Jess M
snarkypup@mindspring.com

DISCLAIMER: Oh, they are SOOOO not mine.
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Anywhere, just let me know.
SPOILER WARNING: Um, Bad Blood?
RATING: R
CONTENT WARNING: Mulderbation!
CLASSIFICATION: UST, MSR
SUMMARY: Scully goes on a date. Mulder is incensed! Comedy and Love ensue.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is to keep the smut harpies at Scullyfuc... I mean
Scullyfic off my back. <pained moan> There is no real smut, I'm afraid. I
just wasn't... ehem, in the mood. There is Mulderbation and some smutty
thoughts. Ok, Ladies? Jeeze. <martyred look> Oh, and no offence to anyone
actually from Butte. I've only driven through.

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Send me feedback, or I'll sick Jack on you! Oh wait, you'd probably like
that, wouldn't you, you sick pervert! What, you don't know Jack? Read on, to
know what Jack entails...

Butt, Montana

It's all Dr. Leo's fault. I never intended to end up here, in this damn
filthy motel room, jacking off furiously to the sound of the people in the
next room having unbelievably vocal sex. If he hadn't been so fucking good
looking, then Scully would never have fallen for him. Because it wasn't his
sparkling personality, lemme tell ya.

Maybe I should back up here. Slow down, put the ol' gear shift in neutral,
so to speak.

Heh heh. Gear shift. I need to get out more.

It started with this case, and I use that last word loosely. Scully and I
flew out to the very plausible state of Montana to investigate what was
supposed to be evidence of vampiric activity in the town of Butte. Or Butt,
as I like to call it. Not that this little bit of witticism actually
garnered a laugh from my perpetually truculent partner. No. She just looked
at me as if she'd like to slug me. Again.

Did I mention that Scully whacked me last week? And I don't mean whacked in
the good way. Yes, my "diminutive" partner knocked me in the face with her
fist when I had the gall to tell her that perhaps she shouldn't have left
our only piece of evidence in her coat pocket if she wanted it to actually
make it to the Bureau lab for analysis, for once. I believe she felt wronged
by this little tip, particularly as it was my fault that her car was on fire
with her coat inside as I said it.

After she hit me, not hard but hard enough, she insisted I buy her a new
coat to replace the one now being burnt to an unrecognizable crisp. How, I
wanted to know, was I supposed to know that that weird fuel-like smell was
actually leaking fuel? Then she slugged me in the arm hard enough to leave a
cute little Scully fist-sized bruise.

Anyway, be that as it may, we ended this week in scenic, snow-covered Butt.
At a bit of an impasse, but nothing our (insert air-quotes here)
relationship hasn't weathered in the not-so-distant past. What, I thought,
could possibly go wrong amid the glorious winterscape of mountain country?
The lovely Dr. Leo, is what.

Dr. Leo is the County M.E. Actually, County Me wouldn't be inappropriate
either, as the man is clearly self-obsessed.

What's that I hear, Pot? Yeah? Who you callin' black? Lemme just take my
hand off Jack here and I'll knock you cold.

Now, to fully appreciate what happened when we went to meet Dr. Leo, you
have to understand that he's well... handsome, in an International Male,
I'm-so-gay-but-I-don't-know-it sort of way. And yes, I can hear that pot
rattling around back there just fine. I'm ignoring the damn thing. Scully
described him to me in the car on the way back to this greasy little hell
hole of a motel as "Nordic". Oh, ok, so that's what they're calling big,
muscular and blond these days. This was after he explained to us, in all
seriousness, that he'd moved here from L.A. because the ski season there was
too short. Yes, I realize there are places in California you can attach two
sticks to your shoes and go careening down a mountain for fun, but you know
what I was thinking by this point. So, he's athletic, well dressed, and he
must be over six-foot-five with biceps the size of steam rollers. He was
huge, and blond, and immediately, obviously smitten with Scully. Which meant
I hated him, on sight.

"Actually, it's Doctor Leonard Svenson, but you can call me Dr. Leo if I can
call you Dr. Dana."

I don't usually feel the urge to hurl during routine autopsies, but that
nearly did it.

So, Dr. Dana and Dr. Leo did the autopsy of the first victim together, since
he was so interested in learning her "techniques". Ehem. Victim was a woman
in her thirties who'd been exsanguinated, or so it seemed. The whole time,
Dr. Leo's openly hitting on Dr. Dana. That's when they aren't standing with
their backs to me, "conferring", or whatever it is flirting's called when it
done by two old-enough-to-know-better professionals in front of their
oh-so-left-out colleague.

"So, Dr. Dana, it must be fascinating working for the FBI."

"You really know your stuff, Dr. Dana, I'll say that much. I'm impressed."

"Dr. Dana, come look at this. I think it's a partial print, but I'd like
your opinion."

"Oh, Dr. Dana, come on over here so I can kiss your fabulous ass."

Ok, so he didn't actually say that. But he was thinking it. They don't call
me "Spooky" for nothing.

Then, just when I think it can't possibly get any worse than having to sit
and watch Mr. Charming tease Scully till she giggles while he sports an
erection too massive to ignore, even if you're her disgusted and horrified
male partner, she turns on me. Viciously, I might add.

"Mulder," she says at last, and it's been so long since anyone has actually
bothered to acknowledge my presence that I jump. "Mulder, I don't think this
woman was the victim of anything more supernatural than a serious puncture
to both the arteries in her neck. It's possible she was upside down at the
time, as evidenced by the ligature marks on her ankles."

"Wow, that's brilliant, Dr. Dana," Dr. Leo beams. "So you think it's nothing
more than your run-of-the-mill cult sacrifice?"

"That's my guess," she says, snapping off the latex and pushing back her
hair so I can see the satisfied look in her eye.

"And this rules out vampirism, how?" I ask, moving blindly forward.

"Mulder," she says, practically blushing at my obviously uncontrolled
madness in front of  the Super Wholesome and Sane Dr. Leo, "there is no such
thing as a vampire."

"Oh really?" I say, raising one eyebrow and aiming it at her. "That's not
what you wrote on your report after Sheriff 'Bloodsucker' Hartwell left you
in his pick-up truck while he evacuated the entire ghoul-infested trailer
park. And don't say you were drugged, Scully, because I know you know what
I'm talking about."

"Ha ha!" She gives a very nervous little laugh while shooting me repeatedly
with the high-powered rifle that is the Scully Glare. "You know we never
really established what happened there, Mulder."

"Right," I say slowly. "I'll be sure and mention that when the expense
report comes up."

"Your work sounds fascinating. I'd love to hear about it over dinner." Dr.
Leo says suddenly in his "melodic" baritone.

"That would be lovely," Scully says enthusiastically. "Mulder, would you
mind?"

Would I mind what? Then it dawns on me. Despite the fact that it is, in
fact, MY work that Dr. Leo finds so utterly fascinating, I'm not going to be
invited to the party.

"Sure, Dana," I say. "I don't mind at all. Be sure to include Flukie when
you go over all of your cases. Ooo, and Eugene Tooms."

"I really don't think Dr. Leo would want to hear about those particular
cases over dinner," she says, quite seriously.

Really, Scully? You don't say. That's what I'd talk about.

So that's how I've ended up here, while the lovely and talkative Dr. Dana is
out gallivanting around Butt with her new Nordic boyfriend.

I saw her just before she left. She was wearing a clean blue suit and a very
tight shirt underneath. A shirt I don't recall seeing on our many jaunts
into the Montanan countryside. A shirt I didn't even know she owned. Why,
why was it in her bag? What does this say, that she travels with such
revealing clothing, but doesn't wear it around me?

She looked wonderful. I even told her so. I'm not a complete asshole, after
all. I realize sometimes a woman needs a little attention, even the physical
kind.

If she brings him back here, I'll kill them both with my bare hands. But not
before I watch her get naked.

So, all this got me thinking about my partner, ehem. She's an attractive
woman, as anyone would tell you. Not gorgeous all the time, the way Phoebe
was, but attractive in a wholesome, let's-get-together-and-buy-a-minivan
sort of way. Until you get to know her. Then you realize that while she's
got an incredibly sharp, witty mind, she also has enough hang-ups to
actually be her own closet.

What will the remarkably unremarkable Dr. Leo make of, say... her abduction
by aliens? Or the whole infertility thing? Will he be understanding and kind
when she wants to visit her nearly-unknown dead daughter's empty grave? See,
all he knows is that Scully's hot, which she is. But I know the real Scully.
The one who has terrible, gasping nightmares and sleeps with her side-arm
under her pillow. Ok, perhaps I helped to make her that way, and that's why
I know so damn much about it.

Way to kill the mood, Mulder.

Bite me, Jack.

To take my mind off my inevitable contribution to Scully's many, many
neurosis, I started thinking about where I would take her on a date, were I
ever to say something as inane as "Your work sounds fascinating. Can we
discuss it over dinner somewhere?" There's this great little Italian
restaurant I know of in my neighborhood. One of those little places where
the owner's name is Mario and there are way too many pictures of Frank
Sinatra on the wall to be just coincidence. I fantasized out this long,
intelligent conversation we'd have about art and the nature of the hidden
within an artist's subconscious. I was very, very funny and vaguely
suggestive. Scully was clever and got a bit too drunk.

That's when things got ugly, so to speak. I started imagining what it would
be like to take a very slightly smashed Scully back up to my apartment.

Now don't get me wrong, I've thought about Scully in this context on
occasion in the past. But it was only in passing, as in: "Oooo, she looks
fuckable today. Nice shoes." Never, ever, have I pulled out the Weasel of
Love and started touching myself while I thought about her. At least, never
deliberately. Sometimes the mind wanders. What can I say?

Anyway, so there I am, chicken definitely out and turning purple from lack
of air. I keep thinking of sliding slowly into Scully, of how hot and wet
she'd assumedly be. The nice thing about fantasy being that she is wetter
than a rainy night in South Florida and I didn't have to do anything to get
her that way. Not that I really mind, but oh, it's sweet to just skip
straight to the main event.

So I'm pushing in and out of her hot little... Why is there no nice word for
that? It's fantastic. She's groaning and gasping and writhing and saying
very un-Scully-like things like: "Oh, fuck me, Mulder, you love God. Fuck me
with your giant tool!"

I watch too much porn.

And I'm grasping Mr. Winkie like he's trying to escape and then I picture
her as she comes beneath me (boy is that a fantasy and don't I know it). Her
face twists up and she leans up to stick her sharp little tongue in my mouth
and whoosh, I'm spent. All over the bedspread.

Oh come on, like you don't know that stuff happens when you snuggle under
those motel covers. No one is that nave.

The cell phone rings. Right then, as if on cue.

"Mulder," she says in a throaty voice, "it's me."

God, so it is, Scully. It has been for years and years.

"Scully?" I croak out, holding the phone awkwardly in my non-dominant, and
therefore clean, hand. "I thought you were out with Dr. Leo?"

"So did I," she says. "But he never showed."

Something in me snaps. I don't think before I speak.

"Are you saying that albino fucker stood you up?"

This elicits a snort of laughter from Dr. Dana.

"Yeah, I guess he did. Anyway, Mulder, I'm out at some pricey little bistro
in the backwoods of Butt, Montana with a dead battery and a serious snow
storm on the way. I don't suppose you could..."

"Come get you?" I finish, trying not to sound too self-satisfied. She said
"Butt", heh heh.

"If you wouldn't mind," she says.

As opposed to what? Her spending the night in her dead car? Walking back in
the three feet of snow?

"Tell me where you are," I instruct.
 

end 1 of 2

Butt, Montana (2/2)
Jess M, <snarkypup@mindspring.com>
 

Fifteen minutes and the world's fastest shower later, I'm on my way to the
backroads of Butt. It reminds me of those old beer commercials: come to the
mountains of Busch.

The snow is thick on the ground and still accumulating. As I pull up to the
restaurant to find it's closed and Dr. Dana is now sitting outside in the
sub-zero weather in nothing but her best business suit and a thin trench, I
decide that tomorrow, she and I are going to do another autopsy, despite the
fact that we don't currently have another cult victim.

"Mulder," she says, climbing into the car and reaching straight for the
heater's controls. "You have no idea how glad I am to see you. I feel like
I've been exsanguinated."

Her teeth are chattering and her nose is bright, cherry tomato red. I reach
over and take her frozen hands in mine and rub them gently. "Jesus, Scully,
why didn't you wait in the car?"

She shrugs. "No heater in there either. And the restaurant only closed about
half an hour ago."

Oh, ok, Doctor. And no one gets hypothermic in half a fucking hour.

The snow picks up as we start back, swirling around us and coating the
windshield between swipes of the wiper blades. Scully smells like perfume
and wine. I probably smell like a pervert.

"So, did you at least eat?" I ask.

She nods and sighs. "I don't know what I was thinking, Mulder. I feel like
an idiot."

"Why?" I ask. "Because you wanted to go out and have a nice time away from
your job, for once?"

Smiling, she shrugs. "Well, I didn't have a nice time, though I did have
some good ravioli. And a lot of time to think."

"Think?" I say, feeling a sudden, irrational sense of panic. "About what?"

She's very, very quiet for a moment, then leans her head back against the
seat and closes her eyes. Her hair is damp from melting snowflakes and her
nose is still pink. I'm filled with a sudden tenderness. Yeah, I may have
jacked off thinking about it, but at least I was picturing making love to
this woman, not just fucking her. And I'm going to stop feeling guilty about
it any minute now.

"I was thinking," she says at last, "about how bored I was. And how you were
back at the hotel, no doubt just as bored."

I clear my throat. Yes, Scully, I was also bored. But I doubt you were
tickling the Twinkie while nibbling your ravioli. Call it a hunch.

"And I kept thinking about how I never get to spend any real time with you.
Despite the fact that I see you every day. Mulder..." She sits up and turns
to look at me. She's very serious. I'm instantly terrified.

"Yes, Scully?"

"Why don't we ever go out to dinner?"

"Huh?" We're pulling into the motel and I'm sure I'm staring at her like an
idiot. "We have dinner together all the time. What's this about, Scully?"

She sighs, her face unreadable. "Nothing much, really. I guess it was just
the wine, making me sentimental and lonely." Before I can say anything to
counter this terrible admission, she perks up and pats my arm. "And I'm
extremely pissed off. When I see Dr. Leo tomorrow..."

Nothing energizes Scully like the thought of reaming someone but good. Ew.
Let me rephrase... well, you get the picture. I grin and squeeze her
still-frozen hand. "I can't wait to see it."

I'm really, really trying to be a good boy tonight, so I run around the side
of the car to her door to open it. Of course, I've forgotten that this is
the frozen tundra of Butt, Montana, and about negative fifty in the sun. So
I hit a nice, slick patch of completely invisible ice (probably invisible
since it's under four inches of fresh snow), slip dramatically, and fall on
my ass. Scully opens the door a bit too quickly in an effort to aid her
fallen hero and conks me in the schnoz. Finally, she collapses next to me,
frantically touching my nose and patting my ribs as I groan in pain.

"Oh God, Mulder, are you ok?"

I look up to find her on her knees in the ice beside me, hair damply curling
around her ears, nose pink, and eyes bright, slightly smashed blue. The snow
is falling around her face like petals from a cherry tree, lit rose and gold
by the mismatched street lamps in the hotel parking lot. I've never seen
anything so luminously lovely as Scully is in that moment.

So instead of answering her perfectly logical question, I sit up, grab her
frostbitten cheeks and kiss her, hard, on the lips. While initially
pleasant, the kiss also sends terrible shooting pains through my entire
face, but it's worth it to see her expression when I let go. Her entire face
suddenly matches the tip of her nose, right down her neck and into the warm,
dark cleavage revealed by that mysterious tight shirt.

"Mulder," she chides, not quite looking me in the eye. "Let's get you
inside."

Then she helps me up and leads me into her room. Which is good, since
there's probably a nasty stain on my bedspread. In fact, hey, I know there
is.

Pushing me down on the edge of her bed, she stands between my knees and
examines my nose with her usual delicious thoroughness. It's all I can do
not to kiss her again. Well, except that my nose hurts like a mother.

"I don't think it's broken," she says, framing my face in her hands and
smiling at me with what looks like genuine affection.

"Maybe you should check my ass out too," I say.

She rolls her eyes and drops her hands from my face.

"Mulder, if there's one thing in the world I'm sure is intact, it's your
ass."

Ouch. I stand up, a bit woozily, and wander over to her mirror. My normally
chunky proboscis is now dark red and patchy, with little rings of blood
around the edges of my nostrils.

Great time to try and get that first kiss in, huh? Real smooth.

I use a tissue to wipe away the blood and push gently at the sides of my
nose. It doesn't feel broken, as she said, but touching it sends my sinuses
into spasms.

"Don't pick at it," she advises from behind me. I can see Scully collapsed
on her bed, arms above her head, looking very long and lean. Her jacket has
fallen open and the tight shirt has been exposed. The room must be a bit
cold, eh Scully? Damn. I mean... damn.

"Do you know why I went out with that guy tonight? Really?" she says as I'm
picking away at a particularly tender patch.

"Gdno," I answer.

Scully sits up and stares at me in the mirror until I guiltily lower my
hands. Then she flops back onto the bed, boneless again.

"Because good-looking men never ask me out," she says. "Sure, I get wimpy
little frat boys and older men with complexes, but young, good-looking men
don't look at me like that."

She appears to be serious. I find I'm still staring at her nipples as I
answer.

"Well, I'm may not look like I lift bales of hay in the California sunshine
for a living, Scully, but if it's any consolation, I do occasionally look at
you like that."

Silence. I strain to see what she's doing back there on the bed without
actually turning around. She's fiddling with the button on her jacket and
looking miserably at her chest. Gee, glad I could make you feel better,
Scully.

"Occasionally?" she says finally.

If I started banging my head violently against the mirror, she'd probably
have to get up and come set my nose by rebreaking it, so I resist the
temptation. Instead I turn around and brace myself by holding onto the
countertop next to the sink.

"All the time, actually," I say, as firmly as I can. "All the fucking time.
I spent the whole night tonight while you were gone thinking about you like
that."

Sitting up, she examines me carefully. Clearly she thinks I've hit my head
on the cement.

"Really," she says, flatly.

"Yeah, Scully. Really. Why the fuck do you think I tried to kiss you out in
the parking lot?"

She seems to ponder this and then smiles, shyly. My heart is skipping around
my chest like a kid with a present.

"I just thought you were trying to make up for burning my car last week and
then being such an asshole ever since."

No man has ever done more for love than I am about to do.

I take a deep, calming breath and carefully reply: "Of course, I was, but I
also kissed you because you were kneeling beside me in the snow and it was
dusting your shoulders and your hair and you looked so beautiful, Scully, it
took my breath away."

"So you thought you'd steal mine?" she asks, and I realize she's got this
frisky look on her face, all of a sudden.

"Something like that," I agree.

"You're such a hopeless romantic," she says, standing and crossing to where
I'm frantically gripping the countertop. Running one hand down my chest she
says: "You're really that attracted to me, Mulder?"

"Absolutely," I tell her, and pry my fingers off the linoleum in order to
slowly stroke them down her shoulders to her wrists. "And if you hadn't just
broken my nose, damnit, I'd kiss you until you were sure."

She leans up and, angling very carefully, presses her lips onto mine without
touching my nose.

"Like that?"

"Yeah," I say, "but with a lot more tongue."

I think I've made Scully blush three times today, which may be a record. So
only two of them were positive... so what? She wraps her arms around my
waist and rests her head on my chest.

"As soon as my nose feels better, Scully, I want to take you to bed."

Yeah, and preferably on a night when I haven't just jacked off. I want the
first time to be... explosive.

As if she's reading my mind, at least about the second part, a slight shiver
runs through her and she presses herself closer to me.

"I take it from your reaction to this confession that you also find me
attractive in some way?" I ask.

Giggles percolate up from my chest. "Yes. Very much so," says a voice that's
being muffled by its owner nuzzling her cheek against my shirt. "More than
Dr. Leo," she offers and I grin, which hurts.

"Thank God," I say and then I feel her hands creep down until she grabs my
ass and squeezes, hard. I squeak and jump away from the counter. "What the
hell was that?"

She's looking up at me with one eyebrow raised and the giggly creature of a
moment ago seems to have vanished.

"Just checking your ass," she says. "It feels fine to me."

"You think?" I ask. "Sure you don't want to check it again?" She gives me a
wry grin, then yawns lavishly. It must be well after midnight, which would
make it even later in DC time. "Go to bed, Scully," I instruct. "You've got
some serious ass-kicking to do tomorrow. The sooner you go to sleep, the
sooner you can begin the maiming."

"You know me too well," she says affectionately, and leans up to plant one
more careful kiss on my lips. I wonder how Jack would feel about a repeat
performance?

As I head toward the door, she is already removing her jacket.

"Oh, and Dr. Dana?" I say.

She looks up and winces appropriately. "God, Mulder, don't call me that.
What?"

I pause with my hand on the door and run an appreciative eye over her body.
"If you really want to knock him out, wear that shirt tomorrow too."

End 2 of 2

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