He Wore A Fedora
by JHJ Armstrong

Rating: NC-17. MSR. Smut. Humor. One use of the f-word.

Summary: Mulder. Striptease.

Spoilers: None!

Distribution: Anywhere. Just link to my site and keep name, etc., attached.

Disclaimer: Don't own even a toenail clipping. Thanks to Joe Cocker for "You Can Leave Your Hat On" and the peerless Eric Clapton for "She's Waiting." Speakerphone is courtesy of T Bishop and Char Chaffin's "1-900-OH-SANTA." Run, do not walk, to ATXC or Xemplary, and read it!

Feedback: Make me smile at [email protected]

To the beta crew -- Sabine: Glad your muse was awake, too. Thanks for the barstool line. T Bishop: We're gonna have to start a mutual admiration society soon. Alicia K: Helpful as always. May your idea well never run dry.

Author's notes: I seem to not be able to write unless it's a challenge from MSR-SMUT. Ah well. Here's my holiday smut-biscuit for all 'shippers!


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This is all the speakerphone's fault.

If I had just picked up the receiver that day in the office, I would not be waiting for my partner to appear on the stage in this hotel ballroom and start taking his clothes off in front of me and a couple hundred others.

How did this happen? Well, I suppose it all starts with my cancer. After I recovered, I joined D.C. Hope, a charity dedicated to funding the research of terminal illnesses.

Our Christmas party is always a major deal, with an awards ceremony, full sit-down dinner and dancing. Four or five years ago, a small group of women rented a separate meeting room in the same hotel and brought in some "male entertainment" for those interested. It went over well, and since part of the money the dancers earn comes back to the charity, the crowd has grown bigger each year.

I ended up on the "male entertainment" committee this year, and we chose Working Men, a quintet of gents who were becoming known for their use of costumes and choreography. "A step up from Chippendales" is how one satisfied customer described them.

Here is where Mulder makes his entrance. In November, I got a call from Working Men's manager, a guy named Rich. I was sitting at my desk, busy with paperwork and writing reports, and not expecting my partner anytime soon, so I put Rich on speakerphone. That was my first mistake.

"Scully."

"Is this Dana Scully of D.C. Hope?"

"Yes, it is."

"Hi, uh, this is Rich from Working Men. I'm sorry, ma'am, but we're going to have to cancel for your Christmas party."

"What? Why?"

"One of our dancers got deported." He sounds a bit sheepish. "By the time we got through with auditions for a new member, it'd be too close to showtime to sew new costumes and choreograph a routine. Again, I'm really sorry. But I hope this gives you enough lead time to find something else."

"Yes, it likely does ... thank you for calling ... I'm sorry that you won't be available. We'll probably need some time to make a decision, so if a miracle happens, call me back, okay?"

My other half chose this moment to enter the office, walking by my desk just as Rich replies, "Okay, but unless you know a six-foot, 200-pound guy who can dance and wouldn't mind wearing a g-string in public, I don't think that miracle is likely."

Before I can say anything, Mulder has snatched up the earpiece and is talking to Rich. "Hi, my name is Fox Mulder. Who are you, and may I ask for what you need this six-foot, 200-pounder?" He listens, then grins from ear to ear. "Rich, I think you may have found your man. Where do I sign up?" Scribbling directions on a pad, he nods and grins again. "Okay, see you then."

He hangs up, and looks at me impishly. I must look as dumbstruck as I feel. "Gee, Scully, didn't you know I could dance?" He lowers his voice an octave. "Or is it the thought of me in a g-string that has you speechless?"

I recover my voice at the familiarity of his innuendo. For a moment I thought he'd turned into an alien and I'd have to get out my plam. "No, G-man, I believe you could fill out a g-string just fine." I'm rewarded by a slight blush. "I just wonder if you know what you're getting yourself into."

An unidentifiable glint twinkles in his eyes as he answers. "Oh I do, Agent Scully, I do."


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The time between that fateful phone call and the party passed in a blur. Rich did call me in the meantime, to confirm some details -- and thank me for sending Mulder his way. I told him it was all my partner's doing. Rich laughed, and said he hoped I would enjoy the show.

So here I am, decked out in a new green brocade-and-velvet dress, hair curled, makeup perfect, feeling nervous and excited and afraid and jumpy and ... aroused. Yes, aroused. Unbelievably aroused. I am a woman, and I've been led to believe I'm not unattractive. Mulder is most definitely a handsome man. I've had more than a few daydreams involving him and me and very little clothing.

To tell the truth, I've been aroused a lot lately in his presence. Maybe the knowledge of his upcoming performance is exacerbating the problem. But it's been going on for a long time.

Once, he forgot a dress shirt in his motel room. I found it while checking the rooms one last time. His scent wafted past my nose as I tucked it in the corner of my bag, and I thought I was going to spontaneously combust in the middle of Room 153. I still haven't given it back.

I sigh. Who are you kidding, G-woman? You're in love with your partner. Big time. Maybe you should tell him? Yeah, right after he's done stripping for all my friends.

My attention is snapped back to the present when a man walks up to the mike, taps it, and starts to speak. He has black hair, seriously tousled, and his tux fits him like a glove. Dangerously handsome, I'd say, but not the man I'm looking for. His voice is a pleasant baritone, with a smile in it.

"Good evening, ladies ... and I do see some gentlemen over there ... " He points to the far corner, and a faint cheer comes from that direction. He laughs, and waves. "My name is Rich, and it's my pleasure to give you ... Working Men!"

The music starts, Eric Clapton I think, with a driving drum beat and scorching electric guitar. The dancers come out one by one, pausing for an introduction by Rich, then walking sinuously downstage and taking their places for the routine.

Mulder is last, and not surprisingly the cheers are loudest for him. He takes it in stride, putting a little extra wiggle into his step and forming a sexy pout with his lower lip. For this first number, he is clad in a button-down denim shirt with the sleeves torn off, tight faded jeans, a work belt and untied construction boots. His hair is spiky with gel, and his body looks as if it's been oiled. I would check if the others do, too, but I can't tear my eyes from my partner.

Probably because he hasn't taken his eyes from me. The moment he came on stage, his eyes searched the room and locked onto mine. He even winked, damn the man! Then he smiled, a slow, beautiful smile, and started to dance.

I am mesmerized by the fluidity and grace of my partner's body. I guess I shouldn't be surprised, I know he's an excellent athlete, but watching him bump and grind like this in perfect unison with the four others is new territory. The tight jeans outline his long legs to perfection; the sleeveless shirt sets off his biceps. A few buttons come undone in the course of his dancing, and I imagine undoing the rest with my teeth.

I feel a sudden melting sensation low in my belly, coiling and uncoiling, making me flushed. My breathing is quickening, I should probably get a drink or look away or something before I embarrass myself, but I simply cannot take my gaze from Mulder's body.

I let my eyes wander down his length and back up again, conveying my appreciation in our usual silent communication. He acknowledges and returns the compliment, then lets the music take him over, closing his eyes and moving with utter abandon, and I take in a strangled breath as I am released from his spell. 

Janie, seated next to me, leans over and whispers, "If you don't take him home tonight, Dana, I'll never forgive you. That man is telling you he wouldn't kick you out of bed except to fuck you on the floor." She raises an eyebrow, daring me to challenge her.

I snort with laughter. "I think you may be right." And she is, I say to myself. A line from "Wayne's World," one of Mulder's favorite movies, pops into my head, modified for me: "Oh yes, he will be mine."

Fife and drum signal the end of the Clapton song, and the dancers retreat backstage. I get a great view of Mulder's ass, but a few of the people around me express their disappointment that no clothing was removed. A song begins, and I look to the stage in anticipation of another group number including disrobing, but Rich steps up to the microphone again. "I can tell some of you are disppointed by the amount of skin thus far --" Murmurs from the audience. "-- but we have found that introducing ourselves as a group, then letting each dancer go solo, is the best way to go. Okay? Good. On with the show!"

Most of the crowd has now moved to surround the stage, and I was planning to do the same, but as soon as Rich says "solo," I stop in my tracks and my mouth goes dry. Oh God. An entire song of nothing but Mulder dancing? And taking off his clothes? Jesus, Harry and Joseph, save me now. Please tell me he's going to be first. I think the torture of waiting would kill me.

Of course, Mulder is not first. Or second. Or third. Or fourth. He is last. Thankfully, I discovered halfway through the second that if I shift just right I can get a little needed pressure on certain parts of my anatomy, just enough to take the edge off so I don't run up and attack Mulder the moment he comes out for his "solo" ...

I reach the edge of the stage just as the fourth dancer finishes. I have just perched myself on a leather-covered barstool when I feel a hand on my arm. It's the third guy, a blond-haired, blue-eyed cutie, no longer in a purple g-string but tight black jeans and a white T-shirt. He hands me a note, but not before he looks me up and down, taking in my flushed face and sparkling eyes. 

"Mulder's a lucky man," he says before getting devoured by women more available than I.

I open the note: "Hope you like the show. Room 1751. M"

As soon as I comprehend the missive, the ballroom goes black for a few seconds, and when the lights come back up there is a spotlight on my partner. My jaw drops at the sight of Fox Mulder, eyes closed and barefoot in his blue three-piece pinstriped suit, snow-white dress shirt underneath. I haven't seen him wear it in years. Damn if he doesn't look better in it now than I remember.

He is standing with his weight on his right leg, head down, right hand in his pocket and the other resting on his left thigh. I know three-piece, double-breasted suits are impractical in our line of work, but this man was born to wear them. And he has glasses on!

But the piece de resistance, the coup d'etat, the cherry on top, is the Indiana Jones fedora perched at a rakish angle on his head. We rented the trilogy one weekend a while ago, and he teased me when I admired the way Harrison Ford wore his hat. Half-jokingly, I told him that any man in a fedora might be granted liberties with me I would otherwise never allow. Looks like Indiana Mulder has taken my words to heart.

The music starts, and I can't suppress a giggle. Joe Cocker. Very appropriate. Then my partner begins to dance, and I can't think of anything but the sight in front of me.

He puts one hand behind his head and moves his hips and shoulders to the beat as his other hand comes around to unbutton the jacket. That gets removed painstakingly slowly, two or three little pauses along the way and a big pause in the middle to shake his booty with the jacket hanging half off. The medium-fast tempo of the song provides plenty of opportunity for exaggerated steps, swivels and dips as he continues to peel out of his clothes.

The glasses eventually go flying in one direction, the vest another. He hasn't opened his eyes the whole time, though, and I wonder why. He seems to sense my curiosity, because I am assaulted by pure lust in hazel for about five seconds before he closes them again and starts to unbutton his shirt, dancing away to the other side of the stage. Shirell, who's standing next to me, laughs and nudges me in the side. When she sees I'm not about to look away from Mulder, she hollers in my ear, "Girl, I thought you were going to go up in flames right here! That boy is steaming hot!"

Tell me about it. I'm feeling like hot caramel right now ... sticky and sweet and ready to ooze all over ...

I lick my lips and swallow in a futile attempt to calm myself. Above me, Mulder's shirt is unbuttoned to the waist but still tucked in, allowing for glimpses of honey-hued chest, glistening with body oil. Some part of my brain that's not completely hormone-fogged wonders if he shaves his chest or if it's just naturally that smooth. Maybe I'll ask him sometime. Or not. Whatever.

He eases the suspenders off his shoulders and untucks the shirt, lifting it above the waistband a little to show a bit more skin. Undoing one cuff at a time, he rolls the sleeves up to expose strong forearms. Great. I don't think I'll ever be able to watch him do that again without serious breathing problems.

The shirt is now completely open and threatening to fall back from his shoulders. A few more seductive gyrations and it does, and I admire the way his shoulders flow out to his arms and in to his narrow waist.

Mulder finally tosses the shirt away, leaving him in only suspenders, pants and g-string, I assume. He dances for another half-minute, then tears his pants off with both hands as the music hits a crescendo, revealing a blood-red scrap of an undergarment. I try to be detached, comparing his lean swimmer's legs to the heavily muscled quads and calves of the previous dancer, but he chooses this moment to turn and I get an unobstructed view of his well-defined rear end. An image of my hands grabbing it as he drives into me burns itself into my brain, helped not at all by the fact he's simulating doing that on stage ...

I shut my eyes. Think, Agent Scully, before you come all over this barstool. Okay. Pectorals, latissimus dorsi, gastrocnemius, hamstring, quadriceps, gluteus ... no. Deep breath. Pectorals, latissimus dorsi, gastrocnemius, hamstring, biceps, triceps. Pectorals, latissimus dorsi, gastrocnemius, hamstring, biceps, triceps. ... Deep breath. Can we open our eyes without them crossing from being so turned on? Yes? Good. What's going on now?

While I took a reality break, his side straps have been filling with bills, and I think I see some fifties and even a Ben Franklin in there. Wow -- if Mulder ever gets tired of the FBI, I think we've found a new career.

The music fades and Mulder takes a bow to wild cheers and applause. He glances at me, and I know it's time to go.

I walk to the elevator on wobbly legs, go to the room and stand five feet from the door, waiting for my partner to enter. When he does, again fully dressed in suit, glasses and hat, he gives me a bruising kiss, picks me up and heads for the bed.

On the way, we part to breathe. I take his glasses off and whisper, "Mulder ... You can leave your hat on ..."


-- 30 --

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feedback to [email protected]
thanks for playing in the sandbox with me

Notes: The striptease was a blast to write; hope you liked it. The MSR-SMUT challenge was to write a fic using the Joe Cocker song "You Can Leave Your Hat On," which can be heard at the end of the movie "The Full Monty," tho Tom Jones sang that version. Great flick. And if you ever want strip lessons, just e-mail! :P

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