22 September 1998
DISTRIBUTION: Archive by permission. Email forwarding OK.
RATING: R for F/F sex, language
SPOILERS: No plot points, but characters used up to and including the movie.
September 1998
SUMMARY: Humour. Written for "Anonymous Sex Theme Week" on the Scully Slash list. Scully has to pick up someone at the Slash Cafe, but she's not really in the mood.
DISCLAIMER: I am as nothing before the mighty corporations and brilliant creators that own these television programs. That's why they get paid and I do this for free.
THANKS TO: The Wondrous Te and Alicia for renting me the Slash Cafe. I doubt Scully could have made a pickup at The XF Ladies' Tea and Bridge Club. A chocolate kiss to Hong Te who inspired The Punishment. And hail Eris, muse extraodinaire.


Once a week, the men clear out and make do with pie and coffee at Denny's. Live music, no cover charge, and the drinks are half price on

Ladies' Night At The Slash Cafe
by Halrloprillalar <prillalar@yahoo.com>

Scully belched. Grabbing her glass from the coffee table, she took a long swig of her beer. Her sweatpants were crawling up her butt, so she wriggled and hitched them into a more comfortable position, then focussed her attention on the Domino's commercial that flashed across the TV. Mmm, pizza. As she watched, she scratched an itchy patch on her scalp.

God, it was good to be single.

Three short blasts on her door buzzer shattered her good mood. Company would be bad enough. The Signal was a catastrophe.

Scully slammed her glass down and slouched sullenly to the door. A white #10 envelope fell through the mail slot. Nothing for it, so she picked it up and tore it open.

     Dana Scully:

     You have been selected for a slash assignment tonight.
     You will proceed to the Slash Cafe where you will have
     anonymous sex. Overnights are optional.

     Fanfic Authors Consortium

Dammit! And right before Ally McBeal too. Anyway, how the hell was she going to pick someone up after drinking three pints of Guiness? Her beer breath probably extended well beyond her personal space.

Better dress, she supposed. The sooner she got off, the sooner she could get back.

In the bedroom, Scully checked her closet. All her best anonymous sex clubbing clothes were dirty and her slut shoes were out being reheeled. Finally, she pulled out an old white tank top, short black skirt, and flats.

There was absolutely no way she could get out of shaving her legs now, so she headed for the shower. Standing in front of the mirror, she wrinkled her nose at her slightly lank hair. Forget drying it though--there were limits to what she would go through for this--so on with the shower cap.

Hot water heaven sent Scully almost to sleep for a moment. Then she lathered up, shaved her armpits, and went to work on her legs.

"Fuck!" One meagre pump and the shaving gel ran empty. "Fuck!" Blood welled up on her anklebone. "Fuck!" Another nick stung on her thigh. Drinking and shaving was almost as dangerous as drinking and driving.

Scully turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. Blood dripped from her ankle, staining the white fluffy bath mat. Somehow, "fuck" had lost its punch, so she ground her teeth and said nothing. Her knee would be fine, but that ankle needed a band-aid. She stuck one on, then brushed her teeth before heading back to dress.

The tank top had seen better days, but Scully pulled it on and hoped the lights would be low. The skirt hung a little loose on her hips and there was no way to belt it. Savagely, she brushed her hair, then gathered it up into an untidy bun.

She was halfway down the hall when she remembered her face. God help her if she went out without makeup. Dark liner around her eyes, Little Red Corvette by Avon on her lips, and Barbiegirl was ready for Ken. Or Skipper, in this case.

Scully called a cab and left.

**

Inside the Slash Cafe, candles flickered and conversations buzzed over tables of every description. It was ladies' night--not a man in sight, except on the stage, where the suave and debonair Tom Jones entertained.

I need a cigarette, Scully thought. Damn, I forgot them.

She stopped by the bar to read the room. First, she scanned for original characters. None tonight, which was a relief. It was always awkward when Scully's many girlfriends ran into each other. Sparks had been known to fly and sometimes they weren't sparks of anger. She remembered the "Alex Incident" and sighed.

Lots of familiar faces dotted the room, though. Marita sat alone in the corner, sipping a martini. At another table, Holly and Kim were buying Bambi shooters and had lined up an impressive number of glasses. On the floor, Angela White and Jana Cassidy danced to Tom's musical stylings. Phoebe Greene and Diana Fowley talked animatedly at the other end of the bar. Scully couldn't quite hear their conversation, but from body language, she supposed the M-word figured largely.

No anonymous candidates presented themselves so far. Scully continued her sweep. Over by the window...

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what the hell is my *mother* doing here?

Scully grabbed the edge of the bar for support. Mrs Scully was with someone. Someone older, with grey hair. Oh God, it was his...she couldn't bring herself to even think it.

Some writers were sicker than she thought.

Mrs Scully and her companion got up. Scully panicked, but remained undetected as the women headed out the door. She shuddered. They were *all over* each other.

A drink would help. Scully turned around and ordered a rum and Coke from the bartender. She could feel the woman giving her the eye and pondered a quick solution to her problem. This place was staffed by authors, though, and since they couldn't fuck the patrons and expect anyone to read about it, they mostly just ogled.

Now that *she* was gone, Scully had a better view of the tables in the back. At one of them, a woman sat alone, nursing a bottle of Zima. Ivanova! It had been months, more than that, and she had missed Susan dreadfully, holding the memories in the back of her mind even through her myriad other encounters.

Scully picked up her drink, ready to go over and use the torch she carried to light a wildfire. Then she remembered. Her assignment.

Fuck the assignment, she almost said, but she knew what everyone knew. Blow off the assignment, face The Punishment. It might not come right away, but it would come nonetheless. Maybe in a day, maybe in a week. Maybe three months down the road, after a hard day being kidnapped and drugged and encased in alien goop like a maraschino cherry in a jello salad, she would come in the door, ready for a hot bath and a Harrison Ford video, and she would sit down for a minute to take her shoes off and bang! from underneath the couch would roll Ma Peacock.

Anything was better than that.

Sighing, Scully cast one last wistful look at Ivanova, and turned away. If she could find some chick right away and boff her in the bathroom, maybe she would still be able to catch Susan before she left.

Right on cue, a woman walked up to the bar and ordered a drink. Scully gave her the once-over. Her voice was flat, but low and husky. Long, fine light brown hair, good figure, good features, lips stung by an entire swarm of bees. Eyes--well, the eyes darted back and forth, nervous and a little wild. She was probably crazy. She'd do.

The drink arrived. "Let me get that," Scully offered and paid the bartender.

"Thanks." The woman looked at Scully.

"Come here often?" Scully sipped her rum and Coke, making eye contact over the rim of the glass.

"No. This is my first time."

Scully continued to stare, saying nothing. She moistened her lips. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a woman entering the bar--Dax, looking fine, fine, fine in a skin tight catsuit. She blew a kiss at Scully, who turned and waved.

"Just a friend," Scully murmured to her target, lying through her clenching teeth. What to say next to Crazy Girl? Compliments on the outfit were usually quite effective and a good chance for some fingering and stroking, but this woman was wearing jeans and an old sweatshirt. Still, better give it the old college try.

Scully reached out and put her hand on Crazy Girl's waist. "I just love the feel of a worn-in sweatshirt. So soft." She squeezed gently. "Don't you?"

Peripheral vision showed Dax heading away, threading through the tables, sitting down with Ivanova. Jadzia, you bitch! Scully screamed inside her head. Get away from her!

Dammit, she had totally missed her companion's response. She would just have to assume it had been favourable. She had to get this over with soon.

Scully put her drink down on the bar and moved right up to the other woman. "Let's go into the back, OK? I want you."

Crazy Girl stared for a moment. "Here's my thing, I don't just--"

The words died into a gurgle as Scully glued herself to the brunette's face. A little suck, a little tongue, a little grope and that Old Slash Magic had Crazy Girl in its spell. She spoke not a word as Scully dragged her to the ladies' room in the back.

They fell through the swinging door and stopped dead. Retching echoed off the tiles. Holly stood just outside one of the stalls, looking apologetic.

"Sometimes getting them drunk backfires," she said. "You might want to try the men's room."

Scully nodded and hauled Crazy Girl back out and into the room next door. And stopped dead again.

While Scully hadn't seen thousands of men's rooms in her life, she had been in a few and this one looked nothing like those. It sparkled. It shone. The counter tops were marble. Thick fluffy towels, most monogrammed, draped from heated racks. The toilet stalls were huge and a shower stall filled the far corner. The urinals looked normal, except they were absolutely clean. Free dispensers stocked ten kinds of lube and condoms. And along the wall--Scully gaped--along the wall hung whips, fur-lined shackles, ball-gags, cock-rings, butt-plugs, and a lot of stuff she had never seen before.

She was never using the ladies' room here again.

"Wow." Crazy Girl looked as stunned as Scully.

Shit, she still had to bonk this chickie. Scully grabbed her for another deep kiss, and pushed her into the nearest stall. From her skirt pocket, she pulled a small box marked Pretty White Pills. Shaking out two tablets, she chewed and swallowed, grimacing at the bitter taste. She hated using these--they always gave her such a headache the next day--but sometimes she just couldn't get it up without them.

One still moment before the fire flared up, then Scully dove into the stall and fucked the girl ten ways from Friday. Clothing up, down, pulling, yanking. Hands and mouths, teeth and lips and tongues, skin and fingers and skin and burning screaming coming coming coming.

That hadn't been so bad after all. Scully straightened her clothing and smiled at Crazy Girl. "You were great," she murmured. "Thanks."

"I can't believe I did this, it's not at all like me." Crazy Girl tucked her t-shirt into her jeans, then pulled down her sweatshirt. "I mean, I'm a psychologist and I have these creepy visions and no personal life at all. It seems kind of weird."

Warning bells went off in Scully's mind. Those leaden tones, pouty lips, psychology and strange beliefs: she'd fucked Mulder's Evil Twin. A terrible thought hit her--this wasn't *Samantha*, was it? If some stupid angsty sequel turned up later, she would check herself into the nearest convent and take a vow of chastity, she really would.

"I didn't even tell you my name," Crazy Girl said. "I'm--"

Scully quickly pressed her fingers down over the woman's mouth. "No names tonight." She slid out of the stall and almost tripped over Holly.

"Are you all done with her?" Holly licked her lips.

"Be my guest," Scully said.

"I owe you," Holly replied and zipped inside the stall.

A quick mirror check revealed a few lipstick smudges, so Scully wiped her face on the towel embroidered FWM and repainted her lips.

Back in the bar, she eagerly headed toward the tables, only to see a smirking Jadzia manoeuvring Ivanova out the door.

It was too much. She could only imagine that there had been some "Scully's Worst Nightmare" challenge and that she was in for many more nights of this kind of crap. She slumped at a table and ordered a bottle of cheap whiskey, intending to listen to Tom Jones and get maudlin until the place closed and someone pushed her into a taxi.

A few shots and she was singing along muzzily:

     Just help yourself to my lips, to my arms
     Just say the word and they're yours
     Just help yourself to the love in my heart
     Your smile has opened up the door

"It's all a crock, you know. Love. 'Just say the word and they're yours.' Love is just something that sucks away your will to live."

Scully looked up and took in the straight chin-length hair, wide face, trim body, short skirt. Oh, thank you slash authors, she thought fervently.

Meanwhile, the woman continued her speech. "Men! They drain your life force and use it to advance their careers which then leaves them no time or energy to shore up a failing relationship, so they leave, while you flop down in the middle of the the emotional wreckage and eat ice cream until the next one comes along and you start all over again."

Scully stood up and put her hand on the woman's shoulder, looking deep into her eyes.

"Ally," she said, "I think it's time you forgot about men for awhile."

F I N I S

Feedback and applications to work the bar on Ladies' Night may be forwarded to <prillalar@yahoo.com>.