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Title: Beltane Fire Author: prufrock's loveKeywords: Hum... Well, maybe MSR, maybe Mulder/Other and DAL.Always sexual tension. A little Angst, maybe RST. Nobody dies orgets hurt, but one little kid pees his pants. Not a post-ep, oreven really a missing scene. Maybe a pre-ep for Requiem? Maybe?Summary: Mulder has a very, very good dream. Or does he? Rating: NC-17.Spoilers: Through all things. Interesting background forRequiem, but doesn't spoil it.Distribution: link to:http://www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/beltane.txtDisclaimer: Not mine; don't sue.Author's notes: Find the references game: Lovecraft, Jung, & asprinkle of Wordsworth. "Mad Arab" is a Lovecraft reference andnot intended as a cultural stereotype.Beltane Fireby prufrock's love"The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inabilityof the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on aplacid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas ofinfinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far."-H. P. Lovecraft*******A heartbeat ago, I was standing innocently, fully dressed, in thehuge circle of Neolithic stones thinking about my grad schooldays and the long flight home and all of a sudden I'm totallynaked in front of my partner.I knew I should have stopped with Stonehenge.Scully is sitting with her feet tucked underneath her and hereyes closed, as though she were worshiping at the altar of somefalse god. She's also nude, the grass brushing against her barelower legs as she gently sways, the sunlight playing off herhair. We're still in the circle of stones, but all the neo-pagans tourists searching for Arthur and Camelot have vanished.It's just Scully, bare skin, perfect breasts, and soft grass inthe warm sunshine.It's very clear where this dream is going to go.It's this kind of thing that plants highly inappropriate thoughtsabout my best friend in my subconscious, especially when hershirt is a little thin and the Hoover building air conditioner isworking overtime. Or when we're alone in my dim office late at
 
night and she hasn't showered since early morning and I can smellher... It doesn't take much to get me started and it usually just sneaksup on me, like this morning. I can't spend almost every singleday in close proximity to a beautiful woman and not expect her toinvade my dreams, however embarrassing it may be. However firmlyI file her as "friend -" mostly because I've gotten nowhere in mypitiful pursuit of anything else - she's still breathtaking.Especially because she doesn't know it.And since my sex dream apparently features the Avebury circles,Spring fertility rites, and my unattainable partner, instead ofthe top of my desk and a bimbo or two, I guess I shouldofficially declare myself an intellectual.That's a nice way of saying a socially dysfunctional misfit thatsomeone gave an FBI badge and a degree from Oxford. Maybe that'swhy it's always Dream-Scully instead of Real-Scully. The innkeeper and his wife had indulged me with one last tour ofthe Red Lion Pub before I checked out, since I was still hopingto catch a glimpse of Florrie or Beth, their resident ghosts,emerging from the well. No Florrie, no Beth, but good coffee,stories, and company. Instead of getting into my rental car anddriving directly to Heathrow, where I needed to be at half-pasteleven, I decided to make one more round among the stones ofAvebury as the sun rose for old time's sake. The history of thisarea had fascinated me when I was in grad school and I wanted tobe able to say I'd accomplished something on this trip downmemory lane besides buying an ugly hat and not seeing a ghost.No crop circles, Scully. No Phoebe, either, in case anyone waswondering. Just lots of British damp and Oxford reminiscence andwatching the seconds tick by until I could get on the plane to gohome.I was marveling at how many couples must have lain here in thelast six thousand years among the triangular female and conical
�
male stones stretching south, and the few remaining giantsforming sacred circles around me - when my clothes and the otherearly-bird tourists vanished, and Goddess-Scully appeared on herknees, inviting me into the lower world of the instincts.I always imagined joining those Beltane rituals. Scully and Imay not get any spring babies, but we'll have a damn good timetrying. And she makes one hell of a white lady.Whoooh-hah.I wonder where I am right now - where I fell asleep. I just hopeI made my flight and I'm currently drooling on the little pillowthey give you in coach class. I'm sure I did - I'll just relaxand enjoy my dream and hope I don't make any noises that disturbthe flight attendants.Please, please do not let me wake up and be jerking off in themiddle of a historical landmark in front of a bunch of unshaven
 
women wearing hemp, clogs, and braids.Anyway - I'm naked, she's naked...What -is that- in my head? It's like someone turned the bass wayup on a car stereo and put the speakers inside my brain. "Makelove to her. Make love to her. Make love to her." Not eventelling me in words - it's like it's a primordial instinctgibbering at me. I am man, she is woman; inside her now. Makebabies! Yes, that's kinda what I had in mind, except for the babies part.Someone should tell my midbrain that I don't need directions atthis point in my life - not unless they're really graphic. Turnthe volume the hell down!The non-explicit commentary fades to background noise and Iresume my sex dream.Say it with me: whoooh-hah.What - no head? Scully is on her knees in front of me and she'sjust going to sit there?Okay, so it's a -romantic- dream. Fine. Maybe romance is better- smut is always a little embarrassing when Scully walks into theoffice the next morning, totally unaware of what Dream-Scully was doing to me with chocolate sauce the night before.I kneel facing her and take her hand, feeling her skin soft andsmooth under my palm. How bizarre that I'm having a dream aboutmaking love to an infertile woman where ancient couples used tohold fertility rituals. It makes me feel a part of the infinitereservoir of mysteries, part of the vestigial myths.And it makes me horny as hell.Scully moves toward me as I guide her, but she doesn't react inany other way. I pull her against me and her head falls back,inviting a kiss. Or more. As I taste test a neck, two freckledshoulders, a face, and two sweet earlobes, I'm amazed at how realshe feels to me. I can taste her makeup, I can smell hershampoo. There's a small mole on her right shoulder and on herupper lip and I can feel the fine, transparent hair on her neckbrushing my lips. Her heart is beating fast - I can feel thepulse in her neck. She had coffee with just cream recently -there is still the hint of Starbuck's Arabica on her tongue.Romantic dream or no, I'm ready. Pretty much, Scully needs toshow up, be breathing, willing, and reasonably clean and I'mready. In the live action version, I know better than to spendthirty seconds kissing on a woman and expect her to hop into bed,but this isn't live action.My Dream-Scully is always ready. It's my Real-Scully that givesme pause.I'm thinking too much. Scully. Naked. Breasts. Sex.
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