Title: Of Ruminants and Men

Author: OneMillionAndNine

Feedback: kokotheuberchimp@hotmail.com  

http://www.geocities.com/onemillionandnine/ 

Rating: PG - As with all my fic, don't read this 

unless you check with your mom first to make sure 

it's okay.  Unless you're my kid - then I say "No! No 

freaking way can you read this!"

Category: missing scene Rain King, almost PWP, humor

Summary: What 'is' Mulder's religious affiliation, 

anyway?

Disclaimer: I am not Chris Carter; I know how to 

pronounce Samhain. 

Archive : If you want it, but there are some who 

might question your judgment...me, for one. 

Note: I wrote this as a respite from a HUGE piece I'm 

working on. I hope it provides a pleasant chuckle for 

someone else as well. If not, it will just prove 

everyone from my meat life right when they say I have 

no sense of humor.

Thanks: To MaybeAmanda - you light up my life and 

fill my fic with grammar and punctuation.



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





A cow.  



He should have been expecting it. Animals had a 

certain tendency to present themselves as agents of 

fate when it came to his relationship with Scully.  

Or conspicuous lack there of.  



Pomeranians and bees were only the beginning - after 

a serious consideration of his life, it occurred to 

him that perhaps the animal kingdom as a whole was 

carrying out some sort of vendetta.  He had no idea 

what he had done to deserve it.  He wasn't exactly an 

animal lover - but he certainly didn't wish his 

fellow creatures any harm.  He'd never been the sort 

of child to burn ants with a magnifying glass, much 

less engage in any of the more exotic animal 

tortures.  In fact, in first grade, he had bloodied 

the nose of a boy who persisted in tearing 

grasshopper after grasshopper limb from limb.  After 

the second wriggling legless torso, he'd sworn to 

tear Michael Foster apart in the selfsame way.  



It must have been something he'd done in a previous 

life. 



The cow should not have surprised him.  It was simply 

part of an on-going pattern that led to the night's 

events.  



He really had intended to sleep in the car.  At 

least, he had until she demanded he sleep in her 

room.  Then, cur that he was, he leapt at his 

keeper's command.  Sit, Mulder. Stay, Mulder. Sleep 

in a Chair and Be Thrilled About It, Mulder.  



He really had not intended to keep her awake.  He 

just couldn't get comfortable.  Neither had he wanted 

to tap both rhythmically and compulsively on the 

armrests.  It was not his fault.  He had not chosen 

to have 'Jungle Boogie' caught on a continuous loop 

through his head.  



How could he have expected himself to refuse when she 

told him to "Get in the damn bed so I can get some 

sleep!"? 



Of course, her first act, once he got under the 

covers, was to turn her back to him. 



It was interesting, really.  Not exactly an 

invitation to debauchery, but neither was it 'touch 

me and die.'  He liked it.  He could live with it.  

Hell, he could sleep on the bed next to it.  He was 

damned near ecstatic.  



He drifted to sleep blessing the cow.  Our Airborne 

Bovine of Fortuitous Landings.  He'd erect a place of 

worship in right here in Kroner.  He'd start his own 

religion, with holy days of obligation for the World 

Series.  His church would have stained glass 

masterpieces in honor of Plan 9 and the Knicks.  

Instead of hymns, they'd just tune the radio to the 

oldies station and dance to Elvis in the aisles.



Feeling Scully's body heat radiating like his own 

personal sun, he was really starting to love that 

cow.  Maybe it would win a better incarnation the 

next time around.  



Fox Mulder wasn't sure what would constitute a better 

incarnation.  Probably not human.  Cat.  It would be 

nice to be a cat.  Catch mice.  Sleep anywhere.  Rub 

up against strangers without anyone thinking less of 

you.  Have a screaming fuck in the alley without 

the authorities being alerted.  No games -- locate 

the female in estrus, mount, and inseminate.   



He smiled from his edge of the bed and imagined 

sinking his teeth into the back of Scully's neck.  

She would taste delicious.  



He fell back easily into thoughts of his Cow Church.  

Maybe they could paint a nice Holstein pattern on the 

outside in homage to the Most Sacred Quadruped.  If 

people said it looked like a giant Gateway box, screw 

them - it would be. . it would be. . . ah hah!  It 

would be the First Church of Mulder, and funerary 

services would involve flinging the deceased 

in a catapult, so he would be propelled upward, to 

await entrance into his new life as a house-pet in 

the arms of a soft little Scully.



Or maybe that was his version of Nirvana, the 

greatest reward imaginable, her light arms draped 

over his side, her leg thrown over his so her hot 

little crotch steamed up against him.  He could only 

think of one thing better.  But that couldn't last 

too long.  So, in its own way, The Eternal Dry Hump  

was better.  



Her face in his neck, lips plying his throat with 

kisses, his hands grasping her breasts - they seemed 

so firm for a deity her age.  And the nipples bigger 

than he thought he remembered from Antarctica.  



Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.



The pressure in his pulsing cock was painful now.  

The Great Rub was not enough.  He wanted in.



He reached around and held her steady by the waist as 

he began to set up a rough but steady rhythm against 

her.  Wet - he felt real wet on the crotch of his 

sweat pants for the first time in  - god, it felt 

like fucking forever.



The Divine Respite smelled slightly of moisturizer 

and he actually seemed to be salivating.  Pink 

clouds and cherubs, Elvis on heaven's radio, and he'd 

just made She-Who-Must-Be-Placated come.



She was coming.  God, it seemed like her orgasm was 

lasting forever, her shoulders rolling, his name 

murmuring out of her open mouth, her tiny body 

jerking fiercely.  It should have been erotic, but 

it was just scary. 



Because. . .



Oh shit. 



It was real.  



Scully, in her satin pajamas, was wrapped around him 

and shaking.  The look on her face was eerily 

reminiscent or the one he'd seen her wear when 

coming face to face with mutants and madmen.  He 

wondered which she thought he was. 



Oh shit.  



He also must have had a look of terror on his face, 

but had yet to cease grinding into her.



Twenty two seconds later, Scully was locked in the 

bathroom.  



When she emerged, it was as though nothing had 

happened, though neither of them was able to look 

directly at the other for more than a month. 



A month during which Mulder ate a lot of hamburger. 



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