Cheap
Rated M | 2910 words | Read it here on AO3
Scully leans over his coffee table, her head tilted thoughtfully to the side to expose the milky column of her neck. Mulder swallows and forces his eyes down to the red-spotted collection of crime scene photos she’s arranged into a neat grid, the lifeless eyes and crudely exposed entrails of the victims barely touching the edges of his consciousness through the haze of his arousal.
She smells incredible. Not like anything in particular, just like her. Some intoxicating combination of laundry soap and shampoo, and the subtle perfume he’s seen her dab onto the pulse points at her neck and wrists. It’s a bouquet that he’s long associated with adventure, danger, companionship, and even comfort, but as of late it’s become something more. It’s become the smell of her fingernails digging into his scalp as he nibbles on her earlobe, and the shudder of her breath when she holds back a throaty moan. It’s the smell of her breasts pressed to his chest, her pebbled nipples scraping across his sensitized skin. It’s the smell of her orgasm squeezing the life out of him, her mouth hanging open and eyebrows raised in an expression of pleasant surprise.
“Here,” she says, startling him to attention. She extends one of her slender fingers, drawing the edge of her nail along the length of a deep red gash on one of the victim’s thighs. Mulder shivers at the memory of her kneeling between his knees, her nails scraping through the coarse hair on his own thighs as she takes him deep into her throat, and he shifts in his seat. “Do you see how the edges of this wound are slightly feathered?”
He clears his throat and nods, bracing his crossed arms on his knees to shield his lap from her view.
“The rest are all clean cuts, done with a scalpel or other straight-edged blade. This one was more likely dull or serrated.”
“So…different perp?” he suggests, turning his head to look at her.
Scully sighs and sits back, resting her hands in her lap.
“Potentially,” she says, looking at him with heavy-lidded eyes. He glances at the clock on the VCR and realizes that it’s almost midnight. “Or he got sloppy and improvised.”
He doesn’t want her to leave. As long as she’s still here, it feels possible that tonight will be one of those where she leans across the couch and kisses him. He never sees it coming, has yet to identify any pattern or telltale signs that one of their intermittent trysts is on the horizon. He just waits in anticipatory agony, persistently half-hard and on alert, desperately hoping.
“The rest of the M.O. fits,” he says, gesturing with one hand to the spread of gruesome snapshots.
Scully nods in thoughtful agreement, and he watches the side of her face as she gives the photographs another once-over.
After the first time, he’d made the mistake of assuming that it meant something more profound than too much beer and poor judgment. If he’s honest with himself, he’d kind of thought it would be the start of something resembling a real relationship, though the idea of calling Scully his “girlfriend” is so pedestrian it’s almost laughable. But it seemed obvious to him that they both felt this way, and had for a long time, and finally slipping up and falling into bed together was as inevitable as it was amazing.
“Copycat?” she suggests, eyes narrowed questioningly as though she’s not sure whether the suggestion is a silly one.
“Plausible,” he says, and he sees her sit up a little, bolstered by his agreement.
He tries not to think about the morning after. When he does, his cheeks warm with embarrassment and his heart twists with hurt at the memory of her turning away from his attempt at a kiss and scrambling back into her dirty clothes, her hair mussed and her makeup smudged under her eyes. She’d called him on her drive home, apologetic and insistent that it was a stupid, drunken mistake. One not to be repeated.
But it has been repeated, several times over the course of a few months. Always at her initiation, and always at his apartment. Most of the time she slips out while he’s still sleeping. Sometimes she stays, but behaves as though she just dropped by for coffee before work. He goes along with it because it’s clear that she’s unwilling to discuss it, and he certainly doesn’t want it to stop, but the longer it drags on the more he feels like he’s stuck in sexual purgatory—no longer celibate but not quite sexually active either. And that’s to say nothing for the way this little arrangement plays with his emotions.
Mulder sits back, his semi-erection abated for the time being, and props an elbow on the back of the couch, resting his head on his fist. Scully cracks a tiny, knowing smile that makes his head quirk with curiosity.
“What?”
She shrugs, shakes her head.
“Nothing.”
There’s a little crackle, a thrum of whatever it is that always seems to pass between them in these moments. He looks at her mouth, pink and plush and painfully kissable, and when her lips part he leans forward without thinking. He kisses her for what can only be a millisecond before she leans away from him, and he opens his eyes to find a horrified expression on her face that makes his heart drop into his stomach.
“What are you doing?” she asks, incredulous.
Mulder’s mouth moves wordlessly in search of an appropriate answer to such an obvious question. He pulls back, confused by her demeanor.
“I thought—” he begins, but cuts himself off when he sees her already reacting to what he hasn’t even managed to say.
“You thought what?” she challenges him haughtily.
He knows well enough not to answer, so he just shrugs helplessly. Scully scoffs, then stands abruptly and makes for the door.
“Scully, I’m sorry,” he says contritely, following after her. She stuffs her feet angrily into her shoes, not looking at him. “I didn’t mean to offend you, and I have to admit I’m a bit confused by your reaction.”
“Just because we’ve—” She pauses, searching for euphemisms while she tugs on the tongue of her sneaker. “I’m not a piece of meat, Mulder,” she finally mutters.
Mulder looks around his apartment, but does not find the missing context.
“Of course you aren’t,” he says.
Scully snatches her jacket off the coat rack, stuffing in one arm and then fruitlessly feeling behind herself for the other sleeve. Mulder slips his own arm into the inside-out sleeve and rights it for her, and she huffs an ingenuine “thanks” under her breath before she turns toward the door.
“What did I do wrong?” he blurts out, frustrated and confused.
Scully pauses with her hand on the doorknob, her back to him.
“Is that why you asked me to come over?” she says quietly.
“No,” he answers after a probably too-long pause. The truth is that while it wasn’t the only reason, it was certainly in the back of his mind as a hopeful possibility.
“It just felt…cheap,” she adds, and his heart sinks. “I guess I expected more from you.”
She’s still standing in front of the door, poised to walk out, and as the seconds tick by his knee-jerk remorse begins to morph into something much more indignant. She expected more from him than what? What she expects from herself?
“Forgive me if I’m missing something here,” he says, trying to temper the spite in his tone. “But I’m having a hard time seeing how what I just did is any different than what you’ve done on numerous occasions.”
He sees her stiffen, her shoulders inching up towards her ears. She turns around slowly, leveling him with a glare that makes his balls retreat into his abdomen.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she asks, low and threatening.
“It’s only okay on your terms, is that it?” he says, the volume of his voice steadily rising as his heart begins to pound. “It’s not cheap when you want it?” She opens her mouth to speak but he cuts her off, too angry to allow her to make him feel guilty again. “And then you sneak out in the middle of the night like you can’t stand to look at me in the morning,” he booms, gesturing to the door behind her. “How do you think that makes me feel, Scully? You wanna talk about cheap? Who’s the piece of meat here?”
She starts shaking her head partway through his diatribe, her eyes glistening.
“That’s not fair,” she says tightly, crossing her arms over her chest. “I take responsibility for my own actions, but that doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to take issue with you trying to stick your tongue down my throat while we’re looking at crime scene photos, of all things,” she snipes.
“I’m sorry, should I have put some Al Green on?” he says, and she scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Maybe throw some rose petals on the couch? You won’t even acknowledge that this—this—whatever the hell this is is even happening, Scully. It doesn’t exactly leave room for romance.”
“If it’s so awful and traumatizing for you, then why don’t you turn me down?” she asks, her jaw quivering. “I don’t seem to recall any objections on your part.”
His heart is beating so hard he can feel it in his ears. He’s dizzy with adrenaline, quickly losing control of his words and actions. He’s going to say something he’ll regret.
“Because I—” he starts, then rubs his hands over his face in frustration. “Because I have feelings for you, Scully!” he shouts at her, like it’s an accusation. Like it’s her fault. “And I don’t know if you’ve taken a look in the mirror recently, but you’re extremely attractive. It’s a challenging combination to say no to.”
His ears ring in light of his confession, and her expression is disturbingly unreadable. She sucks in a shuddering breath and looks at the floor, and he’s afraid he went too far. Said too much.
“I’m sorry if I’ve taken advantage of you,” she says softly. “That wasn’t my intention.”
She looks small and defeated, and any remaining anger runs out of him. He steps forward and touches her shoulder, and she startles a little before he watches the anger run out of her, too. He encourages her forward and she slumps into him, her cheek pressed to his sternum as he wraps his arms around her.
“You didn’t take advantage of me,” he says, rubbing his palm over her back. “I was an extremely willing participant.” She huffs an attempt at a laugh, but he can feel her tears wetting his T-shirt. She winds her arms around his waist and squeezes him tightly, and they stay like that for what feels like a very long time. “What are we doing, Scully?” he finally asks, his voice pleading.
Much to his dismay she stiffens again, her arms dropping away from him.
“Mulder,” she says in that tone that means he should drop it. But he doesn’t think he should have to. He doesn’t think she’s being fair.
“Why can’t we talk about it?” he asks, but she’s already weaseling herself out of his arms, ready to run.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” she insists, resuming her defensive posture with her back against the door. He almost laughs at her steadfast commitment to the bit, but it’s too painful to be funny.
“I think there is,” he insists right back.
She only looks at him in little flashes, her eyes darting to his face and then the floor, the walls, the ceiling.
“Okay, what then?” she says with a bratty little shrug that makes him want to push her up against the door and fuck the attitude right out of her. “What is it that you think we need to discuss?”
“Is it just sex? Nothing more?” he asks, and she shrugs again with that same petulant scowl on her face. “Goddamn it, Scully!” he barks, slamming his hand against the door above her head for emphasis. She startles and briefly closes her eyes. “Don’t give me that! Don’t act like you don’t know!”
“I don’t know,” she says levelly. “I put a great amount of effort into not thinking about it, actually.”
Now it is he who scoffs incredulously.
“Why?” he asks, flabbergasted.
“Because it scares the shit out of me, Mulder!” she wails, tears breaking loose and rolling freely down her cheeks. “Because I’m ashamed, and embarrassed, and afraid.” She’s quickly losing composure, and it’s a little unsettling to watch. “I feel completely out of control, and I’m afraid you’ve lost all respect for me at this point. That’s why I reacted the way that I did when you kissed me.”
He can tell that she’s coming to these realizations in real-time, before his very eyes. He rests his hands on the tops of her shoulders, and she sucks in a ragged breath.
“Do you want to stop?” he asks gently, dipping his head down to try and catch her eye. “If you need me to turn you down for your own good, I can do that. I think.”
She gives him a watery smile and shakes her head.
“No,” she whispers. “That’s what scares me.”
He pulls her back into a hug, rocking her gently side to side as their respective limbic systems try to settle. When she starts to pull away he’s afraid she’s shutting down again, but she stays close, looking up at him with wet, reddened eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she says, and he shakes his head.
“You’re too hard on yourself,” he tells her, brushing mascara tracks off her cheek with the backs of his knuckles. “I do stupid things all the time without giving it a second thought.”
“Yes, I know,” she says, a ghost of a smile on her mouth. “But that’s not really my style.”
“How about this,” he says, taking her by the shoulders and turning them both until they’ve swapped positions. “You be me and I’ll be you.”
A sliver of her teeth becomes visible, and he’s optimistic that he’s getting somewhere.
“Is that carte blanche to do stupid things without forethought or retrospection?” she asks cheekily, the tips of her fingers digging into his hips as she tugs him closer.
“If the stupid thing in question is having sex with me, absolutely yes,” he says, his voice becoming rough as all the blood in his body rushes to his groin.
Her kiss is tear-salted and hungry, and she hums into his mouth as her hands snake under his T-shirt. She’s different this time—less reserved, less rushed. He slowly walks her back to the couch and peels the clothes from her body, and she climbs into his lap with yellow lamplight putting her on full display. He watches, transfixed, as she reaches between them and guides him inside her, holding his eye while she sinks slowly down, quivering around him.
“You feel good,” she says shyly, canting her hips forward and back, and he blows a stream of air through puckered lips.
“Good is an understatement,” he says tightly, his eyes pinned to her breasts.
“Mulder,” she says, her tone shifted, and he looks up at her face with alarm. “What you said…” she pauses and swallows, his cock still tucked inside her. “What you said about having feelings for me?”
He shakes his head.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” he tells her.
“I know,” she says, her eyes falling down to his chest and belly. “But I want you to know that this isn’t meaningless to me. I care about you. Very much.”
He touches her chin and she lifts her eyes to his face reluctantly.
“I know,” he says.
She sighs and leans into him, kissing him sweetly while she moves her hips in delicious little circles. They take their time, and when they’re finished he carries her, limp and sated, to his bedroom. He doesn’t ask her if she’ll stay, but he hopes that she will.
When he wakes in the morning he finds her tucked up against his side, her bare ass pressing into his hip. He doesn’t move, afraid of breaking the spell, but she senses his consciousness and rolls over, draping her arm across his waist. She moves closer, not away, for the first time, and his heart feels like it might burst.
“Good morning,” she says softly, her bed breath brushing across his chest.
“Hi,” he says back, daring to rest his hand on her naked hip. There are several beats of silence in which he can sense the churn of her thoughts. “You wanna talk about it?”
She shakes her head. “Is that okay?”
“Of course,” he says, and he means it. “There’s just one thing I’d like to say, if you’re open to hearing it.”
“Okay,” she says nervously. “What?”
“If you want to treat me like a piece of meat, you have my consent. I really don’t mind,” he says sincerely, and she tucks her face into his neck to muffle her relieved laugh.
“Noted.”
“You wanna get breakfast?”
She lifts her head and looks at him, considering something.
“Yeah,” she says with a little secretive smile. “That sounds nice.”
Tagging @today-in-fic
