Title: Call Me Ishmael
Author: Polly - polly122456@yahoo.com

Feedback: Always welcome and appreciated
Rating: Borderline NC-17, but probably really only R. This is probably about as smutty as I can get, which is pretty sad in itself.
Category: MSR, post episode, RST
Spoilers: Quagmire
Disclaimer: Not mine; all XF characters belong to 1013 Productions.
Archive: If you want it, it's yours.
Notes: I swear I started this for the Haven 500 words of RST Challenge. Really. But it just kept going and I couldn't stop it. So it's about 1121 words over. Is that a problem? Isn't it true what they say? Size doesn't matter? Anyway, I'm sorry. I cheated.
Thanks: To Peg's Girl for putting aside her dislike of coconut cream pie to be my beta.

Summary: Conversation on the Rock Continued

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He was here. I knew as soon as I stepped out of the shower, the flickering light from the television was a telltale sign that Mulder had left his own room and taken up residence in mine.

I snapped off the bathroom light and continued to towel dry my hair as I walked toward the bed. He didn't seem to notice as he absently stared at the muted TV where Ron Popeil was silently extolling the amazing capabilities of the Pocket Fisherman.

After Mulder's close encounter with the alligator, we caught a ride back to the All Night Diner and Bait Shop where we had rented the boat earlier in the day. The owner was none too happy about the loss of the vessel, but *was* grateful enough to Mulder for ridding the community of the reptilian menace to provide us with sustenance on the house. We were both famished after being 'marooned' on the rock for much of the evening and devoured the meatloaf sandwiches, french fries, and chocolate shakes before we were barely out of the parking lot.

Back at the motel, we retreated to our separate rooms to peel off our still damp clothing. When I heard his shower go on in the connecting room, I stepped into mine and lingered under the spray of hot water that was slowly taking the chill out of my bones. Usually separate showers meant separate bedrooms, but apparently not tonight. Here he was, sitting on my bed in a pair of sweatpants, bare chested and barefooted, propped against the headboard eating one of the six pieces of coconut cream pie he had brought from the diner. No plate. No fork. Just the pie cupped in his hand, flaky piecrust falling everywhere. Oh well. If I had learned anything after three years on the X-Files, it was that if you had the good fortune to find Fox Mulder in your bed, crumbs were a small price to pay.

I tossed the towel over the desk chair and snuggled next to him on the bed, resting my head on his chest. He swallowed the last bite of pie and slipped his right arm around me, but he was a million miles away, not even realizing the effect he was having on me by sensuously sucking the sticky pie filling off each finger of his left hand.

I gently touched his chin and he looked down at me, almost surprised to find me in his arms. "I'm sorry things didn't turn out the way you wanted them to," I said, stroking his cheek.

"I know you are," he replied softly. "And I'm sorry about Queequeg."

"I know you are."

He kissed me lightly on the lips and slipped his hand inside my robe, sending tiny jolts of pleasure through my body with each soft circle that his thumb traced over my warm skin. But he was still distant, staring vacantly at the infomercial.

"Is there something I can do to get you out of this Big Blue Funk that you're in?" I asked.

That brought a chuckle and he looked deep into my eyes, the sparkle returning to his. "Just exactly what did you have in mind, Starbuck?"

"I'm open to suggestions, Captain Mulder," I said, resting my head against his chest again. "Whatever I can do to get you ship shape again, back on a steady course."

"What happened to Captain Ahab?"

I wrinkled my nose. "Remember, that's what I called my father. That would just be too weird."

"Oh, and it's okay for me to call you Starbuck?" he laughed. "That's too kinky, even for me. Let's see, you could call me Moby I suppose. I am roughly the same size as a whale's penis."

"What?" I lifted my head to look in his eyes. "Is there some porn joke in here somewhere?"

"No," he said, stroking my hair until my cheek lay flat on his chest again. "Scully, I'm shocked that a Moby Dick aficionado such as yourself would not know that Melville wrote at length, no pun intended, about the size of a sperm whale's penis."

"I told you my father read it to me. He must have skipped that part."

"Oh, yeah. Well, in the book Melville says it's about six feet long, which coincidentally, is my height. So you can call me Moby if you like." He gave my breast a playful squeeze inside my robe, then pulled his arm out to hold me in a lazy embrace.

"You're just full of these amazing facts, aren't you?" I asked, tickling his chest with my fingernails.

"Well, as someone I hold in high regard once told me, 'Smart is sexy'."

"You know, there is one big difference between you and Ahab, Mulder," I began.

"The captain or the father?"

"The captain," I continued. "You and Ahab do have your singular obsessions in common. But Ahab has one fatal flaw that you don't have."

"Which would be?"

"Ahab's tremendous overconfidence leads him to defy common sense and believe that, like a god, he can enact his will and remain immune to the forces of nature. That overconfidence ultimately leads him and those who follow him to their deaths. I can't place a man who sees hope in the existence of big blue sea monsters in that same category."

"Thank you ... I think," he said with a wry smile. "But your father certainly had you pegged at a young age. You *are* Starbuck."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, in the first place, he was a religious man, relying on his faith to interpret events and determine his actions. You rely on your faith *and* your science, which I suppose is much like a religion to you in a way." He stroked my hair, letting it fall between his splayed fingers.

"And in the second place?"

"Starbuck wasn't afraid to stand up to Ahab, to tell him that he was being stupid or reckless or selfish. But in the end he was the quintessential first mate - loyal to his captain to the last. And that's another difference between me and Ahab." I raised an eyebrow. "Ahab wouldn't listen to Starbuck and in the end he paid for his arrogance. I *always* listen to you, Scully."

"Oh, *sure* you do."

"Well, I admit it might not seem that way on the surface, but I always take what you say to me to heart. Just think where I'd be if you weren't my Starbuck, Scully," he said. "The white whale would have taken me out ages ago. So for that, I thank you."

"You're welcome," I smiled, tracing my finger down the glory trail and slipping my hand under the waistband of his sweats. "And don't you forget it, either." Good, no boxers. I admire a man who removes all obstacles to ensure a true and steady course. My fingers delve deeper and find what I'm looking for. *Here* be monsters.

Mulder drew in a sharp breath. "Are you trying to get a rise out of me, matey?"

"Aye, aye, Captain," I replied. "That was the general idea." His coarse chest hair tickled my nose as I flicked my tongue over his nipple, capturing a stray piece of toasted coconut that had fallen there.

"I see," he said. "Does the expression 'blow the man down' mean anything to you?"

I squeezed, just enough to send a message.

"Ooooh, Scully, you *know* what I like." I squeezed a little harder this time.

"Ow! If you don't want to take all the wind out of my sails, I'd advise against that."

My hand settled into a slow and steady rhythm as I kissed the tip of his nose. "You know, Captain, we have to be at the sheriff's office early in the morning to give our final statements. Are you gonna talk all night?"

"That depends," he said, pulling on the tie of my robe with one hand and pushing it off my shoulders with the other. "What did you want to talk about? The symbolism in 'Moby Dick'? How Ahab's ship, the Pequod, symbolizes doom? How the whale, on an objective level, symbolizes humankind's inability to understand the world? How Queequeg's coffin symbolizes both life and death?"

Only Mulder's voice, as smooth as warm honey, could make life and death and doom and gloom sound positively erotic. As he talked, I sat back on my heels, straddling his long legs, and removed his sweatpants in a single tug. His large hands came to rest on either side of my waist, anchoring me as I bent forward to place a long, sloppy kiss on his lips, my tongue tasting the coconut that still lingered on his.

"Are you finished?" I whispered as we came up for air.

"I'd like to think I'm just getting started," he growled, turning his full attention to my breasts. I giggled and nipped at his earlobe while his lips and tongue were otherwise occupied.

"You know, Mulder," I said as I placed soft kisses in his hair, "it just occurred to me that there is another character in 'Moby Dick' that you remind me of. The story is told through his eyes, but he doesn't ever reveal much about himself. He's intelligent, well-educated, and eloquent, and he frequently digresses on a wide range of subjects - from art and literature to anatomy and legal codes ..."

The ability to form words suddenly escaped me as two fingers had charted a course to the depths that only Mulder knew so well. I shivered as he applied just the right pressure and was finally able to gasp, "Oh, Mulder ..."

"No, Scully, not Mulder," he purred. "Call me Ishmael ..."

The End

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