Classification: Scully Angst

Rating: PG

Spoilers: Vague

Summary: See title

Disclaimer: Mulder & Scully are not mine. They
belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and
Fox Broadcasting.

Thank You's as always to dear Georgia-Your
input and friendship make me a better writer
and person.
 
 

  "The Fantasy"
 
 

          The fantasy was always the same. It usually
came when she was hot,warmer than she thought
was humanly possible. It was a heat of mind and
of body. It was the sort that made rivulets of
sweat begin at her neck and continue down, ever
downward, to her breasts.

      Moist heat, everywhere, on her skin,
under it. It made her want to scream. It was
not a scream of ecstasy, however. It was quite
the opposite. Sometimes the frustration got so
overwhelming that she did the only thing she
knew would alleviate this straight jacket of
need, desire, longing. She let her mind go
where she could not. She indulged her weary
psyche in her favorite fantasy.

      She had played it out so often in her
thoughts that it seemed like a well-worn video
tape. The familiar sensations comforted her;
the repeated sights strengthened her resolve.

      She would walk through the door of her
apartment and regardless of which chain smoking
conspirator or one-armed slime was present, she
would begin the ritual. Her outer jacket was
removed first, flung anywhere. Tonight was not
the time for tidy clothes hanging. Next, were
the shoes. Depending on her mood, they may be
gently removed and left toward the right of the
door. Tonight, they were each sent flying,
first right, then left, each one with a four
letter chaser. She stood as still as her
adrenaline would allow while savoring the
delicious softness of carpet meeting tired
feet.

      Moving to her bedroom, she would begin to
shed the next layer. As her nimble fingers
touched each button, she would relax just a
little bit for she knew that sweet release was
coming ever closer. The fabric of her blouse
would slip off first one shoulder and then the
other allowing a caress of gentle air to cool
her. It would be easy to stop here when a bit
of peace had been restored to her. She knew,
however, that in order to be fully herself
again the fantasy would have to be enjoyed in
its entirety. It was almost as if she needed to
feel totally out of control to be in control
once again. And so she would continue.

      Her skirt would be next. Button and then
zipper, the reverse of her morning work. Her
armor now almost completely removed, the most
heinous offender still remained. Whoever
invented pantyhose must have been an angry,
disturbed man.

      Ah, at last. It was as if taking off each
layer of clothing detached a hidden weight from
her shoulders. She remained absolutely still,
savoring the freedom. Freedom was what this all
about and so she did not even bother to put on
anything else. She just stood there in the
middle of her bedroom, listening to the quiet.
Her eyes would inevitably flutter shut,
blocking out any reminder of where or who she
was.

      She began to visually plan her next
moves, those that would bring her closer to her
goal. She saw herself clothed in her flirtiest,
prettiest dress; some strappy sandals would hug
her feet. She would leave behind her need for
professional respect with the shedding of her
"take me seriously" clothing. Next, would be
the packing of her suitcase- destination
unknown, but arrival sure. A trip to the bank
was also in order, because credit cards could
be traced. The last thing she needed was
someone following her in her new vocation.

      It may not have been the most prestigious
of positions but it would serve her purpose
well. This was the crucial moment of her
fantasy: the minute when she could picture her
dream life. It would be a life where the
biggest question was not believing or doubting,
but rather "Scrambled or fried." If she really
had the goods, she'd do it right now. Scully
would leave it all behind and become a
waitress.

      She knew the job wasn't an easy one- God
knows, waitresses put up with more than their
share of the dregs of humanity. At this point,
though, waitressing would surely beat global
conspiracies and alien abductions any day of
the week.

      To just leave it all behind. This is the
thought that reverberated throughout her
waitress fantasy. She knew she wasn't the only
woman in the world to entertain such "radical"
ideas. Sometimes, she just needed to release a
little steam from the pressure cooker that was
her life by dreaming of an existence so far
removed from her own.

      She always knew she was beginning to calm
when she began to think about what, whom she
would miss. Neighbors, family, friends and the
one who could not be defined by any of those
categories. Mulder. He was more than her friend
and closer than her family. With him were so
many possibilities, extreme and otherwise, that
she could not bring herself to leave. It was
not just the work. It was him, always the
thought of him, that would draw her back to
herself. She would never know how the story
would end if she left now. And once again,
"they" would win.
 

      A startling ring of her bedside phone
brought her back from an unknown bus depot in
her mind.

      "Hello?" she said, her voice a bit
unsteady. Thoughts of changing one's entire
life can do that to a person.

      "Scully, are you OK?" Mulder asked.

      "Yes, yes I think I am," she replied.

      "I managed to get us an earlier flight
tomorrow. So be ready to leave at 5:30am for
the great state of Idaho," he said with
enthusiasm.

      "Mulder, have I ever told you about my
waitress fantasy?" she said trying to block out
his travel info.

      "Does this involve anyone kissing anyone
else's grits?" he said with a slight chuckle.

       "Well, you would if I asked you to,
right?" she asked hesitantly.

       "I'm puckering up as we speak," he
replied.

        And so was she.
 

END
 

Author's notes: If anyone reads Sarah Ban
Breathnach's brilliant "Simple Abundance"
you'll recognize the "Waitress Fantasy" from
the September 3rd entry. It is with respect and
gratitude that I appropriate her thoughts to
our dear Scully.

Feedback: Scrambled or fried, your response
will make my day, joemimi@prodigy.net