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From: bugs
Date: Wed, 31 May 2000 03:37:06 -0700
Subject: Drop the Ball by bugs
Source: direct
TITLE: Drop the Ball
AUTHOR: bugs
EMAIL ADDRESS: bugs1231@my-deja.com
SPOILER WARNING: This could be seen as a spoilerfic for 'Millennium', or
then again, perhaps I came up with the idea all on my own. Just an
amazing coincidence. Old episodes: Fire, The Unnatural, Arcadia, The
Field Where I Died, Triangle, Fight the Future.
RATING: strong PG-13--Language and an active Scully!Imagination.
CONTENT WARNING: Not my usual smut, sorry.
CLASSIFICATION: Scully POV, V, H, M/S, Fantasy-post-ep. for Millennium.
Using the example of Susanne Barringer's fabulous, 'Hot Shower', I'm
writing the scene I'd like to see, and very sure I'm not going to see, at
the end of this episode.
SUMMARY: On the edge of the new millennium, Scully makes some resolutions.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: This started as a conversation in one of those damned
addictive late night chat rooms, so blame them! Uh, thanks for the story
idea, I mean. Three hot-blooded fillies from the beta barn, Ambress,
Shawne and Kerri ran the distance for th is fic.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: As a New Year's Eve baby, this is a present to myself. I
hope others enjoy opening it. More notes at the end.
~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*
Resolved: Dana Katherine Scully is going to start doing some things
differently at the stroke of midnight, the beginning of January 1st, 2000.
Y2K ready, indeed. I'm going to make some adjustments to my program to
conform to the current standards for optimum performance. I don't usually
allow myself to get swept up in these sorts of events, but even I can't
deny this is a moment that begs refl ection.
Balanced at the edge of the century and millennium, it seems an occasion
that calls for some action. Any action. Even from someone like myself,
who is not given to impulse.
Quite literally balanced on the edge, wavering atop too-tall heels, I
stand on the low concrete wall around the parking lot under Coit Tower in
San Francisco. I'm looking out over the vibrant city draped beneath me,
the clear night showing off its garlan ds of bridges and scattered
communities, the black bay supporting innumerable ships and boats.
It all seems distant and remote, but we're actually on the edge of a
pulsing, twisting mass of people. The crowd presses along the wall,
filling the parking lot to capacity and dangerously spilling down the
hillside. It's all right. I won't fall. Mulder's large hands rest
lightly on my hips, keeping me secure.
'Hips before hands.'
I'm still unsure. Not of my stance on this wall. I feel a certain
exhilaration perched on the wall. Anything could change at the stroke of
midnight. Perhaps I'll be able to fly. Even if I merely fall, I know
I'll never hit bottom. This beautiful city won't let me crash. It arches
below like a black and yellow leopard's back, ready to catch my tumbling
body.
Taking a deep breath, I try to fight these giddy, uncharacteristic
thoughts. But I'm at a disadvantage in this battle. My 100% black Merino
wool armor is gone. The second time this year for an assignment, I've
been gussied up, primped and pooffed.
We'd come to the West Coast for the culmination of a four month-long
investigation of a doomsday cult bent on spreading terror for the new
millennium. Mulder was determined. This time, things would end
differently. And they did. With a whimper, not a bang. Wrapped up,
reports written, leaving us with a sense of the anti-climatic and stuck in
San Francisco.
New Year's Eve, 1999; we didn't have a prayer of getting on a plane to
return home. Mulder didn't seem crushed. Obviously, he didn't have any
plans.
But *I* had been invited to at least three parties. At which at *least*
seven men, ferreted out by concerned relatives and friends, awaited my
inspection. I wasn't given time to decide if I was upset or not for
having to miss that shakedown cruise. To fritter away the time until we
could return to D.C., Mulder had dragged me to the local FBI headquarters
and volunteered us for action. Any action.
Careful what you wish for, Mulder...we ended up in a large room with a
group of agents to see what could be found for us. Every available law
enforcement officer was going to be put on duty somewhere to watch for
dangerous activity by the expected hordes
of disturbed individuals.
The A.D. called out, "Mulder! Scully! You can pose as a happy couple up
on Telegraph Hill!"
My sour expression must have revealed my lack of enthusiasm in a repeat of
that scenario. Mulder whined for me, "Sir? Is there someone else who
could pull that one?"
The A.D.'s eyes swept the room. Ours did as well. I noticed the only
other mixed couple partners were a fifty year old woman teamed with a
twenty-five year old man and a six foot tall, hefty woman with a five
foot, two inch, weedy little man. I couldn' t imagine either not drawing
attention to themselves as they posed as a 'happy couple.'
The A.D. mused, "I could break you up..." His eyes raked over Mulder.
"Team you up with Burgess here," he nodded to a very handsome, tall, blond
agent to his left, "and the two of you could cover the Castro."
Mulder paled, and I could barely contain my mirth at the sudden mental
image of him in a tight tee shirt with a large pink triangle in the
center. He sputtered, "That's okay. I'd rather be with my partner. We
work best in unison."
All the eyes in the room roamed over us. Eyebrows were raised. I gritted
my teeth and felt the familiar blush rising. Great, Mulder. Make it
sound like we need to be wrapped in a lover's embrace at the stroke of
midnight.
As usual, I caved. Giving the A.D. a pained smile, I said, "Yes, sir.
Where should we report?"
The very unsurly burly man's face split in a wide grin. "Go to seized
property and get issued some...costumes."
Which explains the dress. Costumes indeed. Our role is to blend in with
the natives as they frolic and celebrate.
There are a few concessions to our roles as government agents. A tiny
receiver is buried in my ear, carrying reports of debauchery and mayhem.
My gun is tucked in one of those tiny little beaded bags hanging from a
thin strap. I miss the feel of the bo dy heat-warmed steel against my
side.
Now the heat is coming from Mulder's warm breath dancing with the cooler
breeze across my exposed shoulder blades. This ridiculous dress swoops
down back and front. If I were to let the stiff set of my shoulders drop,
the thing would slither off of me l ike a snake shedding its skin. I
would be nude under the huge white phallus of the tower, perhaps overcome,
driven to perform some odd, primitive dance.
Nah. I cannot control a giggle, and waver again on these damned heels.
"Scully?"
"Yes, Mulder?" I don't turn around.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes, Mulder. I'm doing fine."
He still sounds worried. "All right. Good."
I pay for my giggle. It awakens the horrifying feather trim around the
neckline of this dress, sending some right up my nose. A sneeze erupts,
blowing feathers everywhere. Dammit.
Besides its preposterous appearance--too tight, too long, and those
frigging feathers--it's too bright. A shade of blue too far away from
navy for my taste. I would almost call it royal blue. It's giving me the
unfortunate suspicion that I'm a bright b eam shedding light into a dark
corner.
In the perversity of San Francisco, a city with weather patterns capable
of dropping to the 40's in July, it picks this night of all winter nights
to be in the high 60's. If only it was drizzling and fog was clinging to
every bridge. I cannot find an exc use to wear a smothering coat over
this dress, not in these hot, pressing crowds.
I'll start a list with that notation. If only I wasn't in this
dress...Mulder's eyes wouldn't have gone soft and warm when I walked out
of my bedroom.
Oh, that's another thing. If only this damned town's hotels weren't
booked up, we wouldn't be housed in a drug dealer's seized Pacific Heights
mansion with its massive, tastefully decorated rooms, a movie set for
romance under crystal-dripping chandelier s.
Speaking of which...If only we weren't in the most romantic city on earth.
If only we were stuck in End of the Road, Wyoming, our hearts wouldn't be
beating a half-note too fast.
If only he wasn't wearing that damned tuxedo...I wouldn't be having vivid
flashbacks of slipping his long limbs out of the black and white elements.
Now that I think back, I'm afraid I indulged at that moment, my doctor's
duties slipping away briefly, an d I allowed my eyes to linger...I had a
crush on him at the time...what the hell...I was young, he was a
babe...not to say he isn't still a babe, but I'll never be that young
again.
Luckily, I doubt he realizes that a tuxedo on a man is as erotic to a
woman as crotchless panties on a woman are for men. A rare, stimulating
sight. I just have to keep my eyes on the third shirt button and not
notice how the black tie frames his nimble
lips, and I'll be fine.
If only my own blessed mother didn't have a date for New Year's Eve, turn
of the century, turn of the millennium, while I stand here in the most
beautiful city on earth...with Mulder. That's a horrible, selfish
thought, I'll push it aside.
Resolved: Herein, Dana Scully shall begin to date. Not to say I've
suddenly become desperate or man-hungry. But on reflection, I'm shocked
to realize how many years have slipped by while my life has become
narrower and narrower in focus...and the focus
is on the mug of the man with the big hands still gently resting on my
hips, thumbs nearly meeting at the 'V' of my ass as they restlessly rub
the damned fabric over my tattoo. I'm sure it's merely a reaction to the
softness of the skin-tight velvet...
He isn't coming on to me. I refuse to even entertain the idea. But I'm
not oblivious, or an idiot. I realize his feelings for me have, in most
likelihood, warmed past romantic to sexual in the last few months.
I've spent this past year working very hard at appearing oblivious, but
I've actually been thinking, very long and very hard, trying to decide
what my reaction is to his exposed feelings. I believe in weighing
important issues, and the more important the
issue, the more my scale can waver.
Waver like my heart when I first saw that spark light in his eyes in his
hallway the previous summer. Tremble like my traitorous hand, reaching up
to pull his face down to mine as sweat trickled down my spine and a bee
climbed out of my collar.
Disregarding all the other horrible events that happened afterwards, thank
God for that bee. It stopped me from taking an impulsive action that most
certainly would have shattered this relationship. Perhaps this
relationship needs to be shattered and so mething new should be built, but
all I know for certain at 11:59 PM on New Year's Eve, 1999, is that I
don't want to be left with nothing but crumbled debris. For now, I'll
keep looking over the evidence of our love--oh, yes. There's the little
matter o f him saying, 'I love you.'
The crowd becomes restless. It's nearly time. My heart sinks. There's
no stopping it now; time stops for no one. The numbers are going to roll
over to a row of zeroes. Zero is a starting point. In a few moments, the
guns will go off and the race wil l be on. At zero, a new life can begin.
The countdown is starting. Under the bawling of song from the crush of
humanity around us, a horrible mish-mash of '1999' and 'Auld Lang Syne',
voices mutter in the ear piece hidden under my puffed up hair, warning of
disturbances and brawls already unde rway. There's nothing we can do
here, trapped at the top of Telegraph Hill.
10-9...
Suddenly I realize Mulder's gone. His hands are gone and as I spin
around, I notice his body is gone. Sucked back into the pressing crowd?
I try to look under the stomping feet. Knocked down? Unconscious?
I think I can see the top of his bobbing head, his spiky hair seeming to
be waving frantically at me as he's drawn away into the mass of people. I
have a brief, irrational urge to toss myself on top of the crowd, to be
carried towards him like some skate
rat in a mosh pit.
8-7...
Instead, I dive off the wall and into the bodies. And am immediately
swallowed up. I suffer a moment of the irritating claustrophobia of a
short person, unable to see the sky above me.
Using skills learned from a dozen Christmas sales, I stick my elbows out
at my sides and start pushing. Couples have begun to kiss already, and
I'm losing my way in the bowling pins of twisted bodies.
Silly tears prick my eyes. I hate these Mulder worry tears. I hold him
personally responsible. I worry, the tears come. And I hate to cry. Has
he been knocked down? Has someone taken his gun?
6-5...
All the white shirtfronts are looking the same on the men. Despite my
best efforts to reach him, I'm hopelessly turned around and confused. I
have to stop to attempt to get my bearings.
4-3...
I'm overwhelmed by despair and then, regret. I will truly be alone at the
change of the millennium.
A hand grabs and turns me. "Scully!"
I look up at his grateful face. "I was so worried about you," he says for
some odd reason.
The bodies around us close in and I'm pressed against his chest. Under my
palms, I can feel his heartbeat pick up. The only sound I can make out is
the slurping of other mouths. Kissing. Oh, that's right. New Year's
Eve. Tradition.
I dare not look up at him. The bellows have gotten louder. 2!
I make a sudden decision. This is ridiculous. I'll kiss him. It'll be
chaste and business-like. The kiss of two longtime friends. It'll say
more to him than any avoidance tactics I've tried this past year.
Resolved: Dana Scully shall let Fox Mulder down easy and they'll both
move on to rewarding relationships. No more burning sensation in the
chest every time he looks at another woman for longer than two seconds.
I tilt my head back and see relief in his eyes. Good. This was the right
idea. A release of the tension in this relationship. I'm doing it for
the good of the team and all.
1! Fireworks boom. Lights flash. The crowd roars. Our lips meet.
The big twinkling ball is dropping--straight to the bottom of my stomach,
crashing with a frightening bump and shattering.
I'm keeping my eyes open. I don't want to miss anything. Mulder's
eyelashes flutter on his cheeks like skittering spider legs, but his
eyelids stay shut. Perhaps he doesn't want this dream to end.
In a blinding moment, escaped pet parrots that roost around the hill, wild
again, burst into the night air, stirred by the pounding fireworks. As I
shift my head to get a better angle to explore the dark corners of
Mulder's lips, I catch sight of them, a
pink cloud crossing the pure white tower.
I'm straining upward, even on these heels, to crawl deeper into his mouth.
He, very thoughtfully, grasps my ass and gives me a boost so we're level,
face to face. Why thank you, Mulder.
As much as this kiss is overwhelming my senses, there's a part of my brain
that's holding a staff meeting to determine what this all means.
A Concerned Staffer: "This has gone way past a simple, chaste kiss. He's
going to be getting an entirely different message."
The Bitter Chick From the Cramped Office At the End of the Hall: "Well,
duh!"
The Do-Gooder: "Well, obviously, this was something that was in the back
of their minds. Now that it's done with, they have resolved those
suppressed feelings and can move on."
Bitter Chick, slumping down in her chair: "There's no going back from
here. Now he's going to have only one thing on his mind."
That thought sends a flurry of mutters through the meeting, bursting out
of the confines of my mind, activating the nerves at the furthest reaches
of my body. Breathe, he and I must breathe. But I need more time to
think. I release his lips just a fraction and we can take in some deep
breaths through our noses. At this close distance, I watch his nostrils
flare and his panting breath roars across my cheek li ke a hurricane. His
eyes dart frantically under his closed lids like he's in a deep REM sleep.
My hand had found its way to the back of his neck where it's been playing
among the soft hairs at his collar. Now I put some force into my
tentative grip and pull him back down into the depths of my mouth. He's
had enough time to get some oxygen.
This causes another uproar at the already chaotic meeting.
The Respected Member pulls herself up from her chair: "Now, now! No
reason to panic! Fox Mulder respects us--"
She's cut off by The Nervous Nellie warbling: "But! But! Now we've
crossed a line to a point where he will see us as a sexual object. Will
he respect us in the morning?"
Bitter Chick: "Jesus! Will we respect him in the morning? How about
that question?"
Respected Member's voice takes on a tone of doom: "Every moment we
continue to kiss Mulder is sending him another message. But do we know
what that message is and do we want it to be sent?"
The Woman Who Never Says Anything, But Takes A Lot of Notes, startles
everyone by speaking: "While you've all been sitting here arguing, a
rebellion has taken place. A change has irrevocably happened and the
clocks can't be turned back. You have to go w ith the flow now."
This silences all members of the gathering and the room falls to darkness
as I'm dragged back to the warmth of Mulder's mouth. As long as I stay
right there, neither of us can speak. That's the only conclusion at which
I've arrived in the seconds that h ave ticked past.
Oh, I've come to one more realization. When we stop kissing, he's going
to say he wants to make love with me. Like a good puppy that wants
something very badly and can't stop his tail from slowly thumping on the
floor, his erection bumps at my lower abd omen. I have a very bad impulse
to stroke and soothe it. But that would answer the question before I've
thought it through.
Can I kiss him for the next year while I think it over? Deserted by my
logical senses and overwhelmed by this pressure, I feel adrift in a very
leaky dinghy.
No, I have to formulate an answer on my own. Soon. As soon as we stop
kissing, the fireworks stops popping, the crowd stops cheering...We'll go
back to that mansion and go to his room. Or my room. Or maybe he'll ask
again in the elevator from the gara ge.
Shooting up in an express elevator to nestle among the stars...
'Riding a little cable car half-way to the stars...'
I've never fucked in an elevat--oops, we would make love, a passionate,
deep---Oh, God, I wanna fuck Fox Mulder between floors, bathed in the glow
of the red emergency light while horns blow and repairmen bang on the
door.
Back to the right page in my very dusty manual on handling sexual
relationships. Any second now Mulder's going to be able to pry his lips
off of mine and he's going to ask.
What am I gonna say? My laugh breaks the contact and I bubble out over
the top of his words, "Yes."
He had asked a question. I'd heard a jumble of words just before my
answer. But his response seems a little...wrong. He's crushing me in a
bear hug and somehow whirling in this crush, his tears dampening my cheek.
I try to rewind the tape. This reaction is too sweet for my affirmation
to the query, "Will you let me fuck you all night long, Dana Scully?"
Back...back...back...ah! There's his question!
It wasn't a question. It sounded more like a statement. "Marry me."
I lose sensation in my extremities. All my blood goes straight to my
brain, furiously boiling to make a proper chemical reaction out of these
two simple elements, Marry and me.
This isn't a good situation when I'm airborne, 4 feet off the ground on
Air Mulder. Must get down. Now. And run. On my too-
high-heels-for-an-assignment shoes, all the way down Telegraph Hill,
twist, twist, twist of that street. Find a cab, find the car, a way to
the airport, get in a plane, pray it doesn't fall from the sky and somehow
get home, now! Crawl into bed, pull the covers over my head and call
another meeting of my beleaguered staff.
That bastard has done it again. In two small words, he's given me a
puzzle that's going to take me the entire next millennium to find an
answer to.
~~*~~The End~~*~~
MORE AUTHOR'S NOTES: Besides the inspiration of fellow insomniacs, I'm
also channeling the incredible romantic tone of Terma99's 'Time'. I was
showing around another fanfic writer recently, giving her the 'Time' tour
of Telegraph Hill. We even saw a couple making out on the Greenwich Street
stairs! I had this idea in mind, but couldn't decide on a locale. Using
San Francisco seemed like I would be 'stealing' Terma's fic. But walking
around there, I knew I had to do it, while recommending the fic to anyone
who needs some hot smut after this cliffhanger.
Finn had a little trouble grasping the phallic nature of Coit Tower so I
figured I had to beat that into the fic.
And yes, wild/tame parrots do really live in the trees around Telegraph
Hill. For how long, who knows, since the man who's cared for them for
years is being forced to move.
feedback to bugs1231@my-deja.com
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