Linoleum

"Alex." Scully's voice was breathy with desire, her lips planting seeds of fire along his skin. The way she said that name, the way it tripped over those luscious lips of hers, would have driven any man insane. Any man named Alex. Unfortunately, his name was Mulder. Or Fox, which kind of sounded like Alex if he really wanted to pretend it was his name she was saying.

Then she said it again, "Oh, Alex." God, it was an incredible sound, all kinds of sexual satisfaction promised in those two simple syllables. But, no, she didn't say "Fox" and she definitely didn't say "Mulder."

"Mulder," he corrected finally. Her eyes popped open and she looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.

"Oh, sorry," she said, smiling coyly. "I was thinking about Alex Trebek. Don't you fantasize sometimes, Mulder?"

Fantasize his ass. She was thinking about Krycek and he knew it. He'd have to drive that man out of her head forever. He'd make love to her so hard and so brilliantly that she'd forget her own name, let alone that rat bastard's. It would be even better if *he* forgot that rat bastard's name. Every time she said "Alex," his thoughts wandered to the subject of conversation. Those hard muscles, the high curve of his biceps, well one bicep technically, those gorgeous eyes, hair you could just run your fingers through. Krycek that was, not Trebek. Although Alex Trebek had that mustache thing going for him.

Mulder shook it off and tried to concentrate on Scully, that it was Scully's tongue running around his nipple, Scully's hands caressing the bulge in his jeans. Yes, Scully, although he suddenly had a strong urge to take her from behind for some inexplicable reason.

Meanwhile, Scully was trying to remember that she was making love with Mulder and not Alex, which was becoming increasingly difficult since Mulder wasn't as good a kisser as Alex, and, well, to be honest, he wasn't nearly as well endowed (and screw all those polite things women say--size does matter), and he didn't have that incredible gift of touch that Alex had, even with one hand tied behind his back, so to speak.

But this was Mulder, and she loved Mulder, so it shouldn't matter that it was looking more and more like he was going to be a lousy lay. Well, not lousy, but not up to the standards to which she'd become accustomed. Yes, Alex had set the bar pretty damn high and Mulder was going to have to do some serious pole vaulting if he had a thought of winning even a bronze medal.

Oh well, gotta make the best of the situation, she decided, and, as her hand closed around Mulder's groin, she learned that Mulder was certainly making the best of it himself, no matter what she was calling him. Hell, he had wanted her for so long she could probably call him Mary and he wouldn't care.

Mulder rolled her onto her back and his hand moved between her legs, pushing down hard into the wetness that was starting to grow, albeit not like Niagara Falls or anything.

"Use both hands," she grunted into his mouth.

"What?" he mumbled, struggling to pull off her panties.

"You've got two arms. Use them for God's sake!"

Mulder did as he was ordered, keeping one hand between her legs and using his other perfectly functional hand to caress her breasts, which made it kind of hard for him to prop himself up so he wouldn't fall on top of her, but he did his best. He couldn't help but wonder how Krycek had managed it with just one arm, but maybe Scully had always been on top. He'd be gallant and let her be on the bottom for a change. That would show her he was better than that rat bastard.

He tried harder. Still, Scully felt like it was taking way too long for her to get anywhere.

"Speak Russian to me," she demanded. "That makes me hot."

Mulder stopped the kisses he was planting on her belly. He didn't like being distracted just as he was going in for the kill.

"You know I don't speak Russian, Scully."

Scully cursed under her breath. Why was he so difficult all the time? "Fake it," she growled. "'Cause if you don't, I'm gonna have to. Do it for the cause, Mulder."

Damn that Alex Krycek anyway, Mulder thought. Not only was he good in bed, but of all the languages in the world, Scully preferred her sex talk in Russian. Well, he'd give it the old college try.

"Anatolie Karpov," he said lustfully. "Svetlana Boginskaya." Okay, so the only Russian Mulder knew wasn't exactly the language, just chess champions and Olympic gymnasts, but he'd do whatever it took to keep Scully's mouth moving toward where it was moving at the moment. "Boris Spassky, Nadia Comaneci."

"She's Romanian." Scully stopped her ministrations to interrupt. God, was this woman hard to please or what?

"Close enough," he stated, wishing she'd just get back to whatever that thing was that she had been doing with her tongue.

"No, it's not. Only Russian works for me. Romanian doesn't have the same effect." Mulder was a bit disturbed that she knew that for a fact. Just how many Eastern Europeans had she slept with anyway? And had that been before or after the fall of communism?

"Dr. Zhivago," he said with passion, trying to rescue the moment from his faulty geography.

"Oh God, yes!" Scully screamed.

Okaaaay, Russian it was. That was the most enthusiasm he'd gotten from her since she stopped calling him Alex.

"Oh, Muldervich," she moaned as he entered her. Muldervich? Well, at least that was better than Alex. And next time he'd try to talk her into having American sex.

"Fyodor Dostoevski, Alexander Solzhenitsyn." Mulder was down to authors from a Russian lit class he'd had about a hundred years ago and growing awfully close to having to use politicians, which didn't seem very erotic. Scully was taking her own sweet time getting off. If she didn't hurry, he'd be out of Russian and out of gas and this would be over way before it should.

He was working as hard as he could, with both hands, not to mention the essential part, which wasn't really performing at its maximum potential because he was too busy trying to remember who wrote 'Eugene Onegin.' Was that Pushkin or Tolstoy? He was beginning to feel like he was taking the S.A.T. exam instead of having sex with the woman of his dreams. This was ridiculous.

He stopped the Russian and said what he felt, in his own language, in his own way.

"I love you, Scully."

"What?" She looked at him, surprise in her eyes.

"I can say it in 47 different languages if you want, but I don't know how to say everything I feel in any way but my way. I love you more than anything. I want you and need you, and you complete me."

"What was your name again?" she asked, but her voice was coy, bemused, and her eyes sparkled. She knew full well what his name was.

"You tell me," he said, thinking if she didn't get it right this time he was out of there, although at the moment he was pretty comfy *in* there.

"Mulder," she said softly. The right name. Said the right way. With just a touch of the right emotion behind it. Her eyes were shining like freshly-mopped linoleum, and she was looking at him as if he actually was Mulder and not some Russian reject with one arm and a fancy way with women.

Mulder figured the Russians must have a word for how wonderful it felt, but he couldn't have cared less.