo salsa--
Mulder returns from the kitchen with a bowl of lime wedges and two shot glasses. "We're doing shots?" I say. "Can't we at least have tequila sunrises or something?"
He looks at me as if I'm an idiot. "Scully, you don't waste a nice tequila by mixing it with orange juice, so quit your whining."
He's right, I was whining. I go back to smearing guacamole on my burrito. He pours two shots of the amber colored liquid and hands one to me. Mulder raises his glass and says, "L'chaim, Scully."
"To life," I echo. After what we've been through together, those words now have real resonance. I knock back the tequila and come back up sputtering. Whoa, that stuff is strong and nasty! Mulder passes me a lime wedge and I gratefully suck on it.
"Did you like it?" He asks. I make a face at him in response.
"Aww--such a cute face!" He knows I hate it when he gets mushy. This is usually when I throw something at him, but there is nothing handy but Mexican food, and I'm not wasting a bit of such fabulous burritos.
The warmth of the tequila spreads in my belly and slowly moves into my limbs, which immediately feel heavier. Shit, I am such a lightweight! One shot of tequila and I'm feeling funky. Two shots and I'll probably be crawling around in a puddle of my own vomit.
Mulder passes me another shot and I refuse it. "You just didn't drink it right, Scully." He says with that devilish smile that makes me either want to throw him on the floor and go rummaging for his zipper or smack the grin off his face. Depends on my mood. "This is what you do," he continues, "Breathe out through your nose and then do the shot really fast. It'll actually taste nice if you do it that way."
I scrunch up my nose. "I can't imagine it ever tasting nice." But I exhale quickly through my nose and then down the tequila. Aaaaah, still burns, but it's a lot better. Quickly, I grab a wedge of lime and suck on the sour-sweet juice. Now my arms and legs feel like they weigh about 100 pounds each, but he's right, I do feel a bit cooler now.
Inching closer to me, Mulder says, "It's kind of nice to see you like this, Scully--"
He shrugs. "I don't know, hair all messy, no makeup, wearing those tiny little cutoffs. Most of the time you are so perfect looking, not a hair out of place, running around in your little suits."
"Mulder, I'm an FBI agent, I don't think our superiors would be too pleased if I showed up for work in a pair of cutoffs and a tank top."
Again, the devilish smile. "They don't know what they're missing." He drinks another shot of Cuervo.
Suddenly, a memory of my senior year spring break in Ixtapa springs to my mind. "Hey Mulder," I say, "When you were in college, did you ever do body shots?"
His forehead crinkles. "Body shots? Sound interesting, but not the kind of thing we did a lot at Oxford."
"Sometimes I think you really missed out by going to college in England." I say, pouring two more shots, "You missed keg parties, Spring Break on the beach and body shots."
"Yeah, I really regret going to Oxford and missing all the games of Quarters back in the dorm, Scully."
I laugh. "Actually, I hated most of that crap myself, but I did have fun once doing body shots. Let me show you how it's done." I hand Mulder his shot glass and a wedge of lime. "Now I want you to hold this piece of lime between your teeth," I tell him.
Quickly, I breathe out and down the shot. It's getting easier and easier every time, I notice. I lean over to Mulder and lick his neck, from where it meets his shoulder to just behind his ear, where he is nice and salty from sweat. Then I press my lips against Mulder's, as if we are going to kiss, but instead I remove the wedge of lime from between his teeth with my tongue and triumphantly suck on the wedge. Much better than any margarita. I smile triumphantly.
Mulder looks slightly stunned. "Wow," he gasps, "That is definitely not something I would have imagined was in your repertoire, Scully."
"Well, you should have known me as an undergrad, Mulder. I wasn't always the serious forensic pathologist you see before you. I had a bit of a wild streak for a while in college. I guess it was just a relief to not have to be the perfect daughter all the time."
"My turn." Mulder says. He knocks back his tequila and brushes his tongue from the base of my chin all the way down my neck and chest to
where my cleavage begins. I can feel the goosebumps form on my chest already. He may annoy the ever-living daylights out of me, but the one thing this man will never, ever fail to do is turn me on. Our lips meet and it is quite a while before he manages to wrest the wedge of lime away from me. His mouth tastes so good; the slightly smoky taste of tequila mixed with the fruity tang of the lime.
We both start laughing, for no get reason at all, except that it is so silly, two dedicated and professional federal agents, doing body shots of tequila. Mulder collapses on the floor, lying on his back. I swallow another shot of Cuervo, this time only a half one, and trace my tongue on a lazy path down his chest and stomach, stopping only where his shorts begin. He has forgotten my wedge of lime, but I don't care, I straddle him and we kiss for long minutes. I can feel his hardness, straining through his shorts, pressing against my leg and it pleases me to know that I can get him so excited.
The next thing I know, Mulder and I are in my mother's living room, wearing only the rather loopy smiles on our faces. Mulder drinks a shot of tequila and his tongue slowly runs from my ankle, past my knee, on into the inside of my thigh and then--oh Lord. My eyeballs have rolled back into my head. I can't help growling as he leisurely licks me down there, as if he could spend all day. Knowing Mulder, bless him, he probably could. Then, conscious thought dissolves for a moment and I am surrounded only by my own pleasure. When I come back to the world of reality all I can do is groan, "Please Mulder, please, I want you in me."
He is only too happy to oblige. He enters me so slowly I feel like I may scream. At the very instant he is fully in me, our eyes lock, my blue into his hazel. God, I adore this man, I think, he may drive me crazy with his bad habits and annoying little tendencies, but I truly love this man. And I truly love the way he makes love to me, to my whole body, the way my pleasure becomes his pleasure until the boundaries are blurry and it is difficult to tell where I stop and he begins.
When it is over and we are as sated as two humans can possibly be, we both crack up at the mess we have made in my poor mother's living room. There are wrappers and the remains of Carmencita's burritos all over the floor. One of the shot glasses was knocked over in the act of tequila-fired sex and has dribbled Cuervo on the coffee table.Half-eaten lime wedges are jauntily scattered around the room, including the one I tossed after Mulder got near my inner thigh area. And I, Dana Scully, my mother's pride and joy am flushed and sweaty after screwing my FBI partner under the watchful eye of the family portraits framed in silver on the coffee table. I feel like a teenager again, sneaking around in my mother's house. The best part is that I love it.
Mulder and I head off for a cool shower and then to the Dairy Queen for some extra large Butterfinger Blizzards. On our way back a thunderstorm moves in and catches us in the downpour, soaking us to the skin. We run the remaining two blocks screaming at the top of our lungs, arriving back at the house laughing our brains out. And that, to me, is true romance.