Title: "Tipping the Balance": a personal challenge to follow up alanna's "Going to
Author: Janet F. Caires-Lesgold
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Spoilers: Entire series up to mid-season 6
Timeframe: Probably after "One Son"
Keywords: Scully POV smut
Summary: Scully can't sleep
DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and the whole X-Files gang, not to me. This story is just for the entertainment of my online friends and myself, not for any profit.
COPYRIGHT: (C) February 20, 1999, Janet F. Caires-Lesgold, email@example.com
Please don't redistribute or alter this story in any way without the express permission of the author. Thank you very much.
Gotta go back to sleep. Busy day tomorrow. Back to the basement with Mulder...
Maybe I can dream about him, the way I always do. C'mere, pillow. Be that nice strong chest for me. Have that goofy grin, that sloppy hair, those eyes...
NO. NOT those eyes. The changeable hazel grey-green ones. NOT those glittery green things. That's... Oh, shit. Here we go again.
Which dream was it this time? The one where Mulder had finally *looked* into my eyes and noticed that I didn't have the guts to say what I felt, but swept me into his arms and kissed me so hard I thought I'd fall down, except that he held me firm and strong in his right arm, because he doesn't have...
Oh, God. Just admit it Dana: you've been having sex dreams about Alex Krycek again.
What *is* it about Krycek? He's a liar, a murderer... A damned pretty murderer, to be sure, but...
Stop it, stop it, stop it! I'm supposed to end up with Mulder. Some day he'll wake up and actually say he loves me, with no drugs or hallucinations inspiring him, and I'll marry him and we'll be normal. We'll settle down, maybe get a house, have a real dog, not a Tonka truck with fur, and live happily ever after. Just Alex and...
What am I saying? Just Mulder and me. That's it. No Alex. My Fox Mulder and not Alex. Besides, I'll bet Alex doesn't even *like* dogs. Yup. Cat person. He even moves like a cat. Lithe, sinewy, quick, smooth, with an economy of effort. I haven't seen him for that long: I wonder if he even fidgets. That would sure be a change. Mulder fidgets all the time. I can see ripples of tension run down his leg when he has to stand still for any length of time. It's not just a pant leg shimmying in the breeze: he's forcing himself *not* to fidget, and it's exactly the same as fidgeting.
None of that for Mr. Krycek, I'm sure. Not a crumb of energy wasted. Everything focused on the matter at hand, or at mouth, or... Whoa! Hold it! I can't think about Alex Krycek like that! He's too vicious, too cruel, too dangerous, too mysterious, too scary...
...uhhh, oh. No. He's all wrong for me. Right.
I'm a good girl, and I don't believe in cliches. Good girls don't always fall hard for the bad boys. Besides, Mulder's got his dark side. He's moody, and difficult, and uncommunicative, and obstinate, and a real pain in the ass, now that I think about it.
Um, where did *that* come from? That's it. I'm not getting back to sleep anytime soon. Outta this bed, into the kitchen. Maybe a cold drink of water, or a cup of warm milk (maybe with a shot of brandy thrown in). Wait a minute... The light from the street is enough to see the fridge by. I shouldn't have needed to turn on the light. Unless I was expecting to see a shadowy figure lurking in the corner, in a black leather jacket, with a knife in his good hand... What would you want from me, Alex, if you were hiding in my kitchen, waiting for me to appear? Would you want me to deliver a message for you, would you want me to hide you, drive you across state lines? Would you want to rape me to get back at Mulder? Well, I've got news for you, Krycek: you can't rape the willing.
Hey, I was gonna put some milk in this brandy... Oh, well. Don't want to waste it.
Now, where was I? Oh, yeah. Mulder is a pain in the ass. Everything's always about *him*: *his* quest, *his* sister, *his* losses, *his* victories... When is anything going to be about *me*? Oh, sure: *my* abduction, *my* cancer, *my* stolen ova, which of course all lead back to him. Am I nuts? Why do I stay? Is it because I love him? For that matter, *do* I love him? I may have, once. Now, it's like we're two old married people: comfortable, predictable, no surprises, no passion. Great. I've lived with a man for six years and have gone straight from the "could be something" to the "could have been something" and missed out entirely on the "is something". Are you *that* complacent, Mulder? Do you just expect me to sit and wait for you to figure it all out, then be thrilled when you come back to me as an afterthought? Is that just indecisiveness on your part, or are you just gutless?
Surprise, Mulder. There's only so long I might want to wait. And what if somebody else *did* come along and sweep me off my feet? Say, somebody in a black leather jacket with glittery green eyes and lips that look kissable even when he smiles--especially when he smiles--instead of the lips-just-made-for-pouting look. Pensive and troubled and sincere is fine for awhile, Mulder, but maybe I want some excitement, a few laughs, a little danger...
Damn. Sure wasn't much brandy left in that bottle. What else have I got around here? Ahhh... Scotch. Scotch is good.
Nice comfy couch. Not that your couch isn't comfy, Mulder. You should know. You sleep there, don't you? How the hell can a guy sleep on his couch every night, Mulder? Lemme guess: when you ever *did* plan on making a move on me, you were gonna fuck me right on your couch, weren't you? How romantic. On the whole, I think I'd prefer a bed. Nice cozy bed. Or maybe the floor, or up against a wall with a knife held to my...
Oops. Scotch on the couch. That'll stain. Eh, I'll clean it up in the morning. Coaster, coaster... Magazine! That'll do! Which one is this? Hey, Mulder! Your name's on the cover! That's right. You wrote some sorta article in this magazine and you wanted me to have a copy. Well, so it's got a ring from the bottom of a sticky glass on the cover now. Adds charm. What was I saying about a nice cozy bed?
Why didn't I turn on the light when I got--OW! Damned doorframe! Oh, goody. I get to jam a stubbed baby toe into those heels tomorrow morning. Bed right over there. Whoa. No more hopping. Makes the bed slant, or the floor slant, or something. Nice big soft thing to land on. Bed. Yeah. Sleep.
I forget. Why did I get up again? Oh, yeah. Couldn't sleep. I think I had had a bad dream... Man, this toe hurts! I'll bet Mulder is icky about feet. Either he wouldn't touch my bare, stinky feet with a ten-foot pole, or he's built a shrine around that crappy pair of sneakers that I thought I lost. If you were here right now, Mulder, would you kiss my toe and try to make it better? Whoopee. I'd bet I could find somebody who'd do more than kiss it... That's right, beautiful, suck it in, all the way. Run your tongue around my knuckle there and look up at me with those glittery green eyes of yours... Yeah, I like that a lot.
Damn, these pajamas are hot tonight. Goodbye, pajama top. Hello there, right hand. Jeez, how long has it been since I've done this? What, two weeks? One week? Okay, so I did it this morning. Big deal. It's not like I don't have frustrations to deal with. Big hulking lunatic hovering over my shoulder all day at work, making sure I know he's there. His damned hand on the small of my back whenever he wants me to hurry up a little bit. Maybe sometimes I don't need to hurry up, okay, Mulder? Like now. This is a good speed.
Mmmm... who needs pajama bottoms? Not me! Hmmm... panties. I'll keep those for a little while. Ooooh, good. Okay, that's long enough!
Anybody watching tonight? Good - how's about a little peep show for the boys at the monitors? Thought you'd like that! Mulder doesn't know what he's missing, does he? Big, spooky dope. Your loss, bub. Oh--mmm--unh. Nice and wet in there! Yum, tastes good, too! Back to the matter at hand. Nice little right hand. It's not *his* right hand, but it'll do. So, where are you tonight, dangerous pretty man in black leather? Are you hiding in my wardrobe? Are you skulking about in the bushes, watching me through the gap in the blinds? Is it you watching the monitors? Good. This one's for you.
How does this make you feel? Do you want to touch me? Do you wish you were here in the flesh to do this for me? I'll bet your hand's around your cock right now as you watch me touch myself. I can just imagine your nice, hard cock sliding into me like this. Oh, yeah, that's right. That's how I like it. Push it in, nice and hard--I can take it. Yeah, nice girls make noise, too. Except maybe I don't wanna be nice. Maybe I wanna be bad and dangerous, and yeah. Just like that. Oooooh, that's it! Oh, baby. Oh, yeah. Go on, do it. I want you to make me come. Oh, God, I want you Alex! C'mon baby, fuck me! Fuck me harder, Alex! Oh, God! Oh, shit! Oh, fuck, Alex! Yes oh please oh God oh God, Alex, oh, oh, oh, oh, God, make me come, Alex, oh, God, yes, shit, just like that. Ohhhhhhh, God, yes, Alex...
Hmmmmm... kleenex. Yeah, that helps. Mmmm. Much better. Naaah, no pajamas. It's pretty warm in here. Whew! Man, I need to get some sleep. I've got a busy day tomorrow. Gotta go back to the basement withzzzzzz...
Somewhere, across town, a heavy steel door with a fake company name emblazoned on its sign opens onto a concrete staircase in back of a nondescript cinderblock building. A solitary figure clad in black leather with a strangely immobile left arm emerges, steadies himself against the black enameled railing and lights a purloined cigarette, taking a long, shaky drag and blowing the smoke out into the night.
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