by JHJ Armstrong
fullback48@zdnetonebox.com

RATING: NC-17.
CONTENT: MSR. Smut. A little humor. A lot of fluff.
SUMMARY: Fun with guns.
DISCLAIMER: Anyone you recognize, of course, isn't mine.
I do this for love, not money, which is more than some
people can say. *pointed look at certain misogynistic folk
on the left coast*
SPOILERS: Minor. As for timeline ... it looks like we're
somewhere in season 7.
DISTRIBUTION: Anywhere, but please link to my site and drop
me a line if you think of it.
URL: http://copygirl.softballjunkies.com/pigsfly.html
FEEDBACK: I got new e-mail! fullback48@zdnetonebox.com

Notes at end.

==================================

Friday
6:38 p.m.

Scully unlocked her apartment door and stepped inside,
dropping her purse and briefcase where she stood. Leaving
her shoes to amuse themselves on the throw rug, she
shuffled into the kitchen, stiff from being hunched over
a keyboard all day.

The fruit of her labors was a reasonably true account of
how she and Mulder had gone to Tennessee on Monday and got
kicked out on Tuesday, and her brain was still feeling
mildly stained from the task. All she wanted now was some
time where she didn't have to think about anything but
food, bath and bed.

Really, she didn't blame Mulder for their hasty exit from
The Volunteer State. He was just being Mulder.

Once, she could have held a grudge for weeks over something
such as this, but now she couldn't help but smile at the
memory of hightailing it to the highway, burly construction
workers driving bulldozers and front-end loaders in hot
pursuit. They, it seemed, weren't big fans of her partner's
theory that the building site was cursed by the restless
spirit of a Tennessee Valley Authority worker who was
beaten to death there in the early 1930s for a rape he
didn't commit.

Scully, of course, didn't necessarily believe it either,
but having decided to join Mulder out on his limb, she
wasn't going to let him hang alone.

She thought of a moment in his doorway when time had stood
still for death and life and alternate worlds; they had
both come a long way to stand together, but now instead
of "you and me and the world," it was "you and me against
the world," and she had a hunch Mulder was feeling it, too.

He'd given her this look in the midst of one of their
cat-and-dog arguments last week, a look of frustration,
and some anger, but an electricity sparked quicksilver
underneath the surface. Just remembering it made her
shudder a little ... and the more she thought about it,
the more she liked it.

Which was why Scully was glad she hadn't seen him all day.
She needed a clear head to digest these, these creeping
movements toward something phenomenal, and his presence
was not conducive to analytical thinking. So, she'd left
work when her report was done: no Mulder until Monday.

When her cell phone rang, she looked at the display and
thought perhaps she should have informed him of her plan.
She shut the oven door on Lean Cuisine before jabbing the
button.

"Scully."

"What are you wearing?"

"You need to think up some new lines, Mulder."

"Admit it, Scully. You love my old lines."

"Love wasn't the word I had in mind. Besides, your taste
for cliches isn't normal."

"Normal's what some call two eyes and no tail," he said.

"It's also a city in Illinois," she said.

"But," he said with glee, "that's not important right now."

She resisted the urge to groan. "God, Mulder, we need to
get out more."

"Funny you should say that, Scully, because I have just
the thing."

"Mulder, why are you calling?" And why did she think her
weekend with no partner was about to become a lost cause?

"Didn't know I needed a reason other than to hear your
lovely voice ..."

Crickets.

"Anyway, I was just wondering ... Did you see there's a
shooting competition at Quantico tomorrow?" She heard the
hope and the hesitation in his voice, and she pre-empted
his strike.

"You signed me up."

"Well ... "

"Mulder, I have better things to do with my time than poke
holes in paper men. You seem so excited about it, why
aren't you doing it?"

"Scully, you and I both know that some days I couldn't find
the kill zone with six hands and klieg lights. Think of
this as a chance to shine, to chalk up another one for the
fairer sex, to pull one over on the old boys' network that
is the FBI."

"You bet on me, too."

"Um. Yes."

"Mulder! How much?"

"Not ... too much ..."

"Mulder." She used the tell-me-now-or-die-slowly-in-a-lot-
of-pain voice.

He tried to slur the words, slide it past her. "Senfiff.
But it --"

"SEVEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS? Mulder, are you *nuts*?
Why? How?"

There was a long silence. Scully just waited, letting him
hang, mentally counting down from ten ...

Three, two, one.

"Okay, okay. You know I gave that lecture at Quantico
today? Well, afterward some Blue Flamer was all puffed up
about torching his classmates on the firing range earlier
in the week. I asked him what his score was; it wasn't even
close to your last qualifying score, and I said as much.

"He said he didn't believe that anyone, much less a woman,
could shoot with that much accuracy and speed. I told him
you'd prove him wrong anytime, he asked if I'd care to bet
on it, and before I knew it you were signed up and I had
the better part of a grand invested."

At the words "prove him wrong," neon lights and fireworks
went off in a tiny, primitive part of Scully's brain, that
small corner where she was a biker chick, a chain smoker
and an eater of steaks cooked only medium rare. For just a
moment, she entertained the vision of stuffing her target
down that benighted rookie's throat, and she knew no one
would enjoy the victory more than she. But ... but.

"Let me get this straight. I not only have to defend *my*
honor, but the honor of all women who can shoot a gun, all
because you couldn't resist some infantile pissing match?"

"I'm sorry, Scully."

"No, you're not. Not really." She rubbed her forehead,
the party girl warring with the practical woman. Did she
really want to do this? What's in it, other than another
day spent climbing the testosterone wall? Still, Mulder's
faith in her, however backhanded, was gratifying ... and
did she leave her shooter's goggles in the office, or were
they in the lockbox on the top shelf in the closet?

"You're going to be there, aren't you?" Mulder sounded
worried, and Scully realized she hadn't said anything for
quite a while.

What the hell, she thought. All work and no play makes me
a damned dull girl. And despite wanting a weekend sans
her partner, she had to admit this sounded like fun. Oh,
the burden of life with Mulder.

"Yes, I'll be there. But when I win your bet, you better
believe I'm getting half."

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

Saturday
12:50 p.m.

The sprawling FBI Academy at Quantico, Virginia, located
on 385 wooded acres about an hour's drive south of D.C.,
has eight firing ranges, four skeet ranges and a 200-yard
rifle range as well as the legendary Hogan's Alley, built
as a practical, realistic way for agents to get experience
without getting killed.

There is also one indoor firing range, used for initial
training of new recruits and ongoing practice for agents
and other law enforcement officers.

Five times a year, the FBI engages in a little friendly
competition, a shooting contest intended to test accuracy
and speed. Scully had been a spectator before, but never
a contestant.

She checked her watch. Ten minutes to go. She stacked her
ammo and polished her goggles, starting to feel the way
she always did before competing -- calm, purposeful, and
more than a little invincible.

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

Mulder walked into the firing range observation room and
elbowed his way to a spot at the window with Skinner on
his left and Burson from Fingerprints on the right.

"I see you're running right on time," Skinner said.

"Better late than never," Mulder replied absently, eyes
taking in the shooters' boxes from his perch above and
to the left of the range. The fourth one looked empty;
must be Scully.

"Scully's number four," Skinner said. "Carlson's in three,"
the assistant director added.

Mulder pretended he didn't see his boss' smirk. Either
Carlson's mouth was bigger than Mulder thought, or the
FBI rumor mill now had an executive division.

"I've got five hundred on Pickering from White-Collar,"
Burson said. Skinner and Mulder turned to give him looks
that doubted his sanity. Burson shrugged. "He's won the
last three."

Skinner and Mulder kept glancing at Burson with pity until
someone in the back said, "Hey, they're starting," and then
it seemed everybody in the room was squished up against the
same pane of glass. Mulder, having trouble drawing a full
breath, was very glad of two things: One, that he wasn't
claustrophobic; and two, that most Americans shower daily.

A horn went off, somewhat muffled in the observation booth,
and an amber light flashed five times as the targets slid
toward the far end of the room. A two-second pause, and
then the light turned green.

Showtime.

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

Scully took a deep breath and steadied herself, and when
the green light came on she raised her gun and the rest of
the world simply fell away.

She heard nothing, but her other senses were on red alert.
She smelled sour mansweat and hot, oily metal. She tasted
burnt cordite, powdery and bitter, as she breathed through
a slightly open mouth. Her hands and fingertips caressed
her SIG's cold, smooth steel as she aimed, took the slack
out of the trigger and fired at the target, 15 feet away.
Red circles and black gridlines on a white background were
the only things she truly saw, and she emptied her first
clip with 15 seconds to spare.

As she reloaded, the target moved back 20 feet. Another
clip gone, plenty of time before the buzzer. She even had
time to appreciate the electronic sensor grid embedded in
the target; apparently, they used to time each contestant
with a stopwatch, but now the technology caught each shot
and kept track to the hundredth of a second.

One more clip left, this time at 60 feet. She had to wait
a few seconds for the target to move into position, and
her brain took the opportunity to note that if Mulder's
gun was as fast as his mouth she might not have been in
this position at all ... and then all she could think
about was Mulder's mouth.

She tried to concentrate, get her focus back, but flashes
of him kept getting in the way ... Mulder's body, lean and
lithe as he tilted back in his chair and reached for a
file ... face earnest as he introduced a new case ... eyes
bright as they argued over anything and everything ...

She shook her head, but she couldn't shake the slide show
until she thought of his broken finger at the hands of
militia men in Arkansas and pictured his captors in the
center ring. She barely emptied her gun before the final
horn, and when her target came back to her she saw she had
some catching up to do.

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

Upstairs, they had posted the scores, and Burson was
sweating. "Jesus, who turned the heat on in here?" He
paced the room, peeling off his windbreaker to reveal
a faded blue T-shirt, thin and nearly soaked through
with sweat. "It's the middle of April, for fuck's sake."

Mulder was sprawled across an armchair, picking at the
pills on its side. He glanced at Burson, then cringed.
"Christ, put your clothes back on ... you're scaring the
fish." He pointed at a small octagonal aquarium on
a tabletop, where two goldfish were darting to and fro.

Burson tied the jacket around his waist. "Fuck you,
Mulder. You're the one who ought to be sweating ... your
partner's in third. Told you Pickering was a safe bet."

"Don't let her hear you say that, Burson. Hazardous to
your health -- and your wallet," Mulder replied. He wasn't
worried. He knew a few people might be quicker than her on
the trigger, but when it came to accuracy she was peerless.

He thought of her in her Weaver stance, compact frame taut
and eyes totally focused on her target. He'd never tell
her, but he called it her "dead" look; it was usually
reserved for suspects and corpses, neither of which stood
much of chance of escaping once she'd cornered them. It was
also a complete and total turn-on.

Once upon a time, she'd been his partner and nothing
more, but one day last fall things crystallized.

It was a few weeks after he'd been able to wear his victory
cap without the bandages, and she'd asked him to pick her
up from the library on a Saturday afternoon because her
car was in the shop. He found her perched on a tiny chair,
reading fairy tales to tinier children as part of a
volunteer program for disadvantaged kids. As he listened
to her deepen her voice for the king and pitch it higher
for the princess, he realized he wanted very much to be
her frog prince.

He was just getting a little tired of waiting for the kiss.

He decided to torture himself and watch the next round
from the observation room behind the shooters. He stood,
but one of Carlson's lackeys stopped him on the way to
the door.

"What's up with your partner?" he asked. "She looked like
she had a serious case of the yips."

"The yips? She's shooting a gun, not putting a golf ball."

"Whatever. She totally froze for about ten seconds. I
can't believe she still got all her shots off."

Idiot, Mulder thought. "So, what's your point?"

"Double or nothing."

"You must be kidding. Or stupid."

"I'm serious. There's no way she's gonna catch Carlson ...
or Pickering, for that matter. She does, you get fifteen
hundred. She doesn't, we get nothing but bragging rights."

"You're on." And you're about to go down in flames, Mulder
thought as he shook the flunky's hand and left the room,
whistling.

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

Scully was headed for the water fountain, the cold one
on the opposite side of the building, when the stair door
opened and her partner appeared.

"Scully, there you are," he said, As if she'd be anywhere
else? Well, she heard Bora Bora wasn't bad this time of
year.

"Mulder," she replied, thinking he and Bora Bora would
suit each other, especially when he looked like he did
today.

She took in his button-fly Levi's, and wondered if they
felt as soft as they looked. She noted his unshaven jaw,
and imagined the slight burn it would leave on her skin.

She pushed the little silver button and bent to take a
drink, and a jet of water smacked her in the face.

Sputtering, she groped blindly for something, anything,
and encountered his worn red T-shirt with the tear in the
pocket and ragged hem.

She heard him chuckling above her as she wiped her mouth.
"Drinking problem, partner?"

"Isolated shower." She pushed the button again, watching
the trajectory this time, and safely slaked her thirst.
She thought it was possible Mulder was watching her mouth
as she pursed her lips and sipped, but she derailed that
train of thought not long after it left the station. The
last thing she needed was another distraction.

She started back toward the firing range, and he followed.
"What are you doing, Mulder?"

"Going to watch the next round from down here."

"Why?"

He ran a hand through his hair, scratched his head a
little. "Because the bet just went double or nothing,
and I wanted to, oh, offer you some moral support?"

Scully just shook her head. He deserved a smack of some
sort, that much she knew, but she didn't know what she
wanted to do more -- hit his grinning face, or kiss it.
She figured a whap on the arm would do for now.

She stood on tiptoe then, intending to whisper that it
was better than a bee sting, but he turned his head to
protest the thwapping and their mouths connected instead.
Her whole body reacted to the contact, and the hallway
suddenly felt as hot as Bora Bora.

Eyes wide, she took a quick step back and tried to smile
as she looked everywhere but at him and his smooth, soft,
full, lickable, perfect lips.

"Sorry, Mulder, I ... sorry." She scurried toward the door
that led back to her gun, hoping to get out of his presence
before he could say anything and make her more flustered
than she was already.

"Scully." She stopped dead in her tracks. God, where did he
learn to make his voice sound like that, like he'd be buck
naked, rock hard and in her bed in two seconds flat if only
she were to ask?

"Yeah?" And when did she learn to emulate a 1-900 operator?

"Hold that thought. We'll finish it later."

Lord, she hoped so.

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

Fuckin' a, Mulder thought as he put in his ear plugs. We
kissed. Sure, a third-graders-on-Valentine's-Day-at-recess
kiss, but ... fuckin' a.

He could hardly wait for the final buzzer. He just hoped
Scully wasn't *too* distracted. At the moment, he was happy
he remembered his own name.

He watched her prepare for the accuracy round, and just as
the light was about to turn green, she turned around and
winked at him.

He almost felt sorry for Pickering and Carlson. Almost.

==========================
End Saturday Night Special (1/2)
Continued in Part 2/2
All parts at http://copygirl.softballjunkies.com/sns.html

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

Saturday Night Special (2/2) by JHJ Armstrong
Disclaimers, etc. in Part 1.
All parts: http://copygirl.softballjunkies.com/sns.html

==========================

"So, Agent Carlson, want some shooting lessons later?"
Scully thought about telling Mulder he shouldn't rub it in,
but she had beaten Carlson's punk ass by a hundred and ten
points. The way his neck flushed red in embarrassment was
actually rather satisfying.

Carlson, bending over a hall table to write Mulder a very
large check, didn't answer, but even his checkbook was
conspiring against him. He tussled with the perforation,
and the slip of paper he ended up shoving at Mulder was
missing a chunk of its upper right corner.

Mulder held up the mutilated document for her inspection.
She tsked. "So much for accuracy," he said, and tucked it
into his wallet.

"Y'know, Mulder, we ought to just get it framed instead
of cashing it," she said. "Posterity and all that."

"Really?" Carlson couldn't help asking, but as he looked
from one partner to the other, his face fell as he seemed
to sense he was about to get burned.

They answered in unison. "Nah."

Carlson opened his mouth, and probably would have put
his foot in, but Pickering saved him by shouting down the
hall.

"Hey, Carlson, how's that humble pie?" The rookie did his
impression of a thermometer again and stalked off in the
opposite direction as Pickering approached, grinning. He'd
ended up second by the narrow margin of twenty-six points,
but Scully got the feeling he couldn't have cared less.

"Yo, Mulder, we're going for a beer or twelve. Comin' with?
I hear you've got enough to buy for the night." As he spoke
he held out a hand to Mulder, but the handshake Scully
expected to see turned into a strange gesture that could
have been sign language with partners or maybe tribal
signals, she wasn't sure.

"Sorry, Carl. Some other time. I've got ... other plans,"
he said, tilting his head toward her, and the hallway got
hot again.

"Your loss." Pickering's smirk was not unkind. He held out
his large palm to Scully, who was disappointed to get a
firm handshake and nothing more. "That was some piece of
shooting today, Agent Scully."

"Thanks," she said, and smiled. "You, too."

Pickering nodded. "See you on the court, milk," he told
Mulder, and left to meet a long-necked man named Bud.

They were alone. It was dead silent for about twenty
seconds before he turned to her and said, using that voice
again, "Meet you at your place. I'll pick up dinner on the
way back into D.C."

The phone sex operator was back. "Wouldn't miss it."

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

Scully's apartment
6:30 p.m.
 

Mulder was due any minute. Scully had been home for half
an hour, during which time she had vacuumed, dusted and
brushed her teeth. Twice. Flossed, too.

Her razor was dull and a frantic search of the hall and
bathroom closets didn't turn up the bag of new ones, so she
made do. By the time she was done she'd nicked both her
knees and her right ankle. Great. Now showers would sting
for a week. She threw on jeans and a shirt and tried not
to obsess about her hair.

Then there was a knock on her door, and Mulder was in her
apartment, and she didn't have time to worry about how she
looked or what she would say because he was kissing her.

Somehow he moved them into the kitchen, where both she
and the bags of takeout were hoisted up onto the counter
next to the sink. He stood with his legs between hers
and kept right on kissing her.

He tasted the way coffee and vanilla smelled, comforting
and scrumptious. His hands crept around her waist, fingers
daring to lift her top and tease the skin at the small of
her back, and she shivered and broke away. She leaned her
head against his chest, fists full of his T-shirt and mind
empty of everything but the way he was making her feel.

"Do you want to eat?" he asked from somewhere above her.
"It'll keep."

She should say yes, they should eat. She should welcome
the chance to step back, take a moment, enter this new
territory with a clear head. She really, really should.

But he smelled so good and felt so solid ... maybe eating
would just prolong the inevitable. And maybe just this once
it wouldn't hurt her to do what she shouldn't.

She took a deep breath and made her decision. "Want you."

He inhaled sharply, then moved back a step and tilted her
chin up. She lifted her eyes slowly, taking in his strong
shoulders, fine neck and those lips before meeting his
eyes.

Her doubts vanished the instant she saw the intensity
in his face; he was not taking this lightly, and the
realization made her want him even more.

"Scully, you were incredible today. You're incredible
every day," he said, but before he'd finished speaking
she was pulling him toward her for another kiss, wrapping
her arms and legs around him.

He groaned and picked her up by the waist, intending to
carry her somewhere, but he listed to the left, losing
his balance a little. He managed to aim his stumble so his
back hit the wall and then his hands were cupping her ass
and they kissed and dry humped until he got his equilibrium
back and got them the rest of the way to the bedroom.

They plopped onto the edge of the bed, him on top, and
she discovered the tender spots on his jaw and behind his
ears before he moved her to the middle of the bed, nipping
lightly at her neck. She was about to say she was impressed
with his balancing act when he obliterated any and all
thought by pushing up her shirt, pulling down her bra and
latching on to her left nipple.

Her fingers tangled in his hair as he switched from one
breast to the other. He flicked his tongue across the
right nipple, then blew on it, making her arch her back
in sublime pleasure. "Mulder!" she gasped, and he hummed
and unhooked the clasp with one hand. He didn't take it
off, though, just left it hanging open while he removed
her jeans and socks.

But he stayed standing at the side of the bed, and when
he'd stood there for almost half a minute she raised
herself up on her elbows to look at him.

"Mulder? What is it?"

He gave her an impish yet innocent look, the man letting
his inner schoolboy shine through. "I might be getting old,
Scully, but I'll never be too old to want to appreciate the
female form, especially when it's as lovely as yours."

She blushed, but her wits had returned. "I bet you say that
to all the girls."

He sobered then, and shook his head. "No. Only you."

No one had ever looked at her like that, like she was
goddess and princess, lover and porn star. It reawakened
the party girl, powered up the latent adrenalin rush from
winning the shooting contest, and sent her blood pounding
through her veins. She felt wild, animalistic, feline, and
she wanted to sink her teeth into his flesh, find some way
to claim him, mark him as hers and hers alone.

An idea popped into her head, a wicked, sexy, lusty fantasy
of an idea, but she wasn't sure if she should be so bold
the first time they made love. She tested the waters with a
small, sultry smile, letting a hungry gaze linger on his
crotch before meeting his eyes with a look that she hoped
telegraphed her primal state of mind.

Her heart leaped when his response was a gulp and a quirk
of the lips that seemed ... nervous? "I --" he started, but
his voice didn't seem to be working. He swallowed again. "I
think I'm scared of what you're thinking, Scully," he said,
and his words were all the encouragement she needed.

"Don't think, Mulder." She cupped her left breast with one
hand, slowly, rolling the nipple between her thumb and
index finger, her confidence increasing when he couldn't
maintain eye contact and his gaze locked on her chest.

"Just watch," she whispered, and a giggle almost escaped
her when his eyes widened as her right hand trailed down
her stomach and underneath the waistband of her underwear.

"You like to watch, don't you?" she prodded, and he took
a ragged breath and jerked his head up and down, once.

Satisfied she had his full attention, she closed her eyes
to concentrate then, licking her lips as her fingertips
toyed with the crisp, springy hair between her legs and
traced the upper part of her labia before she applied more
pressure and gently began to stroke her clit, sending
little jolts of pleasure sparking all over her body.

Above her, she could hear Mulder breathing faster, and
she half-opened her eyes to watch him watching her with
a rapt expression that might have been awe. The sight of
him, combined with the practiced touch of her hand, sent
her to another, higher level of arousal; senses whirling,
unfettered, she let her legs fall farther open to his gaze.

She moved her fingers in a circular motion, dipping down
into her vagina to gather the slick wetness -- so wet! --
and spread it over her clit. Her hips twitched, and she
moaned as a surge of emotion swept over her.

When she looked at him again, she saw the bulge in his
jeans and the way his hands were opening and closing,
right hand moving toward his fly and then away from it.

Oh, sweet Christ, she thought. Did she have the balls to
take this step? She was almost too turned on to spare the
thought, but the image of him touching himself was too
delicious, and it branded itself on her brain. The mental
picture inspired one more pinch of her nipple, one more
stroke of her clit, and then she knew she just had to see
the real thing.

"Go ahead, Mulder. Do it," she whispered.

"Oh, God, Scully ... " He tore open his fly and took his
cock out, throwing his head back as he started stroking
the shaft but quickly returning his gaze to where her hand
was still hidden by navy blue cotton.

"Like what you see?" she asked, and he groaned.

"Jesus, yes." His eyes flicked from her breasts to her
face to her crotch. "Yes."

She sat up then, and his hand fell away from his cock as
her face, her mouth, got nearer. She took off her shirt
and bra, then leaned so close to the tip she knew he could
feel her breath on it.

Was he gorgeous everywhere? She looked at his long, strong,
smooth shaft and heavy balls nestled in dark, curly hair
and answered her own question with a resounding yes. Big,
but not too big -- perfect for him, and for her.

Another glance up found him mesmerized, seemingly focused
on nothing other than the proximity of her lips to his
dick. She normally found it difficult to be the aggressor
when it came to sex -- men talked about wanting a woman to
take charge but got scared when confronted with the real
deal -- however, she sensed with Mulder it was something
offered freely, and the power came in accepting the gift.

She reached out for the head with just the tip of her
tongue, and at the first contact he jerked his hips away.
She followed, though, and wrapped her lips around the
first few inches. He hissed, but stayed still, and soon
she'd established a steady rhythm with hand and mouth.

His hands were clenching and relaxing again, and she could
tell he was skating on the edge of control. She listened
to his sounds of pleasure, learning that a hiss meant back
off, a certain kind of "oh" meant speed up, another kind
meant stay right there.

She let her tongue and teeth play, loving the way he felt
in her mouth, more than willing to deal with a sore jaw if
he would just make that sound again -- oh, yes. He liked a
swirl of the tongue on the way out, a tickle of his balls
on the way in, some suction in the middle but not on the
head. She savored his flavor and his scent, better than
chocolate and just as yummy.

She thought she was maybe five seconds shy of finding out
what he looked like during an orgasm when he dug his
fingers into her shoulders and removed himself from her
mouth, panting like he'd just finished a marathon ...

She'd seen that look before, and when it appeared there
was only one thing a woman could do. She stood up, took
off her panties, propped herself against the pillows and
said something she'd always wanted to say at a time like
this:

"Mulder ... take me now or lose me forever."

He made a sound that was something between a growl and a
groan, and pounced like a starving panther on fresh meat.

He entered her with one thrust, and like before he stopped
to appreciate the moment. Scully couldn't recall the last
time she'd felt so filled, literally and figuratively. Then
he started to move, and

He brought her to the edge again and again, somehow knowing
just when to stop, withdrawing completely before she could
reach the peak. She tried to recapture control, desperate
for the release, but every time she reached for him he
grabbed her arms or her hands and drove into her until she
shook and trembled and writhed beneath and above him,
giving her no choice but to surrender.

In the middle of things he gentled the pace but not the
intensity, driving her out of her mind with slow strokes,
soft kisses and gentle whispers and touches. He sent her
flying with words more than actions that time, his
impassioned voice inflaming her than any technique.

She had never screamed, or whimpered, or begged during
sex, but she did all that and more as pillows got squished,
sheets got torn off and a lamp got knocked over. He took
her from behind, and she held on to the headboard so hard
she thought she'd break it.

When she finally, finally erupted, all the stars in the
universe seemed to go supernova in her head, but he waited
until she could see again before letting himself go.

She knew the look on his face when he came would stay
with her forever. She'd seen him sick, grieving, near
death and raving like a lunatic, but this was the first
time she'd seen him out of his mind with happiness. He
eyes slammed shut when it started, and his mouth opened
in a silent shout of pure bliss, his hips driving deep, so
deep into her, and then the best was over and he opened
his eyes and showed her his soul.

He had a few more tender kisses left, but then he went
face-first into what remained of the bedcovers. She found
a pillow and managed to shove it under his head. He slept
like the dead from almost that moment, but Scully stayed
awake for a little, stroking his hair and sifting through
the events of a life-changing day as she, too, drifted off
to sleep.

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

Scully's kitchen
3 a.m.
 

"You know, Mulder, I'm not sure if I had multiple orgasms
or if I had one unbelievable, drawn-out orgasm with a lot
of peaks." She spread cream cheese on a bagel and topped it
with lox, the food they had neglected earlier in favor of
feasting on each other.

Mulder spoke with his mouth full. "Either way, that was
the kind of sex that curls the toes and breaks furniture."

She nodded. Yes, indeedy. "Thankfully, my bed is made of
solid oak and withstood the onslaught." She leaned over
for a lox-flavored smooch. "We should check the slats
later, though."

"How about now?" he said. He didn't start out with a leer,
but he ended with one.

"Last one there loses," she said.

Much, much later, she figured they'd both won.
 

-- 30 --
===============================
feedback to piglit1975@aol.com
thanks for playing in the sandbox with me

Notes: Chocolate shakes with real whipped cream and lots of
maraschino cherries to Livia and EPur, who kicked my ass in
helpful ways. I took liberties with the shooting range and
other things, but Deep Background let me start off on the
right foot. Lovely site, that is.

Y'know, this was going to be nothing more than a smut
biscuit, something in between some serious, longer stories
I'm working on. But nooooo, I had to go find a plot and
characters and dialogue and ... *stuff*. Sigh. So please
don't hurt me because i made you wait for the good bits.

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

There are 108 beads in a Catholic rosary and 108 stitches in
a baseball. When I heard that, I gave Jesus a chance.
-- Annie Savoy, "Bull Durham"