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I Know What You're Thinking
by Merri-Todd Webster

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DISCLAIMER:  Chris Carter created them, 1013 owns them, 
and it's not my fault they insist on talking in my head.  And 
living there.

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I know what you're thinking, Mulder.

When you look at me with that considering expression, and 
you want me to believe you're pondering the case we're 
working on, I know what you're really thinking.

You're wondering what color underwear I have on.

There's a certain look a man gets when he's wondering 
about the next layer down, what's under the suit, the skirt, 
the cocktail dress.  Most men don't hide it very well.  You do 
a better job than most, but you can't hide it entirely.

I always know what you're thinking, Mulder, even if I don't 
believe it or understand it.  For one thing, your eyes give you 
away.  Hazel eyes are very revealing, you know.  Yours turn 
pale gold when you're frightened, deep gold when you're 
angry, green when you're excited by something, and really 
intensely green when you're aroused.  I know every 
gradation of color in your eyes, every gradation of emotion 
they reveal; I've been watching it happen for five years.  You 
have no idea how often your eyes are moss green, agate 
green, jade green when they look at me. Believe me, Mulder, 
I know how you feel about me. I know you want to hold me 
and protect me and believe that you can't, you can't take 
care of the people you love.  I know you want me on my 
back underneath you, you want to make me feel small 
because I'm so much stronger than you, you want to fuck me 
so hard you almost hurt me and hear me beg you for more.  
And I know you want me to take you, take care of everything, 
ride your cock until we both come and you won't mind if I tie 
you to the headboard, too, just for the hell of it.

I even know you look at him the same way, feel many of the 
same things for him that you do for me, and some things that 
you don't, can't.  That's all right.  Believe me, Mulder, I know 
what you're thinking.

If you only knew what I've been thinking....

*********

I know what you're thinking, Scully.

The wheels are always turning in that pretty little head of 
yours.  They never stop.  That's what makes you so 
dangerous.  And so fascinating.  I bet even when you're in 
bed with a man, even with a man inside you, those wheels 
keep on turning.  It's how you protect yourself.

The mind is a hard thing to control.  It has a tendency to zig 
when you want it to zag.  You might be thinking about 
exposing Cancerman while you're getting laid, but 
sometimes, you're thinking about getting laid while we're 
talking about our latest case.  Sometimes your cheeks flush 
when you're cutting up some cadaver, and I know your 
mind's a million miles away, right then, you're having a great 
mental orgasm.  And then you look at the body again, and 
those eyes focus in like lasers, everything else but the 
present forgotten.  Including me. 

The way you look at me, Scully.  It's not the red hair, or the 
color of your eyes, not those scrumptious breasts always 
scrupulously hidden under the modest blouse or the hips that 
swing just a little bit under the long agent's coat.  It's the way 
you *look* at me, Scully.  That's what drives me crazy about 
you.  I can tell when you're thinking I'm off my rocker, 
spouting some far-out theory, "Spooky" Mulder at his finest. 
I can tell when you're thinking I'm a self-destructive fool and 
you want to lock me up for my own good.  And I can tell 
when you're thinking I look really good in my suit and 
wouldn't I look even better out of it, framed by your white 
thighs.

Believe me, Scully, I know what you're thinking.  If you only 
knew what I've been thinking....

*********

I know what you're thinking.  Both of you.

There you stand on the other side of my desk, looking down 
at me while I'm sitting going over some shitty pile of 
paperwork that all amounts to, "We're tired of funding your 
crackpot division," and you're both thinking, "Here we go 
again, partner.  Old man Skinner's gonna take out his 
frustrations on us again."

If only.  You two don't know what frustration is.

Yeah, I see you giving each other those smoldering glances, 
those tender looks of concern behind the other's back, those 
expressionless expressions that say, "Skinner's gonna kill us 
for this one."  I know exactly how you feel about each other.

Well, guess what.  You have *no* idea what I think or how I 
feel. I'd like to see the look on your face, Scully, if you knew 
I'd like to lift that tight little cream-colored skirt and rip those 
expensive stockings right off you so I could get to your 
crotch and see if you really are a redhead.  If you knew I'd 
happily let you sit on my face for two or three hours and lick 
you till you thought you couldn't come any more. And then I'd 
get my cock into you and prove you wrong.

And you, Mulder, you'd probably run away screaming if you 
knew I'd like to do much the same thing to you.  Peel away 
the Italian suit and see if you look as good naked as you do 
with clothes.  Peel away the special agent veneer and touch 
the lonely, frightened man underneath.  Make you come 
under my hands, and then fill that exquisite mouth with my 
cock.  I don't think a man could look at you and not think 
about those lips of yours wrapped around his dick.  I know I 
can't.  And after that--well, I don't think you want to know.

Not yet.

The truth is out there, you like to say.  There's another truth, 
right here, right under your noses, and you can't even see it. 
You two have no idea what I'm thinking.

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end