AUTHOR: Marasmus
CLASSIFICATION: V, MSR, A
RATING: NC-17
DISTRIBUTION: Help yourself
SPOILERS: None
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, never will be, property of 1013,
endless gratitude to CC; DD and GA, and Vince, Darin
and other writers for creating and breathing life into
them. I am not worthy to drink your bathwater ;)

SUMMARY: A conversation. A game.
All is not what it seems.
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CELLPHONE
-----------------------------------------------------

"Hey, Mulder," she says, her voice rusty from
underuse.

Listening to her again is like breaking the surface of
the water after a long dive, but he keeps his tone
light. "Scully, long time, no hear."

"I'm sorry. It was late when I got back and I was so
damned tired."

"S'okay, doesn't matter," he tells her. What time is
it anyhow? Mid-morning judging by the angle of the
light pouring in through the window. She coughs and it
churns his stomach.

It is quiet for an uncomfortably long time. He
fidgets, wishing she would speak, fearing she won't.
As ever, he is the first to crack. "Are you okay? Did
anything happen? Do you want to tell..."

"No," she interrupts croakily. "No, I'm... I'd prefer
not to." There is another silence and he has to tamp
down the anger. "Maybe we could talk about it later,"
she says finally.

It's a small victory, petty really, but last week's
argument about her continual use of the words "fine"
and "okay" to mean "fuck you very much for asking"
seems to have had some kind of effect. He wants the
truth, not protection. He waves his hand to gesture
that it is all right, forgetting that she can't see
him. "Sure. Whenever you want."

This time the pause isn't at all awkward. Her voice,
still rough, sounds stronger. "So. Where are you,
Mulder?"

Ah. Back to business as usual.

He slides one arm behind his head, lies back,
stretching like a cat in the syrupy sunshine, and
closes his eyes. "I am in heaven, Scully," he purrs.
"Or a close approximation of it, anyway."

"Which is where *exactly*" she asks dryly.

"Let me describe it to you. It's a hotel room, but
it's not like any room we're used to..."

"Why? Is it clean?"

He grins. "Yes, it's clean. No TV either. Dark oak
beams in the ceiling. It's in the eaves of a big
house, so one wall slants steeply. There are three
small roof lights set high up and they flood the room
with sunshine. Soft royal blue thick-pile carpet under
my bare feet.

"Grandfather clock against the gable end of the room
-- listen, Scully.... can you hear it? Louder than a
timebomb on the old Roadrunner cartoons.

"The walls are rough-finished, old horsehair plaster;
they've been whitewashed. It's hung with pictures of
countryside scenes; real paintings by local artists;
not perfect but that's good, at least they're not
tacky mass-produced prints. No velvet Elvises." There
is a muffled laugh.  "A big room. Old... And do you
know what is in the middle of this room, Scully?"

He can picture her smile. "I think I can make a
reasonable deduction."

"A big, old bed. Headboard's oak, I think, with vine
leaves carved across the top. Clean white sheets;
inches of soft pillows; hard, wide, springy mattress.
Actually I'm lying on it now. It's *very* large,
Scully. Very pneumatic. You might even say... bouncy."

"Mulder..." He could swear he hears her snicker
softly. "I see there's nothing wrong with your powers
of observation. So come on, where are you?"

"The George Hotel." =Remember, Scully?=

"The hills are rising behind me, black hills melting
into steep green fields. It's summer and everything is
so alive.. If I look out of the window I can see right
across the valley or down into the narrow streets. I
can see the river rippling between the trees; it
catches the sun..." his voice trails off. "I've been
waiting for you."

Her breath catches slightly in her throat. She's
recalling it in the same intense detail as he is. "I
wondered when we'd end up back there again," she says,
then her tone shifts to teasing: "You might have to
wait a bit longer for me to get there though, it's a
long way for me to travel."

"Doesn't matter," he says nonchalantly. "I can go
downstairs, get a drink and sit outside. People are
all around, it's a good atmosphere. There's even a
scratch soccer game going on in the field next door --
you can probably hear the shouting. But I think it's a
bit hot for running around, so maybe I'm just gonna
sit in the shade, watch the ducks on the river and sip
my beer and wait."

"In that case, I'll be right there," she says
affectionately. "You're hopeless when you drink."

"Agent Scully, that is an outrageous lie." Then he
deliberately lowers his voice by an octave and smiles
slyly. "So tell me, what are you wearing?"

"And what does that have to do with anything, Mulder?"

=That's it, play along.=  "I might not see you easily
if it's crowded out here. It's purely a means of
identification."

She sighs like a teacher whose favorite pupil has just
been a little too cheeky. "You don't think you might
spot my hair first?"

"Not if you had it pinned up, you know in one of
those... things at the back of your head."

"A chignon?"

"Yeah, one of those. I like it like that."

"You'd still see me. My hair'd still be bright red,
Mulder."

He sits up and thumps the bed in exasperation. A plume
of dust rises like a mushroom cloud and whirls in the
sunlight, making him sneeze.  "Jesus, Scully, would
you just indulge me for a *second*?"

There's a sound, like an audible smirk. A soft
"gotcha" laugh. He wishes he could see her face.
"Okay, okay," she says. "It's a hot day, right?"

"Very. Gonna be one of the hottest of the year, they
say."

"Just as well I put on the green satin dress, then,"
she states with emphasis.

He lies down again and and clicks through his library
of images of her...

'Green satin dress'.  She said it like it was supposed
to mean something...

Then he has it. A year ago, a sultry July Saturday in
Washington, the mercury near exploding out of the
thermometer. He had called her with a sudden brainwave
about some case or other. She had complained it was
her day off and there was no way in hell she was going
in to the office. He jokingly said they should meet at
the Brickskeller because it had the world's largest
selection of beer. She suggested some ridiculously
pricy restaurant to piss him off. They compromised on
a meal at a cafe-bar -- his treat.

His heartbeat had accelerated painfully as she walked
in. They hadn't been together then and he was so used
to her looking precise and geometric in business suits
that he had forgotten she could look like this, all
soft curves in a sleeveless, figure-hugging, satin
dress.

"Oh yeah," he breathes softly as he remembers.

= Her, bending to pick a dropped teaspoon and exposing
a sliver of black bra strap against the paleness of
her shoulder. The view from behind as she strolls to
the powder room...=

"I saw you checking out my ass in that bar," she says,
interrupting his private picture show at just that
point. How the hell does she keep doing that?

"Not just your ass, Scully," he says with a leer.

There's a soft chuckle and she resumes, business-like.
"So, I'm wearing the green dress..."

"With or without a bra?"

"Mulder..." She exhales loudly, but he knows she's
only playing.

"Just trying to get the picture. Wouldn't want to miss
you in a crowd because I didn't have the details. God
is in the details."

"I don't think this is the time to be invoking the
Almighty. Plenty of opportunity for that later."

"Just answer the question, Scully."

"I'll let you find out for yourself later on," she
says in a low tone that has the heat rising from him
in waves. "Now do you want the rest of that
description or not?"

"Yes please," he replies meekly.

"So I guess I'm going to put my hair up in a
chignon..."

"Because I like it?"

"Because it's a hot day, Mulder," she says in mock
admonishment. "Perhaps I'll bring a pair of Ray Bans.
Bare legs. And I have on these black strappy sandals.
They've got a two inch heel and..."

Like he cares about her shoes when he can think about
bare legs. He grins, knowing  better than to interrupt
when she's having an Imelda Marcos moment. He tunes
back in abruptly as she adds: "...anyway I'm going to
take them off..."

He does a quick scan of the conversation so far and
realises with a pang of disappointment that she's
still talking about the shoes. "You are?"

"I'm going to walk across the playing fields to meet
you. I think it would be good to feel grass under my
feet."

He can't resist it. "Lots of dogs in this town,
Scully, and not many places to exercise 'em. Watch
your step."

"Thank you so much for that delightful image." Her
soft laughter turns to coughing. "Anyway, when I've
walked across the fields... *carefully*...  what do we
do next?"

"Well, it will be getting late by then, so we could
sit outside in the shade of a big parasol with a cool
drink and watch the world and its ducks go by..."

"Or? There was definitely an "or" hidden in that
sentence."

"Or we could just head upstairs... "

"I'll take that last option please. Lead on
MacMulder."

He grins. Sometimes they think alike after all. "We'll
creep up the stairs, me first," he says, picturing
himself leading her up the winding staircase into the
room in the roof. "... And all the time, you can't
keep your hands off my ass..."

"In your dreams," she snorts.

"Well *obviously* Scully. And I'll push open the door
and you'll say..."

"'Why Mulder, what a big, *bouncy* bed you have'?"

He shakes his head. Playfulness is not what he needs
today.

"You'll say nothing at all, because you'll realise
that we've found the perfect room. It's quiet because
it's at the top of the house. And warm, because the
afternoon sun is pouring in, in strips through the
roof lights..."

"You've been thinking about this for a while haven't
you," she says softly.

"Ssshh, Scully, don't talk when I'm trying to kiss
you," he whispers. The silence weighs heavy as he
imagines her pressing close to him, her hands cupping
his face and then sliding down his body with that
sure, gentle touch. His hand wanders down, slips under
the waistband of his boxers.

"So," she says hesitantly. "What are *you* wearing?"

He opens his eyes, lifts his head off the pillow and
looks down.  =Gray T-shirt, gray shorts, none too
clean. The gray of ground-in dirt on the soles of his
feet=

"Jeans. No belt, no tie -- it's too warm. I'm wearing
that black shirt you think I look so hot in..."

"Could you love yourself more?" she asks, amused.

"I try but it's impossible," he shoots back lazily.
"The top two buttons are undone, care to finish the
job?"

"I may do. I may slip my hand inside your shirt and
ease them open. Then again..."

"What?"

"I may choose to concentrate on your pants first.
Button fly?" He makes a strangled noise of assent.
"Then I shall kneel on that thick, blue carpet and pop
everyone of those buttons until I can slide the denim
right off you."

For a second he can feel the rasp of the heavy cloth
on his scarred thigh, her palms flat against his
burning skin as they push away the fabric. He imagines
those same  careful hands slipping beneath the
waistband of his boxers, stretching it out to move the
soft cotton past his erection. The sunlight pouring in
overhead is overheating his oversensitive skin. Her
touch is cool, like balm, and impossibly arousing at
the same time...

He halts the thought. Not yet. "Scully, I think it's a
bit hot in here. You'd probably be sweltering in that
dress."

"I'd be a little warm," she says. "But frankly I think
I'd be more worried about whether that kiss was ever
going to lead anywhere."

"It will Scully. But for now I think I'll run my hands
across your back, and pull down the zip on that dress
so slowly, like I'm unwrapping..."

"Gonna have to stop you there, Mulder,"  she says
firmly and he groans.

"Now what?"

"That dress doesn't have a zip, as you would know if
you hadn't spent all your time staring at my ass."

"Does it matter?" he splutters.

"As you said earlier, God is in the details."

He lets her teasing slide with a smile. "Okay, so I'm
pulling the dress up over your head slowly... ah...
moment of truth, Scully, bra or not?"

She makes a soft, happy humming sound that sends his
blood and his senses swirling south. "Not, I think."

"A woman after my own heart," he whispers. "Now I'm
going to move in close to you, really close,  and
we're going to lie on the bed,  so I can look up into
your eyes. I'm going to reach a hand behind your head
and loosen your hair until it falls forward towards me
like a tsunami..."

Memories wash over him, pictures so vivid that they
stop up his throat. It's that spring day six months
ago. They'd gone to the town for a break, just a day
or two's respite from the madness. He wanted to show
her why the place had lived so long in his head.

=Standing on the limestone, arms hugging herself
against the bite of frost in the air, windblown hair
rippling and catching the pale sunshine, like waves=

They had walked up the steeply winding streets, past
where the little houses and tarmac roads petered out
into rough gravel tracks, past where manicured fields
turned into rough scrubland. As they climbed the steep
path by the roaring falls, breezes whipped up the
spray until the air shimmered with shortlived
rainbows.

When they reached the top of the crag, he watched her
eyes widen with wonder at the undulating green spread
of the valley below and felt an absurd sense of pride
at having found somewhere like this.

"I'd like to come back here in summer," she had said.
=Your wish is my command =

Finding the room had been pure luck. The hotel owner
was grateful to let it --  not many people wanted it
because of its sloping walls and the long awkward
climb up the winding staircase.

Dusk was approaching when they unlocked the door. He
pulled his T-shirt off, flinging it away, slid out of
the heavy jeans and his boxers, leaving them puddled
on the floor, and tumbled onto the bed. He shut his
eyes and revelled in the feeling of cool cotton sheets
against his itchy back and warm sunshine on his
overstrained leg muscles. But when she didn't join
him, he hitched himself up on one elbow.

"Scully?"

She had pulled her clothes off and was folding them
over a chair. She had looked at him sideways, watching
his reaction as she slipped a hand flat against the
skin of her hip and eased her panties off.

"I'm hot, I'm sweaty, I ache and I'm going to get a
bath," she said solemnly. "You might like to consider
it yourself."

 "Now?" He had sounded like a whiny child. "But you'll
be in there for hours."

"I hope so," she smirked, walking slowly towards him,
eyes watching for his reaction. Naked.Teasing.

"Oh? I don't think so." As she walked past the end of
the bed he had reached out an arm and snared her by
the waist, dragging her down onto the mattress with a
satisfying thump.  She struggled in his arms, trying
to push him away and calling him a pig, but she was
laughing. Then he pulled her close, rolling them both
until she was looking down on him.

=That arrowhead of a grin as she sits up and settles
astride him, knowing that her sudden heat on his
abdominal muscles is making him harder=

He had reached upwards to cradle her face in his
hands and claim a kiss. Her lips tasted of the lime
soda she had drunk on their way back to the hotel. He
could almost feel the fizz of it against his tongue as
it ran along the sharp ridges of her teeth.

Then his hands began to roam downwards, caressing her
breasts and tracing the gentle curve of her stomach.
Where he had touched her, his mouth followed,
suckling, leaving a breadcrumb trail of kisses. Her
skin was salty-sweet, soft and warm.

Finally his fingers dipped through hot, damp curls;
just as she reached behind her to take his penis in
her hand. They both started at the touch, the
synchronicity of the urge. Desire transformed to
amusement and then desire again, lightning swift.

They kissed long and deep, a kiss punctuated by little
gasps at the other's touch. Then, thigh muscles
shaking and achy, she lowered herself onto him. There
was a shared exhalation as he rose and buried himself
within her. Then, slowly at first, they began to move,
finding the familiar delicious rhythm.

Something about being with her, within her, crosswired
all his senses. The small, wordless sounds she made
almost registered as caresses; her touches increased
every sensation until it seemed as if the colours and
shapes of his surroundings were also pulsing and
alive. Then the world shrank and there was room only
for him to concentrate on her and she on him, closer
and closer.

He was snared by the look in her eyes as he tried to
slow the onrush of his orgasm; she didn't want him to
hold back. He let it overtake him, let it arch his
back and push away all thought for a long moment.  But
he couldn't  -- wouldn't -- be alone in this. He
smiled a little as  he pressed a hand to where they
were still joined. He watched intently,  stroking,
lightly pinching and pressuring, until he heard her
cry and felt her shudder around him, redoubling his
own pleasure.

=black eclipsing the blue of her irises=

They fell back together; she was draped across his
chest and he adored the boneless, warm pressure of her
as she brushed her hand lazily through his hair. He
closed his eyes, drifting slowly into sleepy awareness
of the rest of the world. He could hear the faint rush
of  blood in his ears, her heightened breathing; car
engines and drifting fragments of conversation from
the street below. Some time later, he wasn't sure how
long, there was a shift like the rocking of a boat as
she peeled away from his chest.

He sat up, disappointed, the lack of contact leaving
his skin cold. Then suddenly, she moved behind him,
arms tightening around his waist, breasts pressing
against his sweat-sheened back. "Thank you for today,"
she said quietly.

"Oh so you love me now?"

"You're nuts and you smell, but I suppose so," she
whispered. A gentle kiss on his bare shoulder. "Let's
get a shower."

= Skin flushed and painted red-gold by the sinking
sun, leaning her head against the door jamb of the
bathroom, holding out a hand to him... =

"Mulder?"

=holding out a hand...=

He should welcome the sound of her voice,
it's usually the rope that pulls him out of deep
nightmares. But now it's too hoarse and it's dragging
him out of this precious dream.

"Mulder? Don't go silent on me," she says quietly.

"I need to see you, Scully. You don't sound well..."

A sharp sound of exasperation cuts him off. "It's only
what you had last week. Go on."

He sighs, shifts his position on the bed and closes
his eyes, trying so hard to see it...

= the room at the top of the house, where the sun
pours in from the rooflights and you can see right
down the valley. Hidden away and nothing to think
about but each other. Pure. Peaceful. Salt and heat,
laughter and desire, and time stretching endlessly
away =

...then opens them again. The cool whitewashed walls
dissolve into rough, grey concrete. The soft blue
carpet melts away to be replaced by grubby, cold
tiles. The ticking of the clock mutates into the
endless dripping of the tap in the corner. It suddenly
seems as though the bright strips of daylight slicing
in through the bars on the window are of a different,
colder kind.

There is a squeaking of bedsprings from the cell next
door as she moves. "No, don't stop talking," she
whispers. "I'd rather be there."

But it is too late, the vision has gone and he can't
recapture it, no matter how he tries to frame the
words.

"Get up, Scully," he says roughly, hauling himself up
onto the cot until its battered springs are creaking
and giving under his feet. "I just want to see you're
all right."

"Not now."

He puts his hands against the rough brick partition
wall and steadies himself as he peers through the air
vent into her cell. "Please."

"I'm not at my best. Maybe later."

He tries to keep the anger out of his voice. "Whereas
I look like Richard Gere at the end of an Officer and
a Gentleman? Scully, don't pull this shit on me
again."

"I told you, no," she says flatly. End of argument.

He has always let her believe that if she were lying
on her cot, next to the wall that divides them, the
angle makes it impossible for him to look down on her
through the steel grille of the air vent near the
ceiling.

He wants her to feel she still has some small shred of
privacy and has never violated that trust.

Almost never.

He flattens against the wall, puts his toes on the
very edge of the bar at the end of the bed and cranes
his neck, cold wire cutting into his cheek.

He can't see her face. She is lying curled on her
side, her back to the wall dividing them, one arm
stretched out above her head, the other, palm down, by
her side. She is staring out at the blank grey
concrete of the far wall, the slop bucket and the
discolored enamel sink with its perpetually dribbling
tap.

The wire mesh cuts his view into little squares, so he
can assess the damage piece by piece, as if it were on
a military map: The grubby grey shorts and T-shirt
hanging way too baggy across her thighs and torso.
Thin bruised arms. Bare legs striped with weals.

He sinks, his knees giving out until he is sitting
cross-legged on the bed, his head in his hands.

=Happy now? Was that the picture you wanted?=

It isn't as if he looks much better.

"I know where we could go tomorrow, Mulder," says a
soft, strong voice from the other side of the wall.

Ah. Back to business as usual.

"Really?" he says, swallowing hard to get rid of the
crack in his voice. "Where shall we go tomorrow?"

"A beautiful place. Point Loma, near San Diego. Used
to go there when I was a kid.  It would be one of
those cool, clear days, you know, when the sea and the
sky are competing to see which one is the bluest."

He feels the sickening whirl in his head slow. "What
can we do there?" he asks, trying to play along.

"We could take a picnic, walk to the lighthouse,
maybe. There are views right down to Mexico; out to
the Coronado islands... we could stay in a little
hotel near one of the beaches down the coast. If we're
lucky we might even catch a glimpse of the gray whales
on their migration to the breeding grounds off Baja
California."

"Whales, Scully?" he asks, a laugh bubbling through,
and immediately regrets it in the silence that
follows. Perhaps she thinks he is mocking her; she is
still less comfortable about sharing these flights of
fantasy than Fox Mulder, great spinner of improbable
yarns, has ever been.

"Okay, if you want to, I guess I can do that," he
says. "No boats though."

"Watching you vomit like something out of The Exorcist
is not on my 'things to do before I die' list."

"Amazingly, it doesn't figure on mine either," he
mutters, "but maybe I don't get sick on imaginary
boats."

"Hah. With your luck, you'd get sick on imaginary
boats," she grumbles.  "Anyway that's tomorrow. It's
your turn now. Come on Scheherazade, I'm getting bored
here."

In theory, they could go anywhere -- but they didn't.

When they first began the game, he had been annoyed by
her insistence on setting rules -- It had to be
somewhere that either of them had seen in person, she
said. But later he had to admit that the constraints
had worked. It was better when you had personal
experience you could use to describe every sight,
sensation, smell, sound, taste...

For the first few months they visited all the
far-flung places they knew, somewhere different every
day. They walked Christchurch meadows and kissed in
the shadow of St Mary's spire; ate hot aloco bought
from Abidjan street vendors, the palm oil slicking
their hands; watched the brown waters of the Thames
wind sluggishly past from the shelter of The Prospect
of Whitby;  dived in the blueness of Apra Harbor,
scattering silver blizzards of fish that flitted past
the wreck of the Tokai Maru...

But as time wears on, they find themselves talking
only about places they have both seen, coming closer
to home more often, to comforting rooms they can
create in greater detail, that they can make seem more
real.

Some days, only imagining the places they know best --
their apartments, the basement office -- works at all.

Maybe one day, nowhere will.

"Mulder?" she whispers, sensing him slipping further
away and determined to pull him back. "Come on now,
talk to me..."

But he has heard a jangling of keys and he doesn't
feel much like playing any more.

This is way too soon; they're breaking the routine. A
sudden helpless fury descends as he realises he
doesn't even know which door they're going to open. A
lock clanks and grinds.

A draft of cold air billows into his dank, gray room.
The guards might be the same ones that came to get him
last time, they might not.  He can't tell.

"Stand," one intones, snapping restraints on his
wrists.

He hears scrambling from the other side of the wall;
thumping and the squeak of the bed. He guesses it is
Scully standing up on the narrow cot, trying to peer
through the vent. Ragged fingernails poke through the
wire mesh as she hauls herself up to look.

"Mulder!" she calls, panic edging her voice, "what's
going on?"

"S'okay, Scully," he shouts as he is pulled into the
corridor. "I'll call when I get back."

He hears her faint murmur.

And they continue the superstitious habit developed
years ago over a thousand phone conversations. Neither
will say goodbye.

-----------------------------------------------------
"I could be bounded in a nut shell and count myself a
king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad
dreams..."
-----------------------------------------------------

(FWIW: Christchurch meadows, Oxford; Prospect of
Whitby, Wapping; Abidjan, Cote D'Ivoire; Tokai Maru,
Guam; George Hotel, invented but very reminiscent of
area around Kinder Scout in the Dark Peak)

Thanks to Meredith for error-spotting and
Velvet Elvises <g> Remaining errors are entirely my
fault. Thanks to Tuatha, Jas and Shari for kindness.

I have been marasmus_k@yahoo.com. All feedback will be
answered when I get back from testing the hypothesis
that you aint seen America until you've seen it
from a train...

Thank you and goodnight ;)





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