SKIN-TIGHT DENIM, BLUE

By Char Chaffin

MSR, Imaginary M/O, 3rd person POV

Rating: R

Disclaimer: Clones on Loan

Spoilers: Nah

Dedication: Lib is having a birthday, and of course we need to celebrate! Happy Birthday, Cutie!

Thanks: As always, Tess and Sallie deserve my heartfelt thanks for their beta, their friendship and their much-valued advice. Thank you, my lovelies! Thanks also to Carol for her once-over and for her wonderful friendship! You all rock!

Additional notes at end

Summary: '...It was supposed to be that simple...'

"Skin-Tight Denim, Blue"

As soon as I saw him, I knew I had to have him. It was that simple.

He was standing outside a Starbuck's, sipping from a grande cup. The bright sun seemed to cast a glow over every inch of him, from the top of his dark hair to the toes of his scuffed Nikes. He wore a killer tan, and a pair of sexy Wayfarers hid his eyes. White tee shirt, molding itself to a muscled chest and wide shoulders. Narrow hips and long, long legs... decked out in skin-tight faded denim. From this angle I couldn't see his ass but I'd bet money it was spectacular. Everything I loved best in a man and clothed in my favorite duds, standing there mere yards away... and alone, as well. I glanced at his left hand; saw a bare ring finger. Strong hands, by the way - slender and elegant fingers. Oh, my...

I stood statue-still and I stared at him - and I think I may have forgotten to breathe. Talk about a damned lucky day...

Now, let me say something about the way I deal with men, in general. I am not one to stare, to drool or to yearn. I don't need to, for they stare and drool at me. They yearn to be with ME, yearn for the attention of Martine Jenkins. I've been accused of being vain but I know my worth - and I was brought up to be honest with myself and with others.

I'm young and beautiful and 'built like a brick shithouse', as one of my former boyfriends liked to say. I have large green eyes and long, thick lashes. My blonde hair is equally thick, and its abundant curls and waves flow over my shoulders and hit me right about ass-level... which, by the way, is perfect. I'm busty, tiny-waisted and long-legged, and my face is composed of high cheekbones and a short, straight nose. My mouth is pouty and full. My teeth are so white they'd blind you... and what I don't know about pleasing the opposite sex could probably be printed on the head of a match, with room to spare.

I've had boys sniffing after me since nursery school, and bigger boys panting for me since I sprouted the body I'm now proud to claim. I can pick and choose, which I always do - and again, I'm not telling you this to show you how vain I am. I'm just stating the truth so that you can understand where I'm coming from - why I did what I did.

And why I'm now spending the summer in a goddamn prison instead of boating on Lake Charles with whatever guy I deem worthy of my company.

**************

Where was I? Oh, yes...

So I stared at this marvelous man, standing in front of Starbuck's with a latte of some flavor in his hand. I saw him set the cup down on one of the sidewalk tables and reach into the small bag he held in his other hand, pull out a biscotti and start nibbling on it. Strong, white teeth, biting into the crunchy biscotti... I imagined those teeth biting into my nipples in that exact manner and I just about swooned right there on the street. I have a vivid imagination when it comes to men, and superb inner radar; it's as if I can look at them and instantly know how talented they'll be in bed. I've had enough of them to recognize the dreams versus the duds... and this man was definitely a dream.

It was in the way he stood there, sipping his drink and biting into his treat, the unselfconscious stance of him, the way he lifted his face to the sun and smiled with the utter enjoyment of a man happy with life. He didn't preen and posture, thinking there may be women everywhere, looking at him and taking in his male beauty. In fact, there were other women around, and they WERE staring at him, just as I was. But this man didn't notice them, nor was he faking not noticing them. Believe me, I would have known, for I'm a master at that particular game. Maybe that's why I found him so incredibly desirable. He was perfection, and he didn't even know it. He was my equal; at last I had found my equal...

I wanted him. Right there, right at that moment in my morning. As I mentioned before, it was as simple as that.

I decided to approach him, make myself known to him. Usually when I want a man, that's all it takes. I merely walk over to them, and I smile. Sometimes I walk past them, and sometimes I linger. I don't have to speak; they just follow. It's a heady thing, that kind of power over a man. I try not to abuse it, because I wasn't raised to be cruel.

Once in a while I see a man I want, and because they're choice, I know up front they probably possess enough narcissistic tendencies to render them a bit resistant to my charms. I may have to come on a bit stronger with them, to assure they notice me and follow.

Not so with this man - he truly didn't understand what all the fuss was about, concerning his own worth as a desirable male. I could tell. Not once did he look around, trying to see who might be looking at him. He didn't see me - he didn't see those other women checking him out. I knew to get him I'd have to be somewhat blatant, and I was more than willing to put in the effort. He was worth a bit of work.

I did a quick mental checklist of my overall look, recalling it precisely from the once-over I'd given myself in the full-length mirror in my bedroom that morning. Hair, thick and shiny and softly curling all over. Eyes, made up to their best advantage; cheeks rosy and lips painted to match. Body encased in my most expensive outfit, a short black leather skirt and matching vest. Underneath the vest my pale green silk tee shirt clung to my high breasts and showed off to advantage my tanned, toned arms. My legs looked twice as long in their misty black hose and my feet were showcased nicely in the four-inch open-toed pumps.

Damn... I looked so good. When I dressed earlier I must have known somehow that I was meeting my destiny, today...

I reached into my purse and took out a small perfume atomizer; gave myself an extra spritz of Amarige. The potency of my favorite scent never fails to find its mark; men adore the way I smell. This man would adore it, too - I could tell.

I found myself actually having to work up some courage, to walk over to him. Talk about an unfamiliar feeling... never in my life have I been shy of talking to a man, of approaching the opposite sex. Men are usually tongue-tied around me. The more self-assured ones, the cocky ones - they'll sidle up to me, hand me some hokey line. I flick them off like the gnats they are. I enjoy a bit of challenge, and I especially like the men who never in a million years could imagine a woman like me would make a move, talking to them first. The surrender I find with those men is usually quite a rush.

But the awareness I had, looking at this man... definitely shyness. It made me dizzy. I was even blushing a little; I could feel the heat in my face. I could imagine the way I'd walk up to him; the way he'd smile at me when he took in my beauty. I'd smile right back, maybe whisper a small encouraging word or two. Nothing overt, nothing more than a suggestion that we could maybe go somewhere and get to know one another better. He'd set that latte down, start to dust the biscotti crumbs from his lips, but I'd waylay his fingers - I'd reach up and wipe that luscious bottom lip with my thumb. First contact - and we'd both shudder...

He'd loop that strong and muscled arm around my small waist, walking me away from the busy corner; away from all of those other women who'd stared at him and were now crying the blues because they wanted him and I'd gotten him. Maybe we'd exchange a little small talk, during the brief walk - mostly we'd be too busy looking for a private place, away from so many prying public eyes. The feel of him brushing up against my sensitized body; the male scent of him, teasing my nose; the up-close of him, tempting me... that skin-tight denim, white cotton and tanned perfection of him. Mine. All mine. Mine to take, whenever I was ready.

Believe me, I'd be goddamned good and ready.

Ahead of us, a shadowed alley. Dark and cool in there, as private as can be and as far away from the public eye as I'd be able to handle, for this man would have my blood boiling after only a few minutes of walking by his side. Neither of us could wait any longer; we'd both know what we want.

I'd reach it first, and yank him inside. Or perhaps he'd be the one to pull me into those cool and dark depths. Maybe he'd slam me against the wall of some old brick building, push his body into me, crush my lips beneath his. Rough - hot. I usually don't care for rough and hot unless I'm the one instigating it. But with this man, I'd want it. I know I'd need it just that way.

He'd still be wearing his sunglasses, and for some reason it would add to the excitement, that a man would take me in an alley and I would be unable to see his eyes. That mouth of his, invading mine, the hot, stabbing tongue, the wet kisses. So needy, I'm so very needy -

And that would be the crux of it. I would become the needy one, for a change. I would assume the role of victim, a little. It never happens this way, I never see myself as a victim of someone else's plan, their directive. It's always my terms, my wants, my decision. And yes, I walked up to him and spoke first - I touched him first. But he wound that arm around me and he led me away. He took the lead, without words, with the advantage to see into my eyes while I'd be bereft of seeing his. That in itself is such a turn-on...

His hands would bruise me as they sought my breasts, not bothering to remove my vest, content to push it out of the way, tug up my shirt, bunch the silk up around my neck. His full lips would take possession of my nipples, one after another, teeth and tongue and nibbling bites, just the way I want them.

I'd be able to feel him, the swollen and rock-hard length of him, that same length I could see outlined against the tight faded denim when he stood out in the sun and lifted his face to its warmth. The power would be pulsing into me, between my legs, where I want it so badly; he'd order me to unzip him and I'd be more than happy to obey. I'd release all of that steely satin from its prison and he'd spill into my hand, more than I could hold. I'd bring him to my aching center, helping him to push at my skirt, rip at my hose and panties, uncover me; I'd be drenched for him...

I was so busy standing on the sidewalk in the bright sun, staring into him, fantasizing... that I failed to notice the woman who walked over and smiled up at him. I blinked hard when I saw a flash of red hair, and when my sex-addled vision cleared I saw this... interloper... this other woman, talking to my man.

This enemy... for as sure as I knew my own name I could recognize the enemy when I saw her.

My first disbelieving thought was, 'Why? Why would a man who looked like him give one second's attention to someone like her?'

She was short. Pale. Dressed in drab gray from head to toe, a pantsuit, for God's sake. Nobody wore pantsuits anymore, at least no self-respecting woman. Sure, she had red hair, and it shone in the sunlight - but it was cut in a boring, short little cap around her face and did nothing for her small head. She had this small head...

I couldn't see her eyes, for she also wore shades. She was thin and small and boring and her little head barely cleared his upper arm. She was standing in front of him, face tipped up to stare at him through those dark glasses perched on her boring little nose... and she was smiling. Okay, so she had a nice smile... big fucking deal. She was still boring as all get-out. I could tell. And I was thinking, 'Okay, no contest, between the two of us. All I have to do is flip my hair over one shoulder and walk his way, and he's all mine...'

So I flipped my thick, wavy blonde hair over one shoulder, and I prepared to walk his way -

And right about then I saw her reach up a hand and yank off his sunglasses, and even from a distance I saw the glow in his eyes as they shone down at her. I saw a grin wreath his face, curl his lips into the most lovely of visions, a true happy man-smile... and he stepped into this woman's space, right up to her. He wound both arms about her boring little pantsuited waist and hauled her clean off her feet - and the kiss he pressed into her mouth was tangible enough for me to taste, yards away from him.

I could feel every inch of my body tighten, as I watched them kiss. The way she clutched at his tee shirt, opened her mouth under his, that short red hair slipping back from her face. The way that dumpy outfit of hers actually had the utter nerve to play up the delicacy of her frame when the force of his embrace bent her back in a perfect little bow.

When I saw him slip an eager knee between her thighs, trying to bring her even closer - right out here in the open, under the eyes of God and everyone... the tightening in my body ceased to be unrequited lust and boiled up into pure, fierce envy, which in turn became fury.

Fury - that some boring little woman had the balls to take what I had decided had to be mine. Fury - that I'd at last found the one man worthy of my own perfection, and someone vastly inferior had nabbed him right under my very nose. A nose far prettier than hers, I might add...

Fury, hot and black and rising so fast inside me that I was choking with it. I'd paid my life dues; I deserved to have the very best. My mother raised me to understand and accept my own worth as a woman - she taught me the only way to make it in this world, as a beautiful woman, was to reach out with confidence and take all that was owed to me. She'd reached out and taken my father in much the same manner, as a matter of fact. And as I stood on the sidewalk steaming like a volcano, I remembered something she'd told me about my father -

"He needed to be rescued, my beauty - he was living with the most drab creature in the world, and she was pregnant with what I am sure would be a drab little baby. Of course I had to rescue him..."

My eyes opened wide, there in the summer sunlight - as I remembered what she'd told me, not that many years ago. She'd found the man of her dreams but he was already taken. And so she'd done a bit of taking on her own - had stolen my father away from this boring pregnant woman. And because of her bold courage, I'd been born and had grown up with two loving, gorgeous parents.

It was the very least I could pass on to my own children, I thought - a childhood as bright as mine had been. With the right man, all things were possible. And I was facing the right man, that was a fact. He just happened to be kissing the wrong woman.

But not for long... not for long.

I took a deep breath, smoothed down my expensive black leather skirt. I flipped the long length of my lovely blonde wavy hair over one shoulder, and I reached into my purse for my Amarige, affording myself one more fortifying spritz. I took out my compact, checked my lip gloss - still looked great - and I put away the metal case. Then my hand closed around the little Derringer I kept in my purse at all times - you never know when someone will get too close and threaten you...

I walked calmly the several yards to where my man was holding the enemy and kissing her, his leg - encased in skin-tight denim blue - parting her own drab little pantsuited thighs...

And I shot her in the ass.

Well, I'd aimed for her heart - actually my arm was off since I was still trembling in fury. I aimed for her heart but I nicked her high on the thigh, close to her hipbone.

The rest of the day passed in a sort of blur, I think. I remember the man I had chosen shouting at me, shock in his voice as he flung the woman to the ground and covered her body with his, protecting her. Protecting her! - my mouth fell open in shock when I saw him do that. I'd been fully prepared to shoot again, but his actions took the wind out of my sails, I guess - because my arm dropped to my side. And when I was grabbed from behind and forced to the ground, the sidewalk gritty and hard beneath my cheek as my hands were pinned behind me, I didn't resist. I was in shock.

Through blurred eyes I saw him scrabble to get at the wound on the woman's hip, heard him exclaim, "Scully, Jesus, baby - we have to get you to the hospital!" I saw him tear at the little bullet-hole until he'd opened that dull gray material enough to see the blood on her white skin...

I heard her pain-filled reply. "Mulder, I'm fine, the bullet only grazed me..."

What I focused on, of course, was the way he called her 'Baby'. I'd never heard so much tenderness in a man's tone. As much as my father loved my mother, I'd never heard it in his voice when he spoke to her - not like that. I think it was that tone, coupled with his words, which did me in the worst. As I was hauled to my feet and dragged to a squad car, as my head was pushed down and I landed in the back seat... I kept hearing that tone and that word, over and over again.

'Baby...' 'Baby'. 'Scully, Baby'...

His baby. Not me. Some red-haired woman with tiny breasts and no color in her clothes or her skin had found a way to capture the most beautiful man I'd ever seen in my life - and I wouldn't have an opportunity to ask her how she'd done it. Some drab creature with skim milk in her veins had snagged the catch of the Millennium...

And I'd never get a chance to prove to him - to this man named Mulder - that I was the better woman, more suited to him, and everything he could ever want.

Because I ended up in prison.

**************

So here I sit. Wearing these incredibly ugly coveralls, orange cotton. Faded, smelling a little of disinfectant. God knows how many people wore them before I got them - it's something I refuse to contemplate.

I sit and look out the window, trying to see whatever spots of summer I can see, between the bars bolted to the windows of the day-room where I get an hour each day to read or watch a little TV. I don't care about the TV and I hate reading. I only care about the fact that my hair is scraped back from my blush-less cheeks, bound into a sloppy ponytail. I only care that I have to wear cheap cotton against my skin instead of silk, and that my nails are ruined and my hands rough from the nasty soap they have in this horrible place.

I have lots of time to think. Time to think about the man called 'Mulder' - 'Agent Mulder', to be exact. I have fallen for a Federal Agent, for Christ's sake - and I made the gross error of shooting his partner, another agent. Could I be any more stupid?

Yes, I could - for you see, they just left. Agent Mulder, and his partner - and lover, apparently - Agent Scully. They came to ask me why. Why I pulled a gun from my purse that day and shot her, a complete stranger. Why during the trial I kept calling out to him, to Mulder - why I cried his name and told the court he was supposed to fall for me. Why I refused to say anything else in court in my defense, except that I was taking back what I felt was mine.

They wanted to know, but I couldn't tell him. Couldn't tell her.

I did, however, have a question for her, and it's a question I thought I'd never have the chance to ask.

I drew myself up proudly, until my back was straight and my body was displayed to as best an advantage as possible, in the ugly faded orange cotton. I looked her up and down, noting the dull navy suit and wondering if this woman had any color at all in her wardrobe - and I asked her.

"What do you have, that would make a man like him bypass me, and settle for you?"

I really wanted to know, for I hadn't a clue. My eyes locked into hers, and the blue of them surprised me. Likewise the sympathy I saw there shook me as well. She felt sorry for me. I had shot her, intending to kill her and take her man and make him mine... and she had sympathy for me.

Then a small smile curled one side of her mouth, and I could see the intelligence and a kind of beauty, and it lit up her face for maybe one second, before she replied, "He's loved me forever, Miss Jenkins. As I've loved him. And he's never seen another woman, since the day he told me - as I've never acknowledged the presence of any other man. It's just that simple."

With that, she smiled again and rose stiffly to her feet. Obviously the hip I'd sliced with my bullet was still bothering her. Agent Mulder hadn't said another word to me. He'd merely taken her hand and walked away, linked with her. And for the first time I saw that fine male ass of his, shown to perfection in skin-tight denim blue. She wore the most drab navy suit I'd ever seen, and he was decked out in tight denim - and as usual the male of the species was far, far prettier than his mate.

They walked out the door and it slammed behind them.

So I sit here, and I think. I have plenty of time to think, these days. Maybe I'll start thinking about how I can make some changes in my life, find a way to become the kind of person that a man like Agent Mulder might notice.

Then again... why should I change? I am after all, perfect...

end

End Notes: With this odd little fic, I bid a fond farewell to the 'birthday fics'. It had been my intention to stop writing them on December 31, and Lib's was the last - her bday being December 29. At last count, I think I topped one hundred. All of them are on my website, most linked under the header "The Birthday Page".

They've been a joy to write and to give, that's for sure!

Lib, have a wonderful birthday!

I simply adore hearing from you; email me sometime! char@chaffin.com

My fic have a home! Come and visit us, at http://char.chaffin.com