By  Joann Humby
jhumby@lineone.net
 

DISTRIBUTION: Gossamer, Ephemeral - yes. Others please ask.
RATING: NC-17
CATEGORIES: S A R
KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully romance
SPOILERS: Erlenmeyer Flask

DISCLAIMER:
We all know the score. The characters are not mine, never will be.

SUMMARY:
A young Mulder and Scully. A man, a woman and a mission to save the
world. They're only human.
 

My thanks to Ann for beta help and horticultural tips!

Written for the virtual season of smut challenge on Fandomonium.

Joann

------------

5 Days after Deep Throat's Death
 

Scully insisted on regular updates. "How are your ears?"

"Scoville chili pepper scale? Serrano maybe."

"You'll be back to bell pepper before you know it."

Just so long as she didn't want to check on the status of anything
else.

Leaving the hospital was pantomime enough, without Scully tracking
down extra cushions for the trip home.

-------

He'd been back in his apartment for a week now. Taking it easy.

Pimento close to normal. Except for his eyes, they still stung -
Anaheim hot.

Scully had been busy; filing reports, being interviewed by the men
investigating the shooting, justifying her conduct to review
boards. Off-duty, she'd been piecing together what she could on
Deep Throat, Berube's employers, Dr Gardener's death, and the
storage unit that had housed those humans in tanks. Just in
case the other side's clean up job hadn't been quite good enough.

But the men who'd interrogated Mulder, first in his hospital bed,
then in his apartment, and then yesterday in a room with no view,
didn't seem like the type who made mistakes.

Daily phone calls between the partners had covered the highlights
and glossed over the details - the way they did. He'd assured her
that he was doing fine.

Reports all filed, Scully had chosen to play chauffeur for Mulder
today. They swapped notes on the drive to the hospital, struggled
to fill in the blanks.

The doctors gave him the all clear. A few more eye drops and he'd
be ready to rock. They couldn't explain the damage - offered words
like astringent, caustic, toxic, irritant instead. It was only what
he'd expected.

Unless Skinner accepted Scully's account in its entirety, there was
no case to pursue.

The dead man on a bridge was someone else's problem and the kidnap
of a Federal agent was an investigative non-starter. No report had
been filed prior to Mulder's recovery. No FBI hostage protocols had
been followed. No evidence had been found at the scene.

It didn't take an investigative genius to see that the Bureau
wouldn't be demanding jurisdiction.

Even so, hearing the all clear from the doctors should have felt
good. They'd lived to fight another day. Against all odds.

It should have been good to see her again, no ifs, no buts, just
good. Yet it only reminded him of how lonely the past few days had
been, and echo the warnings of how much their work could cost.

He unlocked the door to his apartment and even that seemed strange,
alien somehow. Lifeless and empty. You can't miss something you've
never had - so they say. But sometimes he felt the echoes of a
maybe, saw the ghost of a possibility. Not so much a deja vu as a
could it be.

One step across the threshold and he stopped. Scully brushed past
him, carrying bags into the kitchen as if it was a real home. He
took a deep breath, flinched at the rush of pain.

When she returned to the living room she had a glass of milk in her
hand. He watched her half smile as she surveyed the scene. The
files stacked haphazardly on the coffee table, the pillows forming
a nest at one end of the couch, the TV remote still lying on the
floor. A few seconds later she spotted him, watching her from the
shadows. "Mulder?"

He slowly shook his head, grateful for the dark glasses and the
excuse of inflamed eyes.

"Come and sit down."

He did as ordered, moving to his place on the couch as if it really
was his.

They'd talked at the hospital. Factual. One FBI agent to another.
Reassuring. Two friends grateful for the other's presence.
Cautious. Walking on eggshells as they looked for common ground and
stayed away from the danger zone.

He'd thanked her for her courage - even as he wondered if the
choice had been the right one. Her life endangered, Deep Throat's
lost. And the thing she'd stolen - a possible alien fetus - had
that been the tangible proof needed to crack the conspiracy wide
open?

All to save him.

Why?

Ingratitude? Perhaps. But he could no more ignore the equation of
costs and benefits than he could stop the sun from setting. What
was it worth? What was he worth?

Irrelevant now. Intellectually, he understood that much. The choice
had been made. He was home. So was she. Time to start again.

Home. A woman in his kitchen. Startled by the brief Neanderthal
surge that went with that flash of an idea.

"You don't have to stay," he said. Stating the obvious in a tone of
voice that made it sound like a plea.

"I know."

He shook his head, seeing the balance sheet gain. "He died for me,
Scully. You could have died too. That woman, Dr. Carpenter, they
killed her for doing her job. And no one will ever be brought to
account for it."

"Unless we do it."

"Us against the world?"

"No - us, for the world."

He smiled for real at that.

---------

They'd snuggled up on the couch to watch TV, for no better reason
than it felt good and because they'd nearly missed the chance. They
were both alive. What were the odds against that?

It was warm in his arms. A relief to feel the rise and fall of his
chest against her back. To hear his whispered breaths. So nearly
dead and yet now, so very alive.

She stretched, pussycat purr of contact as her head found a haven,
resting against his shoulder. She sighed as his heartbeat surged.

"Scully?"

Inevitable. As natural as breathing. As easy as a smile. Unwinding,
she twisted her head until she could see his face. His lips brushed
against her eyebrow and she sighed, savoring the moment. "I thought
I would never see you again," she whispered.

Murmurs of sound, glimmers of touch, sparks along her spine surging
all the way to her toes. Repetition after maddening repetition.
Until at last he moved, easing her down into his lap so that he
could see her face. Fingertips dancing lightly along her hairline,
checking for reality, testing its boundaries. Emboldened, his
thumbs explored further, outlining her jaw, circling her
cheekbones, surveying the features - reading her like Braille.

She shivered, dreamily awake, and her body asked for more. Her eyes
found his, saw evidence of too many lonely nights reflected there.
She nodded.

He swallowed, throat tightening, tongue peeking out to moisten his
lips.

She wanted him. Not fireworks, not champagne, not a romantic table
for two, not even a gold ring and a long white dress. Just him. And
her. Now.

She captured his finger as it drifted too close to her mouth and he
gasped, stared down at her as if she was the most extraordinary
thing he'd ever seen - and she knew that he'd seen a lot. Whatever
tomorrow held, it would be worth it, just for that one look, the
purity and passion.

They slid into the night together. Sought out a place where blood
was red and bodies needed air to breathe.

"So brave," he said, though she didn't know why. "So beautiful," he
added, though there was no reason to seduce. "So precious," and she
smiled at that, as his tongue slid along her throat, lapping at
pulse points, firing up nerve endings.

The bed was a concession. She'd wanted him, here on the couch, the
place she thought of as his home. But he swept her up into his arms
and grinned, shaking his head, telling her that he needed a little
more room to maneuver.

It was strangely perplexing to find that he had a bed, as if some
part of her found Mulder too rare, too extraordinary, to possess
something so mundane. More shocking still, after a single sweep to
discard the case notes and magazines filed on its surface, the
linen was fresh and the quality high.

"You were expecting something a little more sack-cloth and ashes?"
he asked.

Was she? "The day I see you wearing a hair shirt, I'll know you've
been replaced by a clone." She fingered his sleeve, gathering up
the fabric as if she was appraising it with a tailor's eye.

And at once the games were past and suddenly she was on her back,
sinking into the bed, and he was hovering over her. He paused to
study her body; his expression changing from amused to aroused. A
soft exclamation of delight and his lips swooped down to capture
hers. She groaned, giving him the hint of victory as his tongue
found new places to excite.

Need demanded naked flesh and found pleasure in the simple friction
of skin on skin.

Blue melted into hazel and she relished the differences in them
even as she sought to make the merger more complete. Pale curves
found warm muscle. Long fingers stole through red waves. Neat
hands found disobedient brown hair, brushing it tenderly over his
ears.

"Habanero," he said, the sound of surrender, a brief bark of
laughter in his voice.

"Still hurting?"

"Hell, no."

And she laughed too. Amazed that they could still laugh. Trying to
recall the last time she'd laughed in bed; the last time she'd felt
like this. And then there were no last times, only this time, and
she threw back her head, baring her throat, as long fingers slid
inside her and his thumb erased her memories.

Eyes shut. She knew that he would be watching her, but what would
he focus on? Fond of the inspired leap and the broad sweep, yet
strong on details too. Perhaps he was studying his fingers as she
surged against them. Maybe he would just focus on her face as her
breathing became uncertain.

She forced herself to look, saw such hope and wonder there that it
was all too much. Lungs gasped helplessly for air and she arched
her back, insistent on feeling everything as muscles tensed and
limbs trembled. How had he known? How could he know her like this?

Caught by the tide, all questions and thoughts vanished. A
crescendo of need, impossible to resist.

Breathless, she collapsed, sank limply into the bed. He followed
her down, milking the last reactions from her. Damp fingers and
murmured words. Pure Mulder.

Contact suddenly too much, she pulled away, directed him to lie by
her side. Drew him closer, seeking out the differences again.
Measured him with fingers left shaky by the ripple of aftershocks.

His hand slid quietly along her spine, drawing out the moment,
stretching her responses. Always testing her, making her go a
little further than she'd planned, further than she'd thought
possible.

Soon. Soon. Just a little more time. Her heart rate slowed; her
breathing leveled out; her thoughts came back into focus. She
smiled as she opened her eyes, acknowledging his presence, getting
her bearings again. Ready for more.

She couldn't recall him having had the time or freedom to find a
condom, much less the opportunity to open the packet and place it
conveniently on the bedside table.

He caught her look of surprise, responded to it. "Multitasking."

"It's a talent," she agreed.

"I have others."

"I've noticed." She reached for the table, determined to test the
theory.

Her mind wasn't quite so in tune as she'd imagined, tumbling
through daydreams, driven by hormones. Plans and expectations that
in daylight would have made her laugh or shake her head. But now
her brain was lost in the night, bewildered by the logistics.

They suggested practicing this with a banana. She'd tried it once,
ended up with shreds of rubber and a near naked fruit for her
trouble. An experiment for another day perhaps.

Apparently he sensed her misgivings, found an escape from her
hesitation by taking matters into his own hands.

Relieved, she rolled onto her back, stretching expectantly.
 

==========
 

Relieved, she rolled onto her back, stretching expectantly.

A single quiet look of appreciation and he was ready to act, moving
gracefully into position. His penis brushed damp curls aside -
playful, exploratory, found a slippery path that made her groan.

"Say that again," he said. Smooth and hard as he slid against her
not even attempting to change the angle.

"Jesus," she gasped, pressing desperately upwards to meet him,
relishing the quiet pressure even as she strained for more.

"Yeah," she added, as his steady rhythm made her melt, leaving her
open and wet. And oh so ready. She tilted her hips, making the
invitation even more explicit.

He took the hint, shifting his weight, angling his body. She held
her breath in anticipation.

"I always thought you'd want to be on top," he said, as he pushed
into her.

"So did I," she agreed, surprised that he'd acknowledged the
fantasy.

Reality was better. Reality felt alive, heavy and warm, and looked
at her as if she was the most important thing in the world. Reality
was hot and hard, and she welcomed him by opening up a little more,
running her hands along his flanks, craning her neck so their
mouths could find one another again.

Impossible to think of anything except the here and now. Ridiculous
to resist the chance to relish every drop of life. Had she really
forgotten this? Or had she simply never experienced it before? She
accepted his gentle urging and raised her legs, pivoting so that
she could rest her feet against his shoulders.

Stubble of his cheek brushing against her toes and she groaned,
challenged muscles that were already complaining about the demands
to give her more. Worth it. Like everything about the man, about
them - worth doing whatever it took.

He found her hand, slid her fingers to the place where the heat of
their bodies was preparing an inferno. He groaned as she panted.
Kept the pace steady and hard as her fingers circled around the
flames. He gasped when she stopped breathing.

Shuddered as nerves misfired and tendons screamed, thrashed
helplessly as calf muscles locked and flexed, and didn't care. Her
fingers less controlled, more brutal now, demanding her
body's total surrender.

And she was there again - lost in the waves, contractions hit and
skin sang and pleasure danced along the boundary of pain before
becoming pleasure again.

He guided her feet back down to rest in unnatural arches on the bed
and her toes continued to curl and flex. He slumped down to kiss
her, his hips still pumping hard and fast.

Losing himself in her, and she stroked his back as he moved,
savoring the moment. Breathless and shaky now. Falling into her
again and again. Wild disjointed rhythm until finally he shuddered
and groaned, burying his face against her neck, mumbling nothing
words into the pillow.

Cramp in her toes threatened to spoil the afterglow, but he was
wise enough to move his weight off her, giving her the chance to
stretch and straighten.

"Hmmm," she said, purring.

"Yeah," he agreed, gathering her into his arms.

When she woke up, he'd already left. Coffee, fresh fruit and
croissants and a note that said he had a breakfast meeting with
someone who used to work for Emgen Corporation and an appointment
with someone at Georgetown University. Still on medical leave, he
planned to make the most of his remaining freedom.

Scully frowned, wondering if she was disappointed, amazed to find
that she wasn't. If he'd changed - then he wouldn't be the same
man. If he wasn't the same man - he wouldn't be worth so much.

In any case, she was not on medical leave. Which gave her around
two hours to get home, get changed and get down to the office.
Scarcely any time to shower, when what she really needed was
a long soak in warm bubbles.

----------

The call from the Hoover Building came as no surprise. Even before
Deep Throat's death, Mulder had felt the pack closing in. Skinner's
sudden interest in their work. The silent smoking man who attended
every meeting. The look of near contentment that Blevins had worn
the last time they'd met.

They'd told Scully before the Tooms' case - conform or else. They'd
survived, but Scully had lied to protect him from assault charges.
Skinner had warned him then - it was only his friends on Capitol
Hill who were keeping him afloat.

The meeting was scheduled for 6:30 and Mulder felt almost grateful
for that. Out of hours. Fewer people to witness the aftermath.

He'd been tried in his absence. Saw the verdict confirmed in
Blevins' sneer and Skinner's grim expression.

Blevins looked like a man who was enjoying his job. But what about
the Assistant Director? Mulder studied him, thought he saw some
hesitation there. Pity perhaps? Or something more?

Whatever the emotion was, it vanished as Skinner assumed control of
the meeting. He gestured towards the dark glasses that Mulder was
wearing.

Nice. Not that Mulder blamed him. If he had a suspect hiding behind
his shades, then he'd feel the same way. Fine. Let the
interrogation begin. He tucked his sunglasses into his pocket and
waited, mildly gratified when Skinner flinched at the sudden
revelation of bloodshot eyes.

"Agent Mulder, if the light's still painful, perhaps you'd
better - " Skinner waved his hand and Mulder knew he'd just
remembered the hospital report.

As if it mattered that Mulder needed two weeks of medical leave
when there was a dead DoD chief to atone for. "I'm fine," Mulder
said, staring stubbornly, fixedly in Skinner's direction, sitting
up a little straighter. He added a belated, "Sir," and Skinner's
jaw tightened a little more.

"Agent Mulder. I don't have to tell you that your conduct in this
case has been completely unacceptable."

"I think perhaps you do."

A brief frown of disapproval before Skinner passed the problem on.
"Section Chief Blevins - if you could recap the charges."

Blevins looked grateful at the chance to drone his way through the
list. The complaints looked good. Start with no authorization, work
your way through misuse of Bureau resources, and keep on going
until there's an important man dead on a DC bridge.

Mulder ignored Blevins but didn't take his eyes off Skinner.

The Section Chief hit the last page of the report. The charges
against Scully alone. First item - failure to notify the Bureau of
a suspected hostage situation involving a Federal officer.

Some aspects of the reports they'd filed were awfully thorough,
albeit utterly fantastic and completely uncorroborated. Others were
sketchy to say the least. With no physical evidence and only their
own testimony to back it up, it seemed like the only things that
could be substantiated were their mistakes.

Even if Skinner accepted what they'd written, that still begged the
question - what the hell kind of trade did Scully decide to make?
How could their contact, a man with years of service to his
country, have been so foolish as to play along? Who were the people
who'd held him hostage and killed Deep Throat? Did they draw their
paychecks from the Federal government too? Was that why they were
quite so confident? Was that why they'd returned Mulder alive -
because catching the traitor in their ranks was good enough?

To buy any of it - Skinner would have to buy it all.

Skinner was watching Mulder even more closely now, and the agent
tried to return the favor. But the stubborn resistance, that had
seen him sit in silence through the charges against him, was
starting to fade as Blevins catalogued Scully's crimes. They worked
for the Bureau; their managers hadn't even been informed. Mulder
swallowed - an admission of weakness that was spotted instantly.

The AD gave Blevins a stop signal and took over the reins again.
"Agent Mulder, can you offer any explanation for Agent Scully's
conduct?"

"Agent Scully wanted to have all the facts before she reported my
disappearance."

"And got a civilian killed. Poor judgment, wouldn't you say? As
senior agent on the X-Files, do you consider that she made the
right call?"

"A doctor at Georgetown University had already been killed. Agent
Scully - "

"Agent Scully made the same choices that you would have made.
Running evidence through civilian channels instead of through the
Bureau. Not only destroying any possibility of its use in a
criminal case but losing it along the way. Fortunately, our
investigation has proven that Dr Carpenter's death was accidental.
Unlike the death of your other contact. Expensive call, Agent
Mulder?"

It was over. Mulder shifted a little in his chair, a slight nod of
the head. "What's the deal?"

No "sir" now. Strictly man to man. Skinner accepted the change of
pace. "Section Chief Blevins - if you'd give me a moment with Agent
Mulder."

This didn't need witnesses.

Mulder sure as hell didn't need them; he'd already lost enough,
been humiliated enough. He was momentarily relieved that Skinner
didn't want them either.

Blevins looked disappointed when he left.

"Don't fight this - no one's going to back you up. Agent Scully
will go to Quantico. Teaching. There won't be any blemish on her
record."

Mulder nodded, leaving his boss looking momentarily off-balance,
surprised by his lack of fight. Fait accomplis were wonderful
things.

Unfortunately, in this instance, defeat was clearly not enough.
There was that look of something, embarrassment perhaps, in
Skinner's eyes again. The man had clearly been ordered to make sure
this hurt. "There's something else. The DoD conducted surveillance.
After the death of the man you described as an informant. You and
Agent Scully - ."

"- were the only witnesses and therefore also their prime suspects.
Is that why Agent Scully's eyewitness account was ignored?"

Which brought them to the heart of the problem. "Not ignored -
disregarded. Right now - Agent Scully has zero credibility."

"Sir?"

"I hope it was worth it, Agent Mulder." Surveillance photos. Scully
entering Mulder's apartment. Lights going off. Scully emerging the
next morning. "They've got audio, too."

Stunned, Mulder sat back in his chair, reeling from the impact.
Recovering fast to force the anger and horror out of sight. He
would have to deal with all that later. He certainly couldn't deal
with it in front of Skinner. Adopting the expression and the tone of
voice he'd used in interview rooms across the land, facing down
killers, demanding action from police chiefs - he played it as
coolly as he could. "Nothing we did was wrong."

"Legally? Morally? You're adults. She's an attractive woman. You've
spent a lot of time together - gone through a lot. No one's
surprised."

"Why was her report rejected?"

"You know why. Where there's no independence, there's no
corroboration."

Not fair, not fucking fair. "Agent Scully's honesty and integrity
shouldn't be in question. Our personal relationship changes
nothing."

Skinner shook his head, looked grimly amused to hear Mulder's
half-hearted attempt at defense. "She lied during the Tooms case
- you were in the office when she did it! But this," he waved at
the photos - Mulder's smiling return to the apartment, arms filled
with breakfast for two. "I thought after the Fowley fiasco you knew
better. The X-Files rides on the back of favors and friends. They
hoped with Agent Scully in place, they'd see some tangible results.
Instead Agent Scully's become just another unreliable witness.
You've let them down. You've let yourself down."

"Agent Scully doesn't deserve to be labeled like this."

"Then let her go to Quantico. If you ever hope to work with her
again. Stay away from her now. Your choice."

----------

A choice, Skinner had said.

Dangling the possibility that one day they might work together
again.

Casually informing him that whilst Scully's allure was not in
question, her honesty was. Tainted by her association with his
work. Discredited by her presence in his bed.

One bit of his brain railed against the unfairness, cried out at
double standards, tried to claim that none of it had any bearing on
their professional lives. Unfortunately, he was too honest an
investigator for that.

Lovers lied for each other, to protect and defend. Fabricated cover
stories because the alternative was impossible to accept. Even
monsters had allies, who saw no evil, or else who rationalized the
evil away.

Skinner was right to be suspicious. In his place, Mulder would be
too.

And yet it wasn't fair. Not right to split them up on a suspicion.
Wrong to act as if Scully was just any woman, made blind and
foolish by love.

Outrageous to suggest that separation might remove the cloud.

Not fair.

Yet why should any of this be fair? Berube, Carpenter, Deep Throat
- all dead. The test subjects - nameless bodies in glass tanks -
destroyed. And no possibility of justice anywhere.

Deep Throat told Scully to give away the evidence. Why? To save
Mulder. Because this was their war and they must live to fight
another day.

To betray that sacrifice through personal weakness? Unacceptable.

Mulder just hoped that Scully would forgive him.

Forgive him for his prevarication because he didn't see how he
could tell her about the surveillance tapes that had stolen
something beautiful and turned it against them.

Forgive him for his evasion because he knew that he wouldn't be
able to face the horror in her eyes if she heard that she was now
regarded as his tame accomplice, not as an independent voice.

Forgive him for being weak and imagining they could have it all.

---------

When the phone rang, Scully was ready. She'd tried to go to sleep
but hadn't quite succeeded. She'd needed to hear his voice, to know
that everything was all right even though just looking at the clock
had told her that it wasn't. At least he'd called, a good sign she
thought. She braced herself for whatever he might say.

"They're shutting us down, Scully."

"What?"

"They called me in tonight and they said they're going to reassign
us to other sections."

"Who said that?"

"Skinner. He said word came down from the top of the executive
branch."

The initial relief that he'd called was fading fast. Not fair. Not
when they'd been so close and seen so much. "Mulder..."

"It's over, Scully."

"Well, you have to lodge a protest. They can't..."

"Yes, they can."

Not right that it could end like this. Not possible that there was
no way out. Not credible that after all the things they'd been
though together that he would go down without a fight. "What are
you going to do?"

"I'm... not going to give up. I can't give up."

The X-Files closed. Separation. Reassignment. But Mulder was going
to find another way to fight and that was right. That was how it
should be.

Almost.

They should be together now, discussing this face to face, planning
a campaign. Lying in each other's arms.

So why was he telling her this over the phone? Why wasn't he here?

Her mind raced, looking for the right response, the words that he
needed to hear from her - to remind him, to reassure him, that they
would be fighting on together.

The line went dead. The conversation would have to wait.
 
 
 
 

THE END