Disclaimer: This work was for love, not for profit.
It is intended as an homage, not an infringement.
Dedication: This is for Satchie, who
likes Mulder's glasses.
Author's Note: I wish to acknowledge Char Chaffin, whom I
consider a great influence in writing this kind of fan fiction.
My mouth went dry
about two seconds after I called out the name of the next patient on my list.
Two seconds. That's all it took to bring everything back to me: all the days of
sweaty palms and nervous laughter as I sat in his class, all the nights of
achingly obsessive teenage desire.
taught ninth grade English composition.
he taught philosophy, religion, psychology, and the meaning of life. He
demanded that we search our souls and pour everything out onto paper.
I think I fell
madly in love the first time I heard him say, "Contemplate this
deeply." It was the second day of high school and, thus far, no adult had
ever spoken to me with words like that.
She glanced at me and we grinned at each other. I kept silent, waiting
patiently for her to continue.
I must have
written that name a hundred thousand times inside countless spiral notebooks,
on reams of lined yellow pads, and all over stacks of scratch paper. I would
sit at my desk and doodle for hours, writing his name over and over, as if by
doing so I could somehow conjure up his presence. I wanted him inside my house,
inside my bedroom, and above all, inside me.
He really was
inside me, in a sense. His words pierced my consciousness, penetrated my
deepest thoughts, and entered me in every way imaginable -- except the way I
I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat. I could not believe she was
sharing such intimate and personal details about her youth. This was a side of
Scully I had never seen before, though I knew it existed.
Every woman has such tales of first crushes, innocent obsessions, and young
love. It's part of the reason I adore talking to women
beyond a certain age or maturity level. I love looking into their faces and
seeing the beauty of their past. Every wrinkle on an old woman's face is an
intimate historical artifact, every spot on her hands a heartrending romance.
The immense secrets every woman carries in her heart are the roots of her
wisdom. I have nothing but the utmost respect for that wisdom. When a woman speaks
from her heart, I listen.
I felt humbled and, paradoxically, honored by Scully's present revelations.
She was lost in the memory as she continued.
at that time, I realized I had never desired anyone as intensely as I wanted
Mr. Fisher in ninth grade. I was only 14. I had never even been kissed by a
boy. And I was a long way from knowing what it meant to make love to a man,
except from surreptitiously read literary accounts. Yet everything about him
made my blood sing.
I knew what this was about. It was about countless millennia of evolution, the
strength of our biological imperative, magical endocrinological
processes, and somewhere -- in the middle of all that science -- it was about
divine providence. God gave us bodies capable of experiencing such intense
pleasure, a gift I was finally old enough to begin to appreciate.
I don't know
about first love, Mulder, but he was certainly my
It was all I could say, as I leaned back in my seat, loosening my tie and
undoing the top button of my dress shirt. I needed air. Must
breathe. She raised an eyebrow and asked if I really wanted to hear the
rest of this.
"Hell, yes. Please continue."
That got me a smile.
He, of course,
never even knew I existed. Not in any significant way, other than as one of the
kids who got an A in his class. It was only his second year of teaching, he was
young and good-looking, and he was wildly popular with all the kids. I doubted
if he even remembered having me for a student.
As he lifted
himself out of a plastic chair in the lab waiting area, I was struck by the
fact that our 10-year age difference had dwindled to an insignificant number by
then. The distance between 32 and 22 was a far cry from 24 and 14. I was no
longer a shy teenager with braces on my teeth and freckles all over my face. He
was no longer this distant, unattainable, out-of-my-league adult. Eight years
later, I was in my first year of medical school, working part-time as a
phlebotomist at a local hospital, and looking nothing like my ninth grade self.
I don't know if I felt confident enough to flirt with him, but at least I knew
it wasn't morally wrong.
On the other
hand, he looked almost exactly the same. His dark brown hair was a little thinner
and prematurely gray at the temples, but it was still attractive in that
carefree intellectual sort of way. His face was more lined, especially around
his warm hazel eyes, but it was the same face that haunted my dreams for years.
If anything, the crinkly little lines around his eyes emphasized the kindness
of his face.
I allowed my
eyes to drift slowly over his body.
hadn't changed much. It was still the tall, lean, muscular figure of a
basketball player. He coached the boy's team, if I recalled correctly. I bet he
still worked out with them, from the look of his shoulders and arms. I used to
stare at those arms during class, imagining my hands gripping them in a moment
of passion as I gasped out his name.
I'm going to regret asking her to tell me this story.
I already do.
There is no woman in this world I connect with more viscerally than Scully, but
perhaps it is too soon to bond with her on this more intimate level of
friendship. I'm trying like hell to rise above my base physical response to her
words, trying to pull myself back up to that platonic place where I can view
this exchange as the unparalleled opportunity to deepen our mutual trust, but
Squirming in the car seat wasn't doing much to make me comfortable or hide my
growing arousal. A teenage Scully, young and innocent, having
not-so-innocent thoughts about a teacher that looked a lot like me. Kill me
He caught me
fantasizing about him once. I don't think he knew it was about him, but I think
he was quite aware that I wasn't exactly thinking appropriate thoughts in his
classroom, as he stood before us reading a Pablo Neruda
poem. Thank God it was one of the last days of school. I couldn't look him in
the eye afterwards. I actually avoided him throughout the rest high school out
"I'm sure your innocence was incredibly charming, Scully."
She blushed and murmured, "It wasn't that innocent."
You have to understand, when I say he was reading poetry to the class,
that this was no ordinary experience. It was...evocative.
He had that
kind of thick, luxuriously deep voice that was made for reciting romantic
picture him whispering sonnets to me under moonlight as he kissed the curve of
my neck. I imagined him mouthing the words directly onto my stomach, my
breasts, and my hips. In my mind's eye, I could see him quoting verse in
between licking my calves, nipping my ankles, and wrapping his lips around my
toes. My God, I could almost feel his tongue caressing me. The way he
enunciated each word was a sensual feast. I perceived him tasting each syllable
as if he was tasting my core, and grazing each phoneme with his teeth as if he
was biting my nipple -- not too hard, just enough to make me shudder. I was
sitting in the back row with my legs tightly crossed, rhythmically clenching my
inner thighs, pushing the thick inseam of my jeans up against my clitoris
without any outwardly apparent movement. I closed my eyes to focus on his voice
and bit my lower lip to keep from sobbing with pleasure.
I was about
two seconds away from coming when I looked up and saw him staring directly at
me. I will never forget it. He was leaning against the chalkboard, one ankle
crossed casually over the other, holding the volume of sonnets with one hand.
He finished the rest of the poem from memory, never once taking his eyes off my
flushed cheeks and half-glazed eyes.
I tried to
look away, tried to stop my body from reacting, tried
anything I could think of to disguise the fact that I was coming, but I
couldn't. It was too late, I was so close. I was already there.
dropped open into a little 'o' as he slowly removed his eyeglasses. It was the
last straw; it pushed me over the edge and sent me silently soaring into one of
the most intense orgasms of my life. Those glasses were so sexy.
She paused and tilted her head to one side, looking at me.
"They kind of look like your glasses, actually."
I just happened to be wearing them, a fact about which I was feeling extremely
self-conscious until two seconds ago. I had no idea Scully had a thing for
glasses, but now that I do, I think I may never take them off my face again.
Speechless, I stared at her in the close confines of the car. To hell with the
stakeout we were on, which was a waste of time and Bureau resources anyway.
Everyone on this detail knew they were here as some form of punishment. Forced
overtime on a bullshit inter-agency exercise in futility was not my idea of an
exciting evening, but all of a sudden I found myself wishing time would slow
down. If she didn't have it before, Scully now definitely had my full and
I was so aroused, and at the same time so appalled at my unbidden arousal, that
I felt like opening the car door and running away. I wanted her to feel
comfortable and safe sharing these kinds of intimate details with me. I wanted
her to be able to tell me anything and everything without fear or hesitation. I
wanted her to open the inner door -- the one that led to her most vulnerable, most
honest, utterly unadorned self -- and let me in.
The prospect of possibly blowing it because I couldn't get my goddamn erection
under control was dismaying. I told myself to get a fucking grip.
I held my breath as she continued.
Suffice it to
say, Neruda's poetry has never been the same for me
I grunted softly and bit my tongue, filing that away for future reference.
As I stood in
the cold, white hallway with my clipboard, all of a sudden I realized that I
was going to be touching his bare arm, pushing his sleeve up and feeling his
skin that day in the hospital. In minutes, I would be rubbing the inside of his
elbow and watching his biceps flex. Even more amazing than that, I was going to
be piercing one of his veins, physically penetrating him and drawing out his
blood, like he pierced my consciousness with his words and drew out my
soulfulness so many years ago.
was almost dizzying. I could feel the blood rushing hotly through my veins. Like I said before, two seconds. That was all it took to
transport me back to that classroom, to my chair in the last row, to his voice
reciting that sonnet, and the throbbing... I literally felt my knees weaken for
I closed my eyes and groaned, "Uncle."
"Uncle?" she asked with genuine confusion.
"Yes. Please stop," I begged her in an embarrassingly raspy voice.
"I can't take any more."
This was too much, far too much. It was torturous, listening to her describe
her teenage crush, her arousal, her fantasies, and her surreptitious
masturbation in public -- in the back of a classroom during class, no less.
Then to have her describe coming as that lucky sonofabitch
And now, to hear her making such erotic metaphors and reminiscing...it was just
I couldn't figure out if I hated him or wanted to be him. Probably
"I know I asked for this. I wanted to know about your first affair of the
heart, but you're a far better storyteller than I bargained for. If you don't
want me to go crazy, you'll have to stop."
She laughed and said, "But I haven't even gotten to the good part yet.
That was all just background information."
I hate him.
"I hate him, Scully."
She shook her head and smiled.
"You know, I kept pinching myself to see if I was dreaming. Have you ever
wanted someone from afar for so long, someone you thought you could never in a
million years get close to, much less get physically intimate with?"
I gave her a rueful little smile. Gee Scully, I was thinking, I have absolutely
no idea how that feels.
"I felt like a groupie at a rock concert, in a private dressing room with
the lead singer. He was the teacher everyone had a crush on in high school, the
ninth grade lust of my life, the standard by with I judged every other guy I
had met up till then. On the 'hotness scale' of one to ten, Mr. Fisher was a
ten. And I could not believe I got him. Even in bed, I wouldn't let him turn me
over for...well, you know..." Her lids drifted shut.
I recoiled from that explicit revelation as if I had been punched in the gut
physically, instead of just figuratively. Yeah, I know exactly why he wanted to
turn her over.
"...I wouldn't let him take me from behind because I wanted to look at
him, to see his face the whole time. I had to reassure myself it wasn't just
another one of my countless schoolgirl fantasies."
"So you slept with that asshole after drawing his blood?" I bit out.
"Well, yes. That would be the point of telling you the whole story, Mulder. He was my first."
She paused for a moment. "And, by the way, he was not an asshole. He was a
brilliant, poetic, sensitive, caring man. I'm glad I waited until age 22, for
him to be my first."
Have I mentioned yet that I hate him? Jealousy rages in me, unchecked by
"This was right after you drew his blood?"
after, but yes. I asked him out on a date while I still had the needle in his
vein. It was really unprofessional of me, I know." She sounded almost
proud of the fact.
"I hope you bruised him up really badly," I sniffed.
"You mean in bed?"
"God, no!" I choked out, "I meant his arm, I hope you bruised his arm when you were drawing his blood!"
She was really laughing in earnest now.
Okay, I realized she was just toying with me. It was exactly what I needed to
lighten up. The level of my intensity was killing me, just then. I rolled my
neck and grinned.
"I will have you know that, despite my nervousness and distracted state, I
was an excellent phlebotomist. Not that he would have noticed...he was pretty
"Apparently he remembered me."
"Christ, how could you think he'd not?"
"He remembered my name, that class, the look on my face, and even the
sonnet he was reading at the time."
"No fuckin' kidding, Scully. It's not the kind
of thing any man forgets."
She smiled enigmatically, then asked, "Don't you want to know?"
"I don't think so."
"Don't you want to know which of Neruda's poems was my downfall?"
"If I knew, I would forever associate it with the mental picture of you in
the back of that classroom..." I shook my head. "It's hard enough
trying to suppress that image right now."
"You are too funny, Mulder."
Yeah, I'm hilarious. Him she thinks of as a ten on the 'hotness scale.' Me, she
thinks of as funny.
"After all those years, did he at least live up to your fantasies?" I
asked in a low, pained voice.
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"Well, he didn't have to do very much." She raised a hand up to her
neck and touched her flushed skin. I couldn't tear my gaze away. "I was
like a field of dry grasses, thick with brush over parched lands, just waiting
for a spark to ignite a conflagration. All it took was one touch..."
I groaned and dropped my head down to the steering wheel.
"He did disappoint me in one respect," she mentioned. "He never
recited poetry while making love to me. It had always been one of my most
potent sexual fantasies, but I was too young and inexperienced to ask for what
"So ask the next guy." It was a subtle hint. My eyes told her she
"The sad thing is, none of the men I have been
with since then were the poetic, drop-dead-romantic-in-bed type. I can't think
of a single other guy that can recite a sonnet from memory."
"You can't?" I asked disbelievingly. How could she say such a thing?
What was I, chopped liver?
"Well, perhaps one of Shakespeare's, but definitely not a Neruda sonnet. I just don't think there are that many truly
romantic guys out there."
"Especially not in the circles I travel, though it could be that's the
problem. I really should broaden my horizons. The men I meet through work, they
all see me as an 'ice queen' or whatever the term is. And that's not
necessarily a bad thing, in fact I encourage it,
except the label tends to haunt me even outside the FBI. What a tragedy it
would be if the right man came along but never saw the real me behind
"Scully..." I said her name again.
She stopped mid-sentence as I reached across and drew my index finger lightly
along the length of her hand. I traced soft wavy lines from her delicate wrist
to the tip of her finger, as I began in a low voice:
The light that
rises from your feet to your hair, the strength
that enfolds your delicate form, is not made of
mother of pearl, nor chilly silver: you are made
of bread, of bread beloved by fire.
I chose this poem deliberately, to reassure her that at least one man saw
beyond her carefully cultivated professional demeanor. I knew that her strength
and beauty were far from hard and cold. She was as warm and nourishing as
'bread beloved by fire.'
And I wanted her to know that I knew.
The grain grew
high in its harvest of you, in good time
the flour swelled; as the dough
rose, doubling your breasts, my love was
the coal working in the earth.
At this, she leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. I wanted her to
surrender to the sensuality of Neruda's words. When
she slowly crossed her legs, I nearly lost it.
Oh, bread your
brow, bread your legs, bread your mouth, bread I
devour, born with each morning light, my love,
beacon-flag of the bakeries.
She mouthed the word 'devour' after I said it.
In a low voice, she joined me in reciting the last few lines:
you a lesson of the blood; you learned
your holiness from flour, from bread
your language and aroma.
"That was the one," she said quietly. There were unshed tears
swimming in her wide blue eyes.
"Sonnet XIII?" I asked in disbelief.
"Yes. How did you know?"
"I didn't.Lucky guess."
"Right." She nodded and looked out the windshield, staring at
everything and nothing.
Neither of us said anything for several minutes, each lost in thought.
Finally, she broke the silence.
"Sometimes, Mulder, I think there is a thread: a
single, delicate, barely-visible filament that is woven through all the
significant events of my life. It's like everything is tied together in a way
that no one can see. Except now and then I catch a glimpse of the
connections." She turned to me with a look so open and vulnerable that it
almost spoke of fear. "And it takes my breath away."
"Now who's getting all spooky?" I quipped to lighten the mood.
"Alright, it's your turn," she said. "Who was she and how old
were you the very first time? Don't spare me any details."
"Oh, Christ. This is going to be a very long night," I told her with
a mischievous little wink.