By Emma Baker
emmalanna@aol.com
 

Date: Mon, 24 Nov 1997

DISCLAIMER:  The characters herein are the property of 1013
Productions and Fox Broadcasting.  The situations into which we have
placed them are our own.

CATEGORY:  S, MSR

RATING:  NC-17

SPOILERS:  None.  Not quite sure in which universe this takes place,
either :)

ARCHIVING:  Please archive at Gossamer.  Do not forward to ATXC.

SUMMARY:  Oh, the trials and tribulations of jealousy and frustration.

AUTHORS' NOTES:  This story is dedicated to all the Screamers and to
MG.  Though too many to name, they all know who they are and that
they have all our love and gratitude.  Special thanks to Lisa, our
Agent, for all her help and all-around wonderfulness!

The scenes alternate between characters -- we begin with Mulder and
continue with Scully.  No change from that pattern.  Mulder's sections
were written by Emma Baker, and Scully's were by Michaela Iery.  We
created the plot together.

NOTE:  This story in no way endorses the consumption of tobacco
products. Kids -- they'll rot your internal organs and suck your
allowances dry, okay? Never fear, Mulder will soon be forced to kick
the proverbial habit.

Please send all feedback to emmalanna@aol.com or to mickirae@aol.com

********

SMOKING
By Michaela and Emma Baker
 

********

God, I need a cigarette.

And I don't even smoke.  Can't stand the stuff.  Lord knows I
should have been turned off of it altogether by now, after having
spent the past four-odd years chasing The Black-Lunged Bastard (as
I've officially named him).  But I'm actually twitching here.  My legs
are shaking and I can almost taste the nicotine on my tongue.

You know, now that I think about it, I can taste her on my
tongue.

Considering I've never actually put my tongue in contact with her
skin, the idea that I'd know what Scully tastes like is pretty damn
impressive.  But I have my ideas, my theories.  It's normal.  It
happens.  Especially when you're with such a fucking amazing woman
24/7.  Not that I'm complaining.  Hell, no.  I just know these things
-- pick up on these nuances.  Like the way her skin might taste.

Clean.  Very clean.  Maybe a little salty.  Like she'd scrubbed
her skin with Ivory soap and one of those little loofahs.  She
probably buys Ivory just for that little "99.44% Pure"  logo.
That's my Scully -- not one to put up with any excess.  How
would she smell?  Well, I sure as hell know that.  She smells of
coffee and of the sandalwood of her lotion.

I'll bet he knows too.

Chuck.

What kind of a godawful name is that?  Chuck.  I say it aloud,
my lips twisting into a sneer.  He was probably a frat boy in
college, trying to hit four keggers before midnight and avoiding
any classes that started before noon.  The kind of guy who
always made overachievers like me feel like losers.

Well, I still feel like a loser, because he's out with Scully tonight.

Bastard.

She *says* he's an old college boyfriend.  She *says* he's
married with a lovely wife and two kids (all three conveniently
out of town for a soccer tournament).  She *says* they're just
getting together to talk about old times and that it'd be ridiculous
not to look him up while we're in Ohio on this case.

Screw this case.  Screw Chuck.  Okay, scratch that.  Just don't
let HER screw him.

Damn, did I just think that?

I need a cigarette.

I grab the keys to the rental car and tear out of the room.  I can't
be in here anymore.  Not now.  Not while she's gallivanting around out
there with Chuck The Bastard.  There has to be a goddamn convenience
store somewhere around here.
 

********

I am trapped in hell.

Granted, it's a hell of my own making, but I'll bet if I concentrate -
if I really think this thing through carefully and deliberately - I
can find a way to blame Mulder.

Yesterday, in the dark dungeon of our office, Mulder gives me
one of his quirky, mischievous grins, the kind he gives when an
entire town in Kansas has been terrorized by a demonic Goat
Man or the souls of mutilated cattle are haunting farmlands near
alleged UFO landing sites. You know the grin. The one that tells
me I'm in for yet another case where I'll end up mucking through
swamp lands, driving an Army tank, or convincing some mutant
that I need my pancreas more than he does.

I love that grin. I really do.

Damn it.

We end up in Circleville, Ohio. Lovely town. Pedantic case, but
a lovely town. And it occurs to me mid-flight, somewhere
between Mulder monopolizing the arm rest and Mulder pilfering
half of my honey-roasted peanuts, that an old friend of mine is
living near Circleville. Or so I've heard. We haven't actually
spoken in years. So I think to myself - Dana Katherine Scully,
you have narrowly cheated death how many times now? You
have lost how many of your family, friends and acquaintances in
recent years? Perhaps you should view this case as a little
opportunity to reconnect with your history. A chance to renew
old friendships and embrace your past.

I know. I know. My inner voice sounds annoyingly like Dr.
Joyce Brothers. I hate that.

We finally get into our hotel rooms - the Happy Time Inn? Good
God, Mulder - and, with an impulsiveness that surprises me, I
pick up the phone and call directory assistance. Well, if Dr.
Joyce Brothers doesn't know what she's talking about, who the
hell does? Because Chuck Mitchell is living right there in
Circleville, My-God-Dana-how-long-has-it-been,  and he'd just
*love* to get together for dinner. We reminisce briefly on the
phone and commit to plans for that evening.

I wonder briefly if I should be committed.

Chuck and I dated for almost one year. I attribute this
phenomenon to that highly-vulnerable period most college juniors
go through when they suddenly realize that senior year is right
around the corner, and afterwards, good lord, they will actually
have to grow up and get a job. Temporary insanity. An attempt
to escape reality. Must have been. Because if there were ever
two people in the world that would actually cause God to look
down from the heavens and say, "No. Those two should never
be together. Never. That's the first sign of The Apocalypse" -
well, *that* would be Chuck and I.

Not that he's not nice. Chuck is very nice. So nice it makes your hair
hurt.

When I get off the phone, I ask Mulder if he wants to go with me
- I found him eavesdropping, under the guise of discussing a case file
we have already memorized on the plane, by the adjoining door to his
room. He declines. He looks sulky, as if he can't believe I would
eschew a night of takeout Chinese and a rerun of The Blob to go have
dinner in a restaurant. With people. And normally, I wouldn't. The
chance to lounge lazily with Mulder, brushing up against him,
presumably to reach the soy sauce or stretch my legs, is not something
I would relinquish normally.

But this is a once-in-a-lifetime-opportunity.

I hope to *God* this is a once-in-a-lifetime-opportunity.

How did I ever date a man this patently dull? Was he this way in
college? I struggle to remember, even as I'm politely nodding
while Chuck launches into yet another monologue about
God-knows-what-and-I'll-never-know because I can hardly
keep my eyes from crossing out of sheer boredom. He could
have been this boring. It's possible. Frankly, I don't remember
much about the year we dated, and probably only in part
because I went through that keg-party stage at the same time.
Maybe I drank so that I could block out the fact that I was
dating *Chuck*. A sedative to block out the excruciating agony
of his tediousness. Come to think of it, I did stop going to Delta Tau
Delta parties as soon as we stopped dating. Of course, Chuck was a
Delt, which might have had something to do with it.

The only thing I remember is the sex. It was pretty good. He was
my first, so I didn't have a whole lot to compare with, but
looking back in retrospect, it wasn't half bad. Better than you
might expect, considering. Of course, maybe memory is being
kind in regard to our sex life.

After all, memory did manage to dull my recollection of the fact
that Chuck Mitchell is as exciting as dental surgery.

And so I sit in Denny's, because Chuck had coupons and
because Chuck *always* eats at Denny's on Fridays. And I
listen to this man, who has managed to lose every hair on his
head while gaining several new ones in his nose, practically gouge me
for free medical advice about these intestinal problems he's been
having - no wonder he was so anxious to meet for dinner tonight. I nod
and smile in all the right places and I pray that the waitress will
bring my soup - soup, a dish that can be eaten
*quickly* - because while we were waiting to order, Chuck has
already regaled me with astonishing tales of his latest real-estate
coup and the astonishing program on gardening given at the last Rotary
luncheon.

I could be in my hotel room. I could be eating Chinese food. I
could be watching The Blob. Or, Mulder could be here with me,
where he ought to be, making subtly scathing comments about
Chuck that only *I* would pick up on, and I could give him the
appropriate scolding looks while secretly smiling at his wit. Or
we could ignore Chuck entirely and discuss our case, which has
suddenly become the most appealing case in the history of the
FBI. But no, Mulder had to sulk.

Yes, I've decided. Mulder is *definitely* to blame for this.

********

END (1/6)
 
 

SMOKING (2/6)
By Michaela and Emma Baker

********

I hate Ohio.

I really do.  It's not just a fear of Ohio -- it's a deep profound
hatred.  Kind of like the bugs.  Don't ask me *why* I hate Ohio,
because I couldn't begin to tell you.  In fact, I didn't even start to
hate it until it became the state of residence for Chuck the Bastard.
Is it really irrational to hate a stranger so much?  I mean, *really*.
 Hell, I'm a psychologist -- I can name it for what it is.

Jealousy.

How embarrassing.

But there it is, like a boil on the face of life.  A big, sputtering
boil with good looks and an arrogant temper who has slept with Scully.
 Yuck. Maybe I should recast the analogy.  Whatever. All I know is
that Mr. Perfect (since when did he become "Mr.. Perfect"?  He's still
a bastard) is out with Scully right now, probably trying to get her to
sleep with him. Which she'd probably do.  Yeah, yeah, it ain't very
in-character for her, but my pissed-off mind can come to whichever
conclusions it chooses, thank you very much.

Another reason to hate Ohio:  no convenience stores when you
need them.  I must have been driving for ten minutes so far ,
and yet, no 7-11's.  I'll bet Chuck the Bastard would know
where to find one.  I'll bet he knows *everything*.  Like how
Scully tastes, and how she kisses, and what her face looks like
when she comes.  You know, all the things I suddenly want to
learn about.

Jealousy really sucks.

Profoundly.

Ah, okay.  There's a  Stop 'n Go.  I pull my car into the parking lot
and get out, slamming the door behind me.  Damn, it feels good to take
out my anger on a huge piece of steel.  I walk into the store and am
alone.  Where the hell is the clerk?  If I didn't know about the video
cameras, I'd be half-tempted to grab the cigs and run.  Yeah, I'd
violate several hundred laws and get fired, and yet, it'd be strangely
therapeutic.   So I start walking around the store, buying time,
waiting for Clerkboy-or-girl to magically appear.  My stomach growls
noticeably so I grab a big bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos to sate it.
And then Clerkgirl comes out from the back.  Highly unprofessional.  I
pull a Diet Coke -- 1-liter bottle -- out of the wall cases and a
king-sized Hershey bar.  Then I walk up to the counter.

Why do I suddenly feel like a fifteen-year-old kid?  Hell, even
the clerk barely looks eighteen herself.

"Pack of Marlboros."  I mold my voice into cool insouciance.

She reaches above her.  "Hard or soft pack?"

"Hard."  In light of my current attitude, it seems quite
appropriate.

"$6.47."

Little Miss Eloquence, indeed.

I hand her a ten and not so patiently wait for my change.  Once
it's in my hand, I grab the flimsy white plastic bag and tear out of
the place, then sit down in my car.  Suddenly, I can't resist the
allure of that small red-and-white cellophane package.  I push in the
car's lighter, then just sit there, fingering the box. Pressing the
sharp corners into the pads of my fingers. Examining the wrapper for
any imperfections.  Telling myself that just one won't give me cancer.

To hell with my conscience.

The button of the lighter pops and I yank it out.  I take one long
look at it pinched between my fingers, then set it on its side on the
dash and unwrap the box of cigarettes.  And then draw one out and
light it.  I pull it up to my lips...  and then deeply inhale.

Oh.
My.
God.

It's a good thing I didn't really *need* these lungs.  I can
actually feel my lungs squeezing down to the size of peach pits,
then exploding.  I burst out into a fit of coughing.   And then I
practically collapse from the most intense headrush I've felt in my
life.  A headrush which could knock down Evander Holyfield.   I sit in
the car, collapsed against the back of the seat, barely moving in my
stupor and the cigarette sizzling in my fingers.

And I look up, only to see Clerkgirl staring at me through the
windows, a bemused expression on her face.

Shit.

I set the cigarette down in the ashtray under the radio, taking
care not to snuff it out.  I might need it later.   I start the car
and throw it into reverse, then begin the drive back to the hotel.

I wonder if Chuck the Bastard smokes?

I wonder if Scully does?

She never has in front of me.  And on the drive back I begin to
catalogue all the things she's never done in front of me.

1) Play a board game.
2) Drink tequila.
3) Watch Beavis & Butt-head.
4) Enjoy Beavis & Butt-head.
5) Throw her head back with laughter.
6) Cradle a sleeping child.
7) Eat spaghetti with her hands.

As I near the Happy Time Inn, my mind dwells on that last
image.  Scully's incredible small hands swirling through a bowl
of pasta, the tomato sauce smeared over her fingers and her
lips puckered and poised for the next bite.  Suddenly, pasta has
never been so erotic.

I'm feeling all warm and glowy.

The image of  Scully and Chuck the Bastard at a small,
romantic Italian bistro with a broken dishwasher flits through
my mind.  The glow is doused.  I grab for the cigarette and take
a long drag, managing to siphon most of the smoke into my
lungs with only a minimum of retching this time.  I might could
get the hang of this.

So I start to dwell on the other things on the list, especially the
idea of a small child in Scully's arms, her hands smoothing its hair
and her eyes looking down on it with love.  Scully as a mother.  Why
is this image so heartwarming and so natural? And even though I've
never so much as kissed her, I want desperately to be there when it
happens -- to be a part of it. The warm-and-glowy feeling is back.

I park the car and slip my wrist through the handles of the Stop
'n Go bag, then walk to my room, puffing on the cigarette just a
bit more -- for practice, you understand.  I reach in my pocket
for the room key...

... and realize that it's still in the room.

Shit.

So I trudge around the corner to the office, and discover it's
nowhere near where it's meant to be.   Why on earth can these
people not do things the way *I* want them to?  Bastards.
Oops, that's Chuck's name.  Imbeciles. There, better.

And the office is dark with a "Back at 10pm" sign in the
window.

Imbeciles.

My shirt hem snags on the loose aluminum siding of the wall as
I promptly turn around and trudge right back to my room,
thinking the day cannot possibly get any worse.

It just did.

Scully stands outside her door preparing to open it, as a car
speeds away into the night.  Oh, God, I need that cigarette.  I
pull it up to my mouth and take an excruciatingly deep drag,
managing to turn only slightly green.

Scully is NOT amused.  She takes one look at me and sneers,
"What the *hell* happened to you, Mulder?"
 

********
 

I hate Ohio.

And where did this come from? Four hours ago while checking
into the hotel, I was admiring a little brochure about Circleville --
Home of the Annual Pumpkin Show, don't you know? -- and thinking that
it was really rather quaint and picturesque. A charming place to live.
A great place to raise Uber-Scullys...preferably with the
tall-dark-and-handsome agent who suggested that particular breed in
the first place.

Now where the hell did *that* come from? When did you start
thinking about raising kids with Fox Mulder, Dana? Have you
considered the complications of sleeping with, let alone
marrying and procreating with, a colleague?

Sometimes my inner-Joyce Brothers just don't know when to
shut the fuck up.

Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes. . Circleville. Good schools,
good neighbors. A nice place to grow old and die.

And now, I am actually considering death as a happy
alternative to being in this god-forsaken town one more minute.
I would wrestle Eugene Tooms on my bathroom floor -- in mud
-- to get out of Chuck Mitchell's car. Right now. I would
actually sleep with...well, I would consider sleeping with
Cancer Man if he could guarantee that it would get me back to
the hotel even 5 seconds sooner.

Olivia Newton John's Greatest Hits? Is that what's actually
coming out of the speakers of Chuck's oh-so-sensible 1995
blue Saturn station wagon? Yes.

And he's singing along.

This is *so* Mulder's fault. If he had agreed to come with me
to dinner, we would have driven the rental car to the restaurant.
Together. And while I watched the glow of the dashboard lights create
the most delicious shadows on his face -- okay, I think he's sexy
enough to eat with a spoon, I'll admit it. Not to mention I'd kill
just to watch him smile. Happy now? -- I could be listening to Billy
Joel, or the Eagles, or Bare Naked Ladies or anything except
"Hopelessly Devoted To You."

But no. I had to leave the car with Mulder, because he had to
stay home and sulk. And Chuck had to pick me up. And now
he has to drop me off. And in some strange, cosmic payback
that proves God is punishing me for even *thinking* of coming
anywhere near Chuck again, we are now hitting every red light
in the suddenly L.A.-sized town of Circleville.

I could offer to walk the rest of the way. Say I need the fresh
air and exercise after the oh-so-satisfying bowl of minestrone
that I don't remember finishing because Chuck had me
mesmerized by the blow-by-blow description of his audit last
spring. Yeah. That was sarcasm. Did you know that the
average bowl of minestrone at Denny's has 123 spiral-shaped
pasta noodles, 63 wedges of carrot, and a good three pieces of
cauliflower? I do.

So when could I reasonably broach the subject of walking the
rest of the way without Chuck getting suspicious? A block? A
quarter of a mile? Indiana?

Oh, thank God, Jesus, the Virgin Mary and all the saints. The
hotel. The Happy Time Inn. Right there. I can see its obnoxious
neon sign five blocks away, and nothing has ever looked so
beautiful to me in my life. Well, except Mulder, but we've
covered that, really, haven't we?

Speaking of Mulder, he must never know of this night. I will not
discuss it with him. I will make some vague and halfway
suggestive comment about the events of this night as I always
have when Mulder makes his adorably clumsy forays into my
social life. I will add to my mystique. Save some shred of
dignity. Whatever. It's just too embarrassing. I mean, where is
the fairness in life? His ex-girlfriends look like tall, leggy runway
models with annoyingly great accents who also happen to work for
prestigious law enforcement agencies, and me? I get Chuck. Chuck
"I-buy-all-my-suits-at-Sears-and-I've-never-seen-a-Stairmaste
r-in-my-life" Mitchell.

I'm practically pushing my shoes through the floorboard, as if I
can physically propel this car more quickly toward the hotel if I just
push hard enough. I am desperate to be away from this man and never
see him again. I am desperate for whatever leftover Chinese food
scraps may be left in Mulder's room. I am desperate to watch an old
movie on an even older television.

I am desperate to be with Mulder, even if this is all his fault.

Being with him, I can forget that Chuck Mitchell ever existed.
That anything existed before I joined the X-Files. You might
think that's funny. You might think that's odd, considering my
repeated vows to "get a life" outside of this job. But slowly
*dying* in Chuck Mitchell's company tonight reminded me of
something. Life before the X-Files -- before Mulder -- could
have been very, very, very boring.

And if the past five years has proven anything to me, it's this:
Case or not, near-death experience or not, life with Mulder is
never boring. Just sitting in a hotel room with him, pouring over case
files that border on the obscenely ludicrous, is ludicrously exciting.
Have you ever watched him nibble on a pen when he's focusing really
hard on a case file? It practically sends me to a cold shower, it's
that fucking sexy. He just kind of...plays with it. Rolls his tongue
around the end of it, pulls the ball-point plunger in and out with the
suction of his tongue and lips.

I would think he does it on purpose, just to slowly kill me,
except I don't really think that he does. He does it without
thinking about it. Which just brings up a whole new set of
daydreams about what he could do with that mouth if he were
really concentrating...

Damn it. How is that I'm mad at him, and yet Mulder still finds
a way to sneak his way into my mind and get naked?

The car slows down. I already have my room key in hand --
fished it out of my coat pocket while Chuck was still paying the
check. Would that be considered obvious? It doesn't matter. I
just have to escape. So *this* is the true meaning of the fight or
flee instinct.

"We have to do this again sometime," Chuck offers loudly, over
the sound of Olivia Newton-John getting "Physical."

"Yeah, sure," I venture back, praying to God that I didn't
mention to him at any point where I live in the sprawling D.C.
area. "Call me."

I have never jumped out of a car so fast in my life, not even
when I was chasing down a suspect. I am already bolting to the
door like a speed sprinter; Jackie Joyner-Kersey, get the hell
out of my way. You may have dreams of gold medals and
endorsements spurring you on, but I've got Chuck Mitchell.
You stand no chance.

Wait. I smell smoke. Cigarette smoke, which is almost never a
good sign in my life. I turn.

Oh. My. God. I can't leave him alone for a minute.

"What the *hell* happened to you, Mulder?"
 

********

END (2/6)
 
 
 

SMOKING (3/6)
By Michaela and Emma Baker

********

Scientists have this theory.

Actually, I lied.  It's not a scientific theory.  Just my own.  And
it's not even really a theory.  Just an idea of mine.  Whatever.
Anyway, so the idea goes that, the longer you go without seeing
someone, and the greater the emotional tension between you from
farewell to hello, the more powerful the reunion will be.

Scully and I have just about knocked that off the scale.

Oh, God, she looks stunning.  A-fucking-mazing.   She's
wearing this outfit.  It's a black short-sleeved sweater with
buttons and a black skirt from one of her suits. Her hair is
brushed, and she has this tiny gold comb in it, pulling it away
from her face.  Man, I could sit here all night and look at her. And
touch her.  I would kill right now to touch her.

But right now, she's looking at me like I'm an Untouchable.

"What the *hell* happened to you, Mulder?"

Oh, shit.

We stand there in a Mexican Standoff.  I'm squirming from the
tension.  I wish to hell she were too, but she looks too damn
pleased with herself.  And none too pleased with me.

Let me guess:  Chuck the Bastard.  She's been with Chuck the
Bastard for the past two hours and she's pissed off with me
because I'm not him.  Because she can't have wild animalistic
sex with him with me sleeping next door.  God, I want to
scream.  Or just make her scream.

"Oh, nothing at all."  I pull the corners of my mouth into my best
shit-eating grin and stare her down.  "So, did you get laid, Scully?"

Oh, my God.

Did I actually say that?  I mean, I dreamed that.  I know I did. I
know that if I were to take the water from the taps of the Happy Time
Inn into a lab and have them do a chemical analysis, they'd find
fourteen different types of hallucinogen. Because the last ten seconds
MUST be a hallucination.  They *have* to be.  If they were, then I can
just go on with my happy little life and pretend nothing ever
happened.  If they weren't, then Scully would never forgive me.  Ever.
 And I'd rather die than lose her.  Period.  It's just not an option.
 

My eyes finally focus and I look at her.  No dice.  No
hallucination, just harsh, brutal reality staring back at me in the
form of an Extremely Pissed-Off Scully.  Maybe I can just curl up
right here and die.  Really.  It could happen.  She'd see it so
there'd be no need for witnesses.  And she could just throw me into a
furnace, cremate me, then scatter me to the winds.  It could
definitely happen.  Right now, I rather *hope* it happens. And as I'm
starting to list all the places I'd like my ashes to be scattered --
the basketball court at Quantico, Cape Cod,  the Gunmen's offices,
hell, Skinner's office -- the jingling of a keychain shakes me out of
my reverie.

Scully has the room key in her hand and she's jabbing it into the lock
on the knob.   She's supposed to be unlocking the deadbolt, but I
don't think she realizes that and I'm too terrified to say anything.
But at this point I just need to escape inside the room, and not a
moment too soon.  And I need to apologize, but without actually
apologizing.

So I reach my free hand (the one without the cigarette) out and
close it over hers, then murmur, "Here, let me help you."  The
feel of her hand under mine.... I can't even begin to describe it.
It's just so amazing.  Like every nerve in my hand has been set on end
and the electrical charges sing up to my brain.  My whole body
tightens with that touch.  Wow.  I look up at her.

Uh-oh.

Her eyes are locked on mine and I can actually *feel* her
softening.  It's like the earth has stopped spinning on its axis and
all that energy has been concentrated right here between us. Her eyes
narrow and her lips part, just enough for me to slip my tongue in if I
were kissing her.  Maybe I will.  God, I'm tempted.

But then her mouth widens even more, into a tiny "O", and her
eyes narrow into onyx slits.  And she *is* fury.  Her hand
unclenches from the doorknob and she slaps mine away, angrily
jabbing it into the deadbolt lock.  Somehow she gets it open,
then storms inside.  I am left, stunned, in her wake.

So I follow her inside, practically tiptoeing in my fear.  If I stand
really still, I can actually feel my world crumbling around me.  A 7.8
on the Richter Scale, with a special Damage Alert to my heart.

I'm standing inside her room, the adjoining doors flung open
flippantly.  Taunting me, telling me to get the hell away from her
before I hurt her more.  That's me, Fox Mulder, Champion Bastard.
Even worse than Chuck.  So as she slowly starts to take off her shoes
and put down her purse, I watch her, trying to think of *something* to
say.  Something to make everything right again.

"What time is our meeting with the sheriff tomorrow?"

Oh, yeah, *real* brilliant.  Worthy of a Rhodes Scholar.
Which I was, but that's beside the point.  She looks at me and I
can feel my balls -- hell, my entire body -- just withering.

"9:30 am."

"Thanks.  Wake up call for 6:30, then?"

She doesn't say anything, so I take that as assent.  I set the
Stop 'n Go bag down on the bed as her eyes follow me.  I look
down and notice the bag of Doritos.

"Want one?"  Whoa, *extremely* brilliant, Genius.

She shoots me a withering glance.  "Doritos?  No, thank you.  I
had plenty to eat."  Her voice is smug, condescending.   My
pride is weakening.   The image of her eating with Chuck the
Bastard is *not* helping.

"I'm sure you did, Scully."

Score one for me.  My heart feels as hollow as the victory.

She's turned away from me and now she's wrestling with the
comb in her hair.  The raising of her arms has caused her short
skirt  to ride up just a bit, showing me an incredible set of thighs
encased in shimmering hose.

Oh, my God.

And she still wrestles with the comb.  From what I can tell,
some strands of hair have gotten caught in it -- gold mixing with
gold.  Beauty incarnate.  I want to -- I *have* to touch it.  Call me
Mr. Tactile, but I just have to feel her under my fingers, even if she
hates me.

Please, God, don't let her hate me.

So I take a step forward -- just a small one -- and bring my
hand up to hers.  She turns her head slightly and looks at me.
Just looks.  No emotion behind her blue eyes.  But a miracle
happens:  she lowers her hand and lets me have the comb.

For the rest of my life, I will never forget this moment.  Never. I
will never forget the moment I held Dana Scully's head in my hand, her
hair spilling over my fingers and all her intelligence and life under
me.  I slowly, very slowly, begin to work through the tangles, tucking
the still-smouldering cigarette between the fingers of my other hand
(a mistake for which I will pay dearly). The comb gives way under my
fingers with surprising ease, so I hold it out to her.  She reaches up
and takes it from me, then closes her hand over mine.  Oh, my Lord.  I
feel absolutely, positively drunk.  And in love.  Yes, I'm in love.
Not just now, but forever.  It's always been there, brought into
relief by the simple act of my touching her hair and her hand covering
mine.

We stand there, breathing heavily, for a heartbeat, then I move
my other hand through her hair.  I feel its smoothness, its
coolness.  It is a living, breathing thing.  I move that other hand to
cover hers. .... and hear a faint sizzling.

Scully jumps a foot, as do I.

She stands there in front of me, furious and shaking out her
hand.  "God, Mulder, what are you DOING?"

I have no idea what to say.

"Shit, you can't even hold a cigarette right."

Okay, that is it.  That is absolutely IT.  I have to leave -- be
OUT of this room before I take that amazing neck of hers
between my hands and slowly squeeze.  Forget that I love her,
forget that she's just amazing right now -- I can't be in here
anymore.

I turn on my heel and walk through the door to my room.
 

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

He looks like shit.

Correction. He looks like an ad out of GQ, Mulder
casual-wear, and even if his shirt is torn, his hair rumpled and
he's turning a scientifically intriguing shade of green from
dragging much too hard on a cigarette -- a cigarette?! How
long was I *gone* tonight? -- he still manages to look good.

Shit.

"What the *hell* happened to you, Mulder?" I hear myself ask,
and I know I sound like a shrew. I can't help it. After two hours of
torture, this is just too much. I spend the entire evening blaming
Mulder for the Chuck Mitchell Disaster Dinner, and he's standing there
looking like...dessert.

"Oh, nothing at all," he replies, and this breezy, slightly
sing-song voice is enough to make my teeth grind together. I
hate that tone. It's so...superior, somehow. I try to suppress a
sigh, biting down hard on the inside of my lower lip, and turn
back to the door, focusing every ounce of my concentration on
getting the key into the lock with hands that have suddenly
become trembling entities of their own.

"So, did you get laid, Scully?"

Denny's has been putting LSD in the minestrone soup.

I dazedly make a mental note to call the Health Department and
the police, even as my mind is processing that, no, Dana, you
are not hallucinating. You are not that lucky. The real facts here are
that your partner, your piece-of-shit partner, just asked you, right
here at the Happy Time Inn, if you had sex tonight. "Got laid," to be
specific -- and crude. With a married man. That you haven't seen in 10
years.

That hurt. That fucking hurt. And I'm not sure which part of it
bothers me the most. That he would think I would just
arbitrarily go out and have sex this night, simply because the
weather's nice, I'm in Ohio, and oh, look, here's a penis nearby. That
he would equate as crude and vulgar a term as getting "laid" to me.
That he thinks I would blaspheme the marriage vows of a man who I
happened to be intimate with a *decade* ago.

That he said it while he's standing there smoking that damn
cigarette, and despite the fact that he looks ridiculous holding it,
he still manages to look sexy -- well, this just pisses me off. That
he could say this thing to me, and that I could I still find him
remotely desirable, it just...the mind boggles. I hate myself. I hate
him. I want him. I'd die for him. I almost have.

Maybe I'll just shoot him. Again.

My hands, which were shaking with tension before, have now
turned entirely useless since fury is settling in, raging low in my
belly like a forest fire. I feel hot. I can't get this damn door open.
Shit.

"Here, let me help you."

His voice is low, with that soft, cajoling tone that really just
makes my stomach turn into a pit of mush every single time he
uses it. That tone, all soft and husky and just a little bit
apologetic. It's sexier to me than any ridiculous and flirtacious quip
he tosses out when we're working. I feel him draw closer, and then he
is taking my hand, with the key in it.

He's touching me.

Oh, just so you know, every single cell in my body has stopped
moving. My blood has stilled suddenly in my veins, as if it has
suddenly become too congested to flow, except directly into
the lowest part of my belly, where at this moment it is least
wanted. My nerve endings are blaring red-alarm warning
signals to the rest of my body that all activities must cease. The
only thing in the world is his hand on mine, and my central nervous
system has demanded full attention from the rest of my traitorous
body.

He must know. He must know how he's affecting me. I'm
looking into his eyes, all shadowed hazels and greens, and I
think I see it there. Apology. And the hope that all has been
forgiven.

Fat fucking chance.

I don't care how good-looking he is, I don't care how much I
love -- yes, goddammit, I said *love* -- this man, a comment
like the one he just made does not get forgiven with a
puppy-dog look and help with the damn door lock.

I slap his hand away and lunge for the door lock again. Okay.
Yes, I know that slapping his hand was petulant. But I'm feeling
petulant. I'm so furious with him right now, and I'm even more
furious with myself because two seconds ago, I was willing to
throw this man down to the sidewalk and show him exactly
how limber 5 years of childhood gymnastics has left me to this
day.

Damn it.

I'm in my room almost before I realize it, and I feel, rather than
see, him sneak in behind me. Why the hell is he coming in here? Is he
trying to tempt fate? I don't have the energy for this. I just want to
pretend this whole night never existed, from the moment I even
considered calling Chuck to the moment Mulder demanded details on my
rumored sex life. I am tired.

Wearily, I lay my purse on the table beside the bed. I balance
on first one foot, then the other, as I kick my shoes off and
nudge them with my toes into obedient little soldiers, one beside the
other. I turn to face him, find him watching me in that way that
unnerves me and makes me alive with awareness all at the same time.

"What time is our meeting with the sheriff tomorrow?"

I can't even believe you are attempting small talk right now,
Mulder. Haven't you given up yet? Can't we just pretend this
didn't happen, and then tomorrow, once I get some sleep and
forget about this night, I may have some chance of forgiving you
for what you just said?

"9:30 a.m." My voice is cold, excessively so, but it's either this or
let it tremble, and the latter option is unacceptable.

"Thanks, wake up call for 6:30 a.m., then?"

The words "Sure. Fine. Whatever" are on the tip of my tongue,
but even I'm not willing to draw allusions, subtle or screaming,
to that particularly terrible case and the unreasonable tension
between us then. Am I angrier now than I was in Comity? Yes.
But I'm unwilling to say the words, because even then I had
known they hurt him. Cut him down. I was irrational then and
it's the only excuse I can find for willingly hurting a man who
punishes himself enough already. I am rational now. Angry, but
rational. And I will not hurt him if I can help it.

I'm watching him cross the room, and he's putting down a
flimsy convenience story bag. I see a bright, crackly bag of
Doritos sticking out of the top and my stomach stabs me
sharply in a rather pointed reminder that I have had minestrone
soup for dinner. A small bowl. Chosen for the absolute rapidity
of how it served and eaten.

I want a Dorito. I want to eat it out of Mulder's fingers. And
while I'm doing that, grill this handsome buffoon about why he
isn't eating something more nutritious. He does not take care of
himself when I'm not here.

Dana, stop that!  You don't want to eat Doritos from Mulder's
fingers.

Shut the hell up, Joyce, I really do want to.

But to accept a Dorito might give Mulder the idea that my
evening meal had been less than satisfying. Which might raise
questions. Which might force me to reveal that I have just
survived one of the most tedious and humiliating nights of my
life. Which might possibly maybe make him gloat, and I couldn't
stand that.

"Want one?" he offers.

"Doritos? No, thank you. I had plenty to eat." I try to make my
tone proud, slightly cool, and I must have succeeded, because
he strikes back with a retort that just makes the whole
Did-I-fuck-Chuck-Mitchell accusation rear its ugly head again.

"I'm sure you did, Scully."

Dammit. I turn away from him, and reach up to take this
damned comb out of my hair. It's stuck. Great. God really is
punishing me. I never wear these things. Still don't know why I
actually put one in, except that I wanted to feel elegant and
beautiful and on some adolescent, not-Gloria-Steinem level, I
wanted to impress the ex-boyfriend. What an utter waste of
effort.

I tug on the damn thing, welcoming the anguished and silent
scream of pain from my hair roots, figuring it's my just
punishment. Great. Now I've become Mulder, trying to
castigate myself. Isn't that just charming.

Suddenly, he's behind me. Closer now, even though he hasn't
touched me yet. Why do I know he's going to touch me? How
do I know this as fact, as much a given as the sun rising in the
east? I just know. And then he does.

I can't decide if I'm glad that I'm right all the time or not.

And my central nervous-system has just shut down. Too much
pressure. It's not equipped to take this kind of sensory assault, one
blow right after another. First the hand thing and now...he's touching
my hand again. Am I breathing? I'm not sure. Do I care? I'm not sure
of that either...

I venture a look up at him, trying to gauge his mood, and it's
hesitant, almost...tender? Could he really have spoken out of
ugly impulse, with no real idea of what he was saying? Can I
forgive him for that?

I stop thinking for a moment, because thinking is really not all
that it's cracked up to be sometimes. Better to just simply...be. To
minimize my awareness to the feel of his fingers in my hair, working
through the strands with such care, feeling him close. I close my eyes
for a moment, but open them again quickly, afraid of what my face
might betray should he look down at me. On instinct, I take the comb
as he offers it to me, as if it is a gift more profound than a simple
piece of gold-painted plastic, and I let my hand linger over his.

I listen to our breathing. It is synchronous and heavy, and it fills
my ears and the space between us and the room. His other hand is
reaching up to touch my hair, and I wonder if he can feel me leaning
into his touch. And would he understand what it meant. This is
magical. This is unbelievable. This is...

Damn dangerous.

He hurt me again. God dammit, he rammed that fucking lit
cigarette of his into my hand, right into that tender web of skin
between my thumb and finger. It was an accident, I know it was, but
both my nerves and my emotions have been far too close to the surface
tonight, and all I can do is break it down to one simplistic thought:
He hurt me again.

I push myself away from him, waving my hand furiously, as if
there might still be smoldering tobacco embedded in it.

"God, Mulder, what are you DOING?" I shout, not even
recognizing my own voice. He says nothing, which infuriates me
more.

"Shit, you can't even hold a cigarette right!" And this -- for
reasons I cannot fathom -- just snaps him. He glares at me, as if he's
considering strangling me, and he storms out of the room, through the
adjoining door to his room, not even giving me the benefit of a good
retort so that I can keep yelling at him.

I hear the bathroom door in his room slam. I stiffen my back at
the sound. Fine. I can keep being mad at him, whether he's
here or not. I'm really good at holding a grudge; it's a
particularly ugly Scully trait. I start to sit on the bed, then jump
back up, too filled with this pulsating emotion I assume must be
bilious rage to sit still.

I'm pacing even before I realize it, and I notice that my fingers are
digging into the palms of my hands and I'm opening and closing them
rapidly. What the hell is wrong with me? My hands feel empty. This
doesn't feel right. I'm not calming down at all, I'm just getting more
agitated. And then I realize.

The cigarettes.

I need a cigarette. Pacing is only good with a cigarette, I need
one right now. I sure as hell must need them more than *him*
because after all, I've actually smoked them before -- oh, sure,
only in occasional social situations or during times of extreme
stress <Do not even attempt to *think* her name...> but I
know that I am jonesing for one right now harder than Mulder
ever will in his life.

Those cigarettes are mine.

I'm at the door before I can conjure up what I'm going to say,
and I throw it open, automatically catching it with my hand so
that it won't bang against the wall, which hasn't done anything
wrong and hardly deserves the abuse, no matter how satisfying
it might be.

SweetJesusandallthesaints,thankyouGod,youreallydolovemetole
tmeseethis.

I have the luxury, the utter, unexpected lushness, of seeing a
half-naked Mulder.  The cigarette is in a makeshift ashtray and
he has his back to me. He's stripped off his shirt and pulled off his
jeans, and I'm looking at the greatest ass I have *ever* seen, encased
in this amazing gray, almost-boxer, type of cotton underwear -- my
mind briefly attempts to remember the name of this phenomenal article
of clothing, but gives up almost immediately upon the realization that
this may actually detract from my absorbing every detail. The long,
strong back. The muscled legs. That ass. I keep coming back to that
ass. I cannot possibly be blamed for this.

Oh my God. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my GOD.

I kind of...melt back against the door, because the message has
been relayed from my brain to my knees that upon the eyes
receiving such a visual feast, the body's joints are no longer
allowed to function. I press my palms to the solid wood panel
of that door, hoping that out of some cosmic kindness it will
hold me up.

Oh shit. He heard me. He's turning around and he's looking at
me with this faintly surprised and still very pissed-off look on his
face. He's not even embarrassed to see me catching him like this.
Sure, I've seen him naked. But only in medical situations. This is so
very different. This is *intimate*. And he's not embarrassed.

This tidbit of information thrills me, and I'm not sure why.

Snap out of it. Snap out of it now. Say what you came here to
say, Dana Scully.

"Give me the damn cigarettes," I manage to growl out, and my
voice is slightly hoarse, and I pray that he will think it's anger and
not...what it is.

His glare, if possible, becomes even more hostile, and he stalks
to his bed, swipes the pack of cigarettes off the bedspread, and
comes at me. He's angry. He's magnificent. I let my eyes flicker
over him, *all* over him, just for a moment. Oh my God. Dear
Lord in heaven, You are a compassionate God. You have just
eradicated every memory of that horrible, horrible dinner by
just letting me catch one glimpse of this. Thank You. I'll live on
this forever if I have to. If he hates me forever now.

Please don't let him hate me.

He is in front of me now, the cigarettes offered with one long,
outstretched arm as if he is either unwilling, or unable, to get too
close to me. I step forward, wrapping my hand around his fingers with
the cigarettes still enfolded between them, and I pull. Hard. And
pivot, with a dexterity that would have made my Quantico hand-to-hand
combat instructor proud.

And suddenly, he is landing against the door with a thud so loud
that I almost wince. And then I am grabbing him by both sides
of his head, yanking him down to me and...Oh, God...who
knew that a man's mouth, even one that had smoked a
cigarette, could taste this good?

He seems stunned. He hasn't moved, though he isn't resisting
either. I am like some untethered animal, wanting to simply
devour him. Breathing has become an unnecessary occupation
attempted by lesser mortals. And it occurs to me: God has
been cruel tonight and God has been kind. God seems to be a
little fickle right now, so I'm going to have to rely on my own
instincts here.

And I want this.
 

********

END (3/6)
 
 
 
 

SMOKING (4/6)
By Michaela and Emma Baker

********

I kiss Dana Scully.  Dana Scully kisses me.  We are kissing.
Besamos.  Embrassons.

Oh, God.

I now know how she tastes:  divine.  Absolutely amazing, like
heaven and tomatoes.  Her tongue is moving along mine, deeply
and hungrily, like she is trying to devour me whole.  I want to
be devoured.

Suddenly, I realize that I have done nothing here -- I am simply
standing here, shocked.  She is sucking the breath out of my
lungs, not that I'd be able to breathe, anyway.  Who could
breathe when they're being embraced by Dana Scully?  So I
decide to act.  A good first step would be to actually *touch*
her, so I raise one hand to the back of her neck.

It feels good.  Oh, Lord, it feels good.  Silk and satin and
chiffon and velvet.   I slowly move my fingers along the patch of
skin, caressing its smoothness and warmth.   She groans into my mouth.
 I nearly lose all control right there.  Suddenly, I can't do enough
-- FEEL enough.  I bring my other hand up to the small of her back and
crush her to me.

Crushing, that's what I'm doing.  I'm crushing my heart into a
tiny package and giving it to her, wrapped up with the red bow
of my tongue.

And expanding.  I am expanding in a million directions.  Even
wedged against this doorframe, my body quickly swells and
unfolds to encompass both of us as she soaks into me and I
into her.  I've never felt anything as amazing as this moment.  All
the tension we'd felt earlier has melted away.

And we kiss.

Oh, God, we kiss.  Hell, "kiss" seems like too mild, too simple
a word for the exchange of souls taking place in this room.
Every word which has passed between us this evening has been
forgotten -- has burned itself into the spark which is the fuel for
this desire, this passion.

This love.   Yes, this love.  Because this *is* love.  It can't
possibly be anything else.  It's beauty and desire and warmth and
fire and love.  All the science in the world couldn't begin to
explain this paranormal event.  Scully moves her tongue lightly along
the insides of my lips, then breaks the kiss and takes a deep breath.
 I feel the air moving down her throat and filling her lungs.  So
this is what it feels like to become one person. Wow.

As I pepper her face with tiny kisses -- her throat, the corner of her
mouth, her temples ("temple" -- what a wonderful word), her eyelids --
her head lolls in my hand and I realize that I cannot possibly ever
leave her.  Ever.  She has to be here in my arms for every moment of
my life. Period.  I move my hand from the small of her back down to
her ass.  Her beautiful round ass.  She groans again -- well, more
like a growl.  Whoa -- I, Fox Mulder, have made Dana Scully growl.  As
my mind begins to process that information, she takes the advantage.

Dana Scully has become a tigress.

Wow.

We're still in the doorway, too busy to even begin to think
about moving.  She reaches up -- on her tiptoes, I have to assume --
and presses her face into mine.  Our tongues duel.  Our hands duel.
Our bodies merge.  They have the right idea.

I move my other hand from the nape of her neck to the middle
of her back and she moves in my arms -- a slight swoon that sets me
completely aflame.  The slick fabric of her shirt touches my skin
anew. Her breasts press against my chest and her already-hard nipples
brush over my own.  I tremble.  And I realize that I'm naked -- well,
almost naked.  She has to be naked too.  It's only fair.

Hey, I'm a fair guy.  Equal rights and all that.

I push her away from me, just a step away.  And I look at her.
Oh, wow.  Her eyes are startled and blackened from what I assume is
passion.  I hope it is, at least.  Her face is flushed and her lips
are apple red and swollen.  Ripe.  Delicious.  We do not exist but to
breathe and to feel.  A whirlwind of pure sensation.

I look at her.  She looks at me.  We are in awe of each other.
We *are* each other.  We have become one.  And it is amazing.  I know
that I could ask her to walk across hot coals for me, and she would.
And I would do no less for her.  I would do the world for her.  But
right now, I only need one thing from  her and she from me.

I bring my fingers up to the tiny pearl buttons of her t-shirt
sweater.  Down, down, down toward the pot of gold. Even
though she stays completely, breathlessly still, she comes alive
under my fingertips.  I hold her gaze until her shirt is completely
undone, then slowly lower my gaze.

She is beautiful.  Her shirt is just slightly open., just enough for
me to see a bit of pink skin underneath.  And a black bra.  Oh, God, a
black bra.  My Scully wears a black  bra.  I take my fingers and
press them on her breastbone, just underneath the tiny clasp where
the bra meets. I feel her breathing under my fingertips.  I want to
rid her of the shirt, the bra, everything -- but first I have to
touch her.  So I slip my hand onto her stomach and press, just a tiny
bit.  I force air out of her stomach and it escapes her throat as a
tiny puff of air in my face.  And she throws her head back.  Drunken.
 Passionate.

>From me.  Imagine that.

And suddenly, it is not enough.  It can never be enough.  I bring both
hands up to the secret place where her neck meets her shoulders, and
push.  The fabric gives way under my hands.  It slips in a liquid
cascade down her shoulders and her body, to the floor.  Wow.  Just
like that.

Dana Scully stands before me, dressed in only a black bra and
cotton panties.

Cream and black.  Two kinds of coffee.  I drink her skin as if it is a
precious mocha.  I cannot stop touching her.  My mouth is agape at her
beauty.  I splay my hands on her stomach and slowly inch them up and
up.  And then they are on her breasts.  Oh, GOD they are on her
breasts. The satin moves, alive, under my fingertips.  I let them
whisper against her hard nipples and she shivers.

Dana Scully shivers.

And it is because of me.

Oh, my God.

My hands tremble, matching her body shake-for-shake.  I
somehow find a way to unclasp  her bra, and suddenly my hands are
moving of their own accord, pushing the satin aside and down her
arms, then caressing her breasts as if they were a precious gift.
They are, though. Because they are hers.  They are *her*.  And she is
mine.

The urgency has abated, but the passion remains.  She looks up
at me, her eyes glittering and fiery.  Her tongue moves over her lips
distractedly.  And her voice floats up at me, hoarse and scratchy.

"Your turn."
 

********
 

Fox Mulder is a tease. That's right, you heard me. A tease. I
know this by the way he's holding himself so tensely right now,
standing here motionless under the assault of my mouth as if
afraid I might rip him limb from limb with my tongue - hmmm,
there's an idea. This careful way he's touching just the nape of
my neck when I want to feel him over every single inch of me.
He's a tease. A bona fide tease.

I have never enjoyed being teased so much in my life.

Just as I'm thinking this, he brings his other hand against the
small of my back, pulling me to him, into him, and I feel him. All of
him. The slick and grainy slide of his tongue against mine. The taut
stretch of muscles across his chest and down the length of his arms,
the way his thighs are just ever-so-slightly quivering against mine. I
feel him, already hard and burning against my belly, through the thin
cotton of his boxers and the fabric of my skirt.

I feel his heart pounding against mine and I wonder anew at this
-- they beat in rhythm. Has it always been this way? Are our
hearts intertwined even as our lives have been, guiding us here,
to each other? Has this merely been our first opportunity to
notice it?

The whimsy of this thought -- though it feels more *true* to me
than any scientific theorem I have ever been taught -- startles
me anew and I pull my lips from his, dragging air into
oxygen-starved lungs that have been clamoring for relief. I
curse my damned mortal body -- imagine needing oxygen at a
time like this -- even as I thank God for having a body, *this*
body, because there is no feeling on earth like that of Mulder's
lips dancing over my face, against my closed eyes and across
my cheeks.

And I feel his hand slide further, until he is gently, oh so gently,
cupping my bottom and now I growl, with appreciation and with
frustration, because he is taking his damn time, and teasing,
eventually, becomes overrated. Perhaps I should show him how this is
meant to be *done*.

With that oh-so-inspirational thought swirling unbattened
through my brain, inciting riot in the more sensible parts of it, I
launch myself on tiptoe and rather gracelessly drive my mouth against
his, around and into him, faintly hearing a whimper and wondering if
it is me. It might have been. I can hear nothing except our heartbeats
pounding in my ears. He seems to appreciate my efforts and takes up
the gauntlet, letting his hands sweep over me and mine over him, even
as we continue a kiss that has been lifetimes in the making.

Suddenly, I have oxygen in my lungs again, before they were
even demanding it, and it takes me a moment to figure out that
he has pulled his lips from mine and gently pushed me away
from him. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Were I capable of speech right
now, I might say it aloud. I have a moment to wonder, as my
eyes flutter open and focus on his face above mine, if he is
having second thoughts, if he is going to damn me into an
eternity of never having followed this to its inevitable
conclusion.

Although I want nothing more than to stare at his lips, an
occupation I have practiced zealously if surreptitiously over the
years, I drag my eyes up to his, where I have always found the answers
I sought.

And there it is, what I have been looking for, tonight and for my
whole life, glowing in the hazel of his eyes. I see the question. I
see the answer. I see him and I see myself. I don't see the future,
but within his eyes is the certainty of us having one, and this is
better still. I have seen enough.

So I simply grant myself the pleasure of watching him, trying to
see myself through his eyes, wondering what he's thinking as his
hands slowly undress me, unwrap me as if I am the most
beautiful gift in the world. I have always particularly loved his
hands, and seeing them now, golden and spread wide across the paleness
of my skin, I *feel* beautiful. The realization that I am beautiful
and I am cherished by a man like Fox Mulder makes me tremble.

I watch his eyes. They sip at me, tiny morsels at a time, as if I am
something to be savored, when suddenly, in a rush of feminine power
and need, I want to be consumed. Whole. By this man. And I want him to
feel the same way. I draw a deep, shuddering breath.

"Your turn," I declare boldly, and my voice is suddenly not
mine. It is husky and hoarse, as if I have already been
screaming out my pleasure in his arms, though I know I have
yet to manage anything stronger than a helpless moan.

Mulder's eyebrows raise and I delight in watching this lazy,
amused smile break across his face, stretching those full lips
wide and showing teeth. Teeth. Oh my, this *is* an incredible
night. Not only am I being loved by Fox Mulder, but I got the
"with teeth" smile. This is a rarity, you have to understand. I
love this smile. I hold it closer to my heart than anything except the
man himself.

"Um, Scully?" he says softly, and his lips are moving down to
mine, forming the words against my mouth. "In case you haven't
noticed, I'm in the same state of undress as you."

I chuckle, and I feel my breath dance across both of our
mouths. I am filled with this amazing sense of joy, because even
as we are standing here in this state of utter arousal and it's all I
can do not to throw him to the floor and gorge myself on every inch of
his skin that I can possibly discover, we are still...us. Smiling and
appreciating and teasing each other.

Ah. Yes. Teasing. I had wanted to remember that, hadn't I?

"That's not what I meant, Mulder," I say in my throatiest
whisper, darting my tongue out to swipe across his lips, an
impudent, saucy little maneuver that seeks to remind him who
started this in the first place. "And yes, I *have* noticed."

"Did you?" he breathes as I let my lips nibble across his chin,
and I sense that the question isn't rhetorical. That somehow, he
is asking -- needing -- to know, with an insecurity that breaks
my heart, that I have noticed him. Noticed him as a man, and as
a lover. Despite the fact that all of my actions to this point
would indicate to the affirmative, he is unsure. He stands here,
so beautiful and vital and entirely...*male*. And yet he
wonders.  Doubts.

And this will be my gift, the same one he gave to me. I will
make him feel beautiful, and cherished, and like a gift that must be
opened first, last and always.

"Of course, Mulder, and this brings me to my point," I say
gently, trying to find the right blend of gentleness and light. "It's
your turn now."

"My turn for what?" he gasps, and I smile, because I have just
found the most delicious spot right under his chin, just above his
adam's apple, and, wouldn't you know, this particular area seems to
affect him too. How delightful. How entirely charming.

"You got to...hmm, view the scenery, so to speak. Now it's my
turn." I offer him the most dazzling smile I have in my personal
stock, and he returns it, though he seems dazed and just the
slightest bit unsure. Skittish, as if he may bolt at any moment
under such intense scrutiny. Perhaps I will simply have to make
this tour as painless as possible.

I gently shake myself free of his hands and they fall limply to his
sides, allowing me to run my fingers up from his waist along his
ribcage. I watch his skin dip beneath the subtle pressure of my
fingertips and marvel at its flawlessness, at the golden of his skin.
I trace each rib, one by one, and lean forward to place a slow,
lingering kiss on his sternum, where I can feel his heart against my
lips. I hear him gasp, feel the hum of it in his chest, against my
mouth.

Okay, this is fun. I can see why Mulder likes teasing. The
dividends are so satisfying.

Hmm...so much man, so much to choose from, and suddenly I
want all of him. But I restrain myself, deciding instead to trace
whorls with my tongue across his chest and teasing, short licks across
his nipples. Attuned to every possible reaction, I am rewarded with a
gasp and a choked murmur that might be my name. He tastes salty. I
pass my tongue across my lips, savoring the flavor, and begin again,
reaching on tiptoe to rain kisses over his broad shoulders, the curve
of his neck, the scar near his shoulder that I inflicted, the dip of
his collarbone.

I feel his hands lift from his sides and I grab them, not to
restrain him -- okay, the aggressive side of me will admit that,
perhaps, yes, a *little bit* to restrain him. But it's also to twine
my fingers with his and be connected to him in yet another way. To
hold hands. Such a simple, pure act when the thoughts I am
entertaining are anything but pure. I travel downwards again,
crouching when I need to, licking and kissing his breastbone, the firm
muscles of his abdomen, and I encounter his belly button, like a
small, solitary constellation of one above the waistband of his
boxers.

Please explain to me how a belly button can be sexy. This is a
concept I have never really considered about the male body.
Belly buttons, as befitting their name, are supposed to be cute,
at best. But there it is, and I must admit -- this is the sexiest
belly button I have ever seen. I almost want to smile at the
ridiculousness of this thought.

Then I want to bite it. Not hard, just enough so that he knows
I'm there, though his now labored breathing indicates he may
already be well aware of this fact. I settle for kissing it instead,
dipping my tongue into the indent in a way that is so blatantly
suggestive, I startle myself. I feel his penis, still confined by his
boxers, twitching beneath my chin. What a strange feeling.

What a *wonderful* feeling.

Perhaps a little *too* wonderful, if there is such a thing,
because suddenly Mulder is pulling his hands from mine,
grabbing my wrists, and yanking me up to a standing position,
not roughly, just quickly enough to make the world spin
delightfully off-kilter. I stare into his face. His cheeks are
flushed, his eyes are glittering. I did that, I think with a feeling
of power so heady, I am ready to start all over again, just to
rediscover it. His lips have little teeth marks in it that I know are
self-inflicted, and I long to run my tongue across them, soothe them.
I lean forward to do just that, and he holds me just slightly away.

"Not fair, Scully," Mulder says with a growl, but there is a smile
behind his eyes. "Not fair at all."
 

********

END (4/6)
 
 
 

SMOKING (5/6)
By Michaela and Emma Baker
 

********

I feel beautiful.  I feel cherished.

Imagine that:  Dana Katherine Scully has taken every bit of
uncertainty and jealousy and self-loathing knit up inside of me
and unraveled them into something beautiful and whole.

Somehow, I always knew it would take something ridiculous
like jealousy to get us two stubborn souls to come together.
And for us to realize that we love each other.  It's as simple as
that.  She is me and I am her.  But more importantly, we are
ourselves.  The same woman and man who fell in love almost despite
ourselves.  The same woman and man who depend on each other for
everything, especially our souls.

As I watch her head dip below me, teasing my body with her
tongue, I feel an amazing surge of joy.  And I know -- I just
*know* -- that she feels the same.  We could have always had
this happiness and pure joy we are feeling. . . why on earth did
we wait?

Because we're two stubborn souls, that's why.  The thought
makes me smile.

I give myself over to every single tiny sensation she bestows
upon me.  But then her tongue dips into my belly button -- my
*belly button* -- and my every cell ignites.  I realize that this has
the potential to be over very soon.  Her chin brushes against my
penis.

Yes, *very* soon.

Before I realize what I'm doing, I have my hands on her wrists
and am pulling her up to me.  She stands before me, dazed and
wild.

I need her.  God, I need her.

She leans in toward me again, wanton and awed.  Just like me.
Even now, we mirror each other.  But I pull back.  I won't let
her have it so easily.  We need a challenge.  And we're wearing
far too many clothes.

I scarcely hear my voice floating out of me.  "Not fair, Scully. Not
fair at all."

I want to touch her, I want to taste her, I want to make her
scream.  But first, we have some unfinished business.  I have to
rid myself of these clothes before I can begin to slowly rid
Scully of hers.  So I clasp her hands and bring them to my hips,
then slowly push down just a tiny bit.  This is her cue that she
can go further.

Oh, Lord.

Perhaps I will never feel anything quite so amazing as Scully's
hands on my hips.  If not, then I can die happily.  She looks at
me as her hands begin their descent.  I wonder what she is
thinking?  She's such a mystery to me, even as I unfold her.
The fabric of my boxers brushes and scrapes across my
erection.

Oh, my God.  Ohmygod omigod ohgod.

And then her fingers are there, lightly tracing its length as the
fabric drops to the floor.  A massive flood of sparks race through my
abdomen.  I'd look down at her, but my eyes simply won't focus.  My
lungs won't breathe.

And I am in love with her.  Oh, God, I am in love with her.

I put my hands under her arms and pull her up to me, then
crane my neck down to kiss her deeply and run my fingers
down her back.  And then I pull my gaze away from her and
look down at her breasts.  Her beautiful, amazing, full breasts. Her
gaze follows mine.  I *swear*, they are swelling even as we watch.

Wow.

"But the fact remains that you are still wearing more clothing
than me, Agent Scully."

"Oh, does it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well, do something about it."  As always, I do her bidding.
My hands rest on her hips and I look down.   And I can't help
laughing.   "Scully, you wear Hanes Her Way briefs?"

"High-cut briefs, thank you very much."

"But still...!"

"Look, they do the job.  And I wasn't exactly expecting --"  her
hands brush across my chest, "this!"

As the phrase, "You weren't expecting to make love tonight?"
springs to mind, so does the memory of Chuck The Bastard,
and of my jealousy.   I realize just how ridiculous I was.  I
realize that whatever happened between the two of them that
evening, it had no effect on me or us being here together.  I
realize that it has nothing to do with her loving me and my loving
her.  A wave of guilt washes over me.  How on earth could I be so
stupid?

Even though it's all in the past and forgotten now, I have to tell her
before I can go any further.  I just have to, even if it means
wrecking everything we have achieved.

"Scully, I need to tell you something.  I did something... and I
don't know if I can make it right, but I have to try.  I just have
to."  I have to look away from her.

Shock is etched into her face.  "What on earth are you talking
about?"  She raises her hand to my cheek, grounding me.  I
realize that nothing will ever, *ever* harm me in her arms, but I
still need to apologize, for both our sakes.

"I hurt you earlier.  And God, I'm so sorry for it.  SO sorry.  I need
to know that you forgive me.  Because I don't want this," I spread my
arms out, encompassing the world around us, "to be under a cloud of
tension and jealousy and hurt.  I just need you to know I'm sorry."

Her hand continues to softly caress my cheek.  "You mean the
things you said earlier?"  I nod slightly.  She takes a deep
breath.  "Well, I'm not going to lie to you, Mulder.  They hurt
me.  They hurt me a great deal."  I feel my body stiffening.  "But I
truly believe that you didn't mean them, and yes, I forgive you."

I love her.

"And for the record, I did *not* sleep with Chuck Mitchell, nor
do I find him sexually attractive in the least.  Hell, he makes
Frohike look like Brad Pitt."

I manage a half-smile.  Have I said lately that I love her?

"Now, Mulder, the clothes...?"

Oh, yeah.  My thumbs hook around the elastic of her
underwear and hose.  I'm going to take my time, make this feel
*right*.  She has given me so much tonight and it's my turn to
give something back.  I slowly ease the fabric over her hips and
lower myself to my knees in front of her.  I begin to move the
sheer hose down her legs, uncovering the patch of
sandy-colored hair between her legs.

I look up at her.  She gives me a "Don't say a WORD, Mulder"
look.

So I bite my tongue.   Anyway, I'm too preoccupied with the
feel of the skin of her legs against my palms.  Wow.  As she
steps out of one foot, she braces herself on my shoulders.  I slip the
hose and underwear off of one toe, then she shifts her weight and
raises the other foot.  I pull the hose free and then just rub her
foot, lazily.  Thinking of how incredibly intimate this act is -- her
hands on my shoulders and my hands rubbing her foot.

The next logical thing is to touch her even more, so I pull my
arms around her hips and hug her to me.  My cheek rests on
her belly for a long moment, as I refuse to think but instead
merely *feel*.  Feel her next to me.  Feel her heart beating just
above my ear.  Feel the hum of the electrical charge between us.

And then, still holding her to me, I stand up.  She is slung over my
shoulder.  And I love it!   Her fists beat on my lower back, as she
laughingly yells, "What are you DOING, Mulder?"

"Taking you to bed!"  I give her bottom a nice pat, and a huge
grin breaks out on my face.

I never knew I could be this happy.

As we get closer to the bed -- the bed with a cheap
brown-on-brown bedspread and a plywood headboard --
Scully whispers in my ear.

"The dresser.  Sit me on the dresser."

Huh?

But I'm not about to second-guess Scully.  Not now.  So I sit
her down on the dresser.  And as her legs spread in front of
me, I realize just what she's intending.  Whoa.

I grab her wrists and cross her arms above her head, against
the mirror.  I pin them with my own hands and then quickly
begin to devour her.  Lips are kissed, shoulders are nuzzled,
breasts are suckled -- oh, wow, and my tongue covers every
inch of her upper body.

I drop to my knees once more and find myself facing  her belly
button.  And I know exactly what I must do.  I press my lips to
it and suckle just a tiny bit, then curl my tongue and plunge it in.

Her legs tighten around me and she lets out something between
a squeal and a moan.

I'm in heaven.
 

********

It is both a blessing and a curse to have a friend, partner and
now lover -- *lover*.my mind is still wrapping around that
singularly astounding concept - as fair-minded and
equal-rights-oriented as Fox Mulder.

For even as I initiated this odd lesson in belly-button erotica,
Mulder feels compelled to prove true the old adage that
turnabout is fair play. And now his tongue is dipping with
deliciously cruel slowness into my navel, creating all kinds of
speculation as to what other secret little places his tongue could
discover. Further south.

Mulder knows this - he must. He's a smart, intuitive man, in
addition to being unreasonably sexy, which I'm sure I've
mentioned before. My hips, which declared their independence
from my brain several minutes ago, are undulating - literally
*undulating*, who knew hips could really do that? - beneath
him, reminding him that there are far more exotic locales in
lower regions that require his explorations.

I feel his tongue flicker just around the edges of my navel, in a
manner that is so insinuative, I hear myself gasp and my body lunges
upwards, straining against his hands, which still hold my wrists. He
lifts his head, begins to drag his body and tongue lower - yes,
Mulder, oh thank GOD - and suddenly he stops. He looks at me.

The grin is my warning, but it still doesn't entirely prepare me.

"Okay, all done," he says cheerfully.

Bastard.

I mean that in an entirely loving way, of course. My heart loves
him. My mind loves him. But my body is right now considering
homicidal acts against him. Women have always been given
credit for being able to control their bodies better than their
hearts in matters of romance. Tell that to MY body. It's
practically quivering with the need for...well, it doesn't take a
rocket scientist to figure out what my body wants right now.

"Mulder," I say in a tone that I intended to be threatening, but
which only ends up sounding like a plea. Damn.

"Something wrong, Scully?" he asks oh-so-innocently, and he's
still grinning.

Bastard.

You can't really blame me. I am trying so hard not to smile right now,
because I am thrilled with him, even when I want to kill him.

"Mulder," I say again, and my voice is stronger now. I am
woman, hear me roar.

He starts to lift himself up, away from the part of me that is
simply dying for  him to be there, and I take action -- my hands
are still prisoner, but Mulder has forgotten that the majority of a
woman's physical strength is in her lower body. Silly man. With a
swiftness that surprises even me, I lock my small but powerful legs
around his ribcage. Ha. Now he's as much a prisoner as I am. It's a
draw...

"Going somewhere, Agent Mulder?" I ask in my coolest, most
professional FBI voice. I gaze up at him beneath my lashes, a
hint of challenge quirking its way across my lips.

"I hadn't entirely decided, Agent Scully," he replies without
missing a beat. "I was wondering what you might recommend?"

Oooh, flirtacious banter. This *is* exciting. I am as much
turned on by this mock battle of wills as I am by the fact that
my naked body is wrapped like a vise grip around Mulder's.

"Well, it depends on what you want," I parry with a coy smile
of my own. His gaze sobers suddenly, becomes so scorching
that I find myself holding my breath, feel the delicious burn of it
across my skin. This is passion. Pure, unadulterated passion.

And he's looking at *me*.

"You," he rasps. "I want you."

And his head dips downward and he is *there*, there where I
have wanted him forever, even before this night, and I am dimly
aware that he has let go of my wrists and is holding my hips
instead in his wide, strong hands, seizing me, cradling me,
claiming me. In a matter of seconds, my entire existence has
boiled down to this one moment, this one man, and this one
incredible...tongue. I was right. Oh, good LORD, was I right.
The ballpoint pens he chews on were merely a hint of his true
skill.

Oh my God. Oh my God, this has to be illegal. There is some
state, some back-water town, where this is illegal. Pray to God
Circleville is not one of them. Because there is no *way* this
can possibly stop now. Fragments of thought are spinning like
freed pinwheels in my brain, ricocheting off the thin rope of
nerves that has sprouted between my clitoris and the base of
my skull, supplementing my spine, which feels as if it's on fire.

It's as if he's known my body longer than I have, has mapped
out exactly where to touch me, and how. I whimper, I twist, I
moan, I become a woman I hardly recognize but whom I've
always wanted to know -- panting and pleading, demanding
and taking -- and he is with me, anticipating me. Giving himself
to me as I am to him.

A notion flashes unbidden and unwelcome through my brain.
He's so good at this. He has obviously had practice. Even a
man as gifted as Mulder cannot know *everything* by instinct.
Then thoughts of Phoebe Green and other women from his past
whom I can only presume exist start galloping through my brain
in a stampede of vitriole. I am jealous. Jealous. Me. That I was
not his first, last and only, no matter how unrealistic that wish may
be. And I realize how Mulder must have felt tonight, where his
bitterness, his ugliness, came from. Jealousy. I forgive him again.
Before, I forgave out of love and meant it. This time, I forgive out
of empathy, and it is complete.

Mulder's tongue, exploring insistently between my legs,
demands my attention again and my body spasms of its own
volition. It occurs to me that thoughts of Phoebe Green are not
exactly mood-inspiring here, so I put them out of my mind,
promising myself a later private moment to reflect further on this
insight. Instead, I think of Mulder. The fact that this is Mulder,
here, with me. With me. I roll the term on my tongue, taste it as
Mulder is tasting me -- he is with me in the most physically and
emotionally intimate senses of the phrase.

This is amazing. That I am here, with Mulder, *with* Mulder,
keeps rebounding through my mind, even as my body is
spiraling upwards, tightening with each fevered lap of Mulder's
tongue, even as my eyes squeeze tight because I know the
world is about to explode. I welcome it. I crave it. Because I
know he'll be with me. And he'll be here when I return, just as
he always has been.

It's going to be soon. My body is sending those same
thrumming signals along my nerve endings that it relays when
I'm on the verge of an orgasm, but they are more intense than
any I've ever felt before. This is amazing. I can feel my toes
curling. I don't ever remember my toes curling during an orgasm
before. This is just...stunning.

This is Mulder. The enormity, the utter bliss of this concept,
thrills me anew.

I allow myself one tiny peek. And I see that it's true, it's really
Mulder here, I'm not dreaming this, Fox Mulder is really there,
between my legs, doing the most loving, erotic and intimate things to
me. With me.

He is watching me, even as his tongue makes love to me, his
gaze boring into mine, wanting to see me come.

I shatter.

For long moments, I cannot piece together one single thought
that might, in even some loosely interpreted way, resemble a
sentence. Or even an idea. Or possibly even a noun. There you
go. Almost three decades of continuous education, destroyed
by the singularly most intense orgasm I have ever had in my life.

The thought makes me smile, a lazy, satisfied, almost-drowsy
smile that reminds me of the rest of my body, slumped
bonelessly against the mirror, sprawled on a motel dresser. My
eyes are closed. Funny, the lights exploding behind my eyelids
had made me forget they were closed. I drag them open, and
see Mulder looming over me, his face close to mine, with this
tender, sexy expression that makes me tremble all over again.

"Wow," I offer weakly, wishing I could come up with
something a little more profound, a little more complex, that
could express what I am feeling right now, in this moment, with
him. But I managed an interjection, albeit it a meager one, and
considering a minute ago, I didn't think I could summon a noun,
I should be pleased.

The smile on Mulder's face, that slow, shining grin, tells me that I
have succeeded on some unspoken level to convey my true feelings on
the subject. Thank God. I look at his mouth, at his lips as they
smile. They are wet. I realize that part of this is...me. And I love
him even more.

A sudden burst of energy catches me unawares, and I sit up,
realizing as I do that at some point, I must have grabbed
Mulder's hair and I am still loosely holding him, the strands
twined through my fingers. I curl my legs, which are rather
rubbery but still obeying simple commands, around his waist,
raising myself to him. His arms encircle me instinctively,
supporting me within them. I gently tug his face closer yet to
mine, and I catch his mouth with a kiss, tasting him, tasting me, and
loving that in this way, too, we are combined.

I pull back, and he looks surprised at my exuberance, my utter
abandon. Happily surprised, I might add. So that's okay. I stare
into his eyes, and he into mine. No words are spoken, they
don't need to be.

And Fox Mulder is carrying me to bed.

********

I feel like one of those guys in a romance novel.   You know
the ones:  the strong manly man in the full bloom of manhood
clutching a beautiful maiden in his arms.   The ones with heroes
named Ridge and Cliff and Forest and, er, Fox.   Okay, scratch
that.  Anyway -- these things are on sale in every single airport
newsstand, so I think that my powers of perception have figured out a
thing or two from the covers of those novels.

They're all about sex.

That's right -- sex.  Fabulous, intense, earth-shattering sex.  But
however amazing the sex between Ridge and his beloved Plateaux might
be, it could in no way approach even a fraction of what is happening
right now between me and Dana Katherine Scully.

Yes, it's that amazing.

I have her in my arms and am carrying her over to the bed.
The ugly rock-hard plywood bed covered with a spread in
several disturbing shades of brown.  No bed has ever looked
so beautiful to me.  And no woman has ever looked so
beautiful.

I look down at her face.  Her cheeks are still a little flushed and
her pupils a little dilated from her climax, and that only adds to her
amazing beauty.  Wow.  But most importantly, the woman in my arms
loves me.  Cherishes me.  I can see it in her eyes -- the same eyes
which have shown me disdain, skepticism, respect, and intense trust
over the last four years.

This is Scully.

This is SCULLY.

Wow.

I have found my religion right here in my arms.  SHE is my faith, my
hope, my challenge, and most importantly, my lover.  I feel blessed.

I sit down on the edge of the bed, still cradling her in my arms, her
head resting against my shoulder and her arm loosely around my neck.
Her eyes are misty and her mouth is slightly open through trembling
lips.   I tighten my grip on her just a tiny bit, still gazing down at
her for a very long moment.  Absorbing her into my skin, my soul.

She smiles up at me, her face a ray of sunshine and arousal.
"Mulder, this is where you're supposed to set me down."

I merely stare back at her, a beautiful honesty invading my
heart.  "I can't."  A wistful smile spreads across my lips.  "I can't
let you go."

Her arms tighten around me and her body twists in my arms.
And her lips are everywhere -- on my cheeks, on my neck, on
my own lips.  Inside my mouth.  Inside my soul.  Her voice
whispers into my ear.  "I'll always be here."  We're dripping
with desire.

She closes her hands on my shoulders and slowly pushes me
down onto the bed.  I realize that I *can* let go of her, because I
know she'll be here with me, just as she has always been here with me.
  We scoot back on the bed until I am lying on it, my body spread bare
for her worship.  And worship she does.

Yup, Ridge and Plateaux never had it so wonderful.  The idea
of my ripping Scully's bodice springs unbidden to my mind, and
I can't resist laughing.  I look up at Scully, who has straddled
my body and is leaning over me, and a smile spreads across her
face.  I don't have to explain my laughter to her.  She knows.
She sees the joy in my soul and embraces it.  Wow.

I feel her hands all over me.   They touch my body, leaving
trails of fire.  And then they're right where I need them most.
Her hands send me into paroxysms of beauty and pleasure as
they massage my erection.  My body feels liquid and solid at
the same time.  How incredibly amazing.  I close my eyes to
absorb the pleasure, then open them amidst swirls of sparkling
light.   I'm not dreaming.  She is there above me, her eyes
etching into me even as her hands work their magic.

This is Scully.

Everything in our lives has borne down to this moment -- the
moment where the world dissolves around us and she is
lowering herself onto me, her rich, wet core sheathing me.  Oh,
God, I am inside her.  Or is she inside me?  Both, I imagine.
We're inside each other.

She brings her body flush against mine and we are connected --
not only at our hips, but our mouths are kissing each other and
our hands are clutching each other tightly.  And we lay there
together, unwilling to move, unwilling to do anything which
might break the connection.  She is so tight around me.  Oh,
Lord, she is so tight.  Her vaginal muscles clench around me,
just like that, and I realize that I could come at any moment.
And it wouldn't be a moment too soon.

I throw my head back against the mattress and open my eyes.
She fills my vision.  I realize that I must look wild, untamed.  I'm
glad.  She brings out that side of me.  She clenches those muscles
again, milking me, and I almost surrender.  Almost. And then I realize
that I have to bring her with me or it won't be complete.

I grit my teeth and force sound through my mouth.  "Stop that."

She grins back at me and gives me one more clench, her hands
in mine mimicking what she's doing to my erection.  I hear her
voice say coyly,  "Stop what?"

Witch.  Harlot.  Tease.

God, I love her.

I try to keep my voice firm, but it's just so damn hard when I'm
in the midst of the most amazing sexual experience of my life.
Finally, I muster up words once again.

"You're coming with me."

She grins again, and swoops down to capture my mouth.

I am in love with her. Oh, Lord, I am in love with her.

Finally, I untangle my hands from hers and wrap one arm
around her back, using the other to push off as I roll us over so that
she's under me.  I press my body into hers and brace one elbow next to
her.  I begin to pump into her body, slowly, deliberately.  I build up
a rhythm -- six deep thrusts then stop, then allow my hands to sweep
over her upper body, touching her breasts, milking her nipples.  She
writhes under me -- imagine that, Dana Scully writhing!  And then I
begin the rhythm again, my body somehow doing things I never would
have thought possible.

It doesn't take long.  It doesn't take long at all.

Just a few more thrusts and I am there.  Oh, God, I am there.
Somehow I brace myself on my legs and I bring one hand
down between us and massage her clitoris roughly, deliberately,
swirling my fingers around the swollen little nub.  My other hand
kneads one breast, imitating what my lips were doing earlier -- what
they want to be doing now were it not physically impossible.  Funny
how I'm so close to such a profound orgasm, yet even now it's all
about her.

It's always about her.  Everything in my life now is about her.

And we come together.

Oh, God, we come together.

My mind ceases to function.  I'm so still, yet everything around
me moves.  It's a flurry of movement.  I feel exhilirated,
breathless, full.  Even as I empty into her, I feel full and sated.

And as I look down at Scully, her face glowing with the
haziness of climax achieved, I feel complete.
 

********

END (5/6)
 
 

SMOKING (6/6)
By Michaela and Emma Baker

********

"How many for breakfast this morning?"

"Two." Mulder and I answer the restaurant hostess in unison,
and I find an unexpected little thrill shiver through me. Two.
Two for breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Whatever. But two. We are
two. A pair. More so now than ever before. A...couple. I
realize my cheeks feel hot, and I must be blushing, as if the
hostess could possibly know, or even be remotely interested in,
what Mulder and I were doing last night. Or this morning.

Or tonight, after we've put in a full day's work on this case.
Because I plan on making up for years of lost time.

I dare an almost-shy glance up at Mulder and he is grinning
down at me, his eyes shining in a way that I have rarely been
allowed to see in all our years together. This is his special glow,
the one he usually hides behind a curtain of inscrutability more
"enigmatic" than I have ever been accused of. But his eyes are glowing
now, at me, and I know he is also thinking of this, this *two-ness*.

I return the smile, and the glow. I must look like a love-struck
idiot.

I don't care.

The hostess scurries off to do whatever it is she must do to
prepare our table, and I take a moment to play the wanton, a
role I have so recently claimed in Mulder's life, and one I am
reluctant to abandon any time soon. I let a smile twitch at the
edge of my mouth.

"Or perhaps three for breakfast," I remark in a whisper. "You,
me, and George."

The look on Mulder's face would be absolutely comical if I
weren't already seized by this desire to drag him off to the
nearest vacant restroom stall and ravish him all over
again.

"George?" he manages to choke out, confused and intrigued.

"George," I reply simply, and, with a surreptitious glance to
make sure we are not being observed, I let my fingers do the
walking. To telephone my meaning in terms he will understand.
My hand brushes oh-so-carefully across his penis, safely
hidden away inside his dress pants, pressing it firmly and with
deliberate emphasis.

He gasps, jerks his head around wildly, as if afraid we are
going to be arrested on the spot, and his hand lunges upward to
grab mine, twining his fingers with mine and pulling my hand
quickly, if reluctantly, away and down to our sides.

"George." He is repeating the name in an only slightly strangled
tone, puzzling over it. I allow myself a smile. He probably had
some other name for it already. Men do that. Something like
Lance or Pop-Up Johnny or...God only knows. E.B.E., for all I
know. But I've decided to lay claim. Make my own history for
him, now that I am part of it.

"Well, Mulder," I say in as husky and playful a voice as I can
manage, "as I recall, I spent a significant amount of time this
morning kissing and loving and squeezing him. So I will call him
George."

His short bark of laughter, surprised from him, draws the
attention of a few diners in front and I smile blandly, as if I have
just told the most clever little joke to the man I'm with. With. God,
that is absolutely my new favorite preposition. I am *with* Mulder.
And, in a startlingly burst of awareness, I realize he is still
holding my hand, his fingers curled with mine as if it is the most
natural thing in the world.

It is.

"I'm sorry about the restaurant, Scully, but I think it's the only one
open in this town in the morning," Mulder says, interrupting my most
amazing train of thought. I smile up at him, a serene smile that
doesn't betray the stomachful of butterflies I am feeling as I see my
future -- our future -- spreading open before me, with all of its
intriguing possibilities and trembling uncertainties.

"Denny's is fine, Mulder."

Don't laugh. Denny's *is* fine. The restaurant is not personally
responsible for the phenomenon that is Chuck. And frankly, I
would gulp down chili dogs from a roach coach on
Pennsylvania Avenue in the middle of winter if it meant I got to
do it while I was standing with Mulder, his fingers gently
caressing mine as they are now.

Okay, so that was almost nauseatingly mushy, but it's true.
Denny's is just fine if  Mulder's in it with me. Look at this as the
restaurant's way of redeeming itself in my memory after the Chuck
dinner disaster last night. I will no longer have a Denny's phobia,
thanks to this moment.

"Your table is ready," the hostess announces and Mulder and I
step together to follow her. Then we falter, glancing down
uncertainly at our clasped hands, then up at one another. I arch
an eyebrow, he quirks his mouth in a wry grin. And we keep
walking. Together. Holding hands. A bona fide,
honest-to-God, hey-look-at-us couple.

And guess what? The world hasn't ended. Dark forces haven't
swept in to physically pry us apart. People aren't staring. We
appear as normal and usual to them as anyone you might ever
see on the street.

This is natural. This is fated. This is us.

I walk a little taller, my chin held proudly high, proud to be seen
with this man and proud that we can seize these small displays of
affection without fear, worry or shame. Yes, we're in another state.
But we can make this work. We *will* make this work, forever. And a
day.

"Dana?" The sound of my name jerks me from my delightful
little reverie. I glance to my right and my body calls a full-halt; I
feel a gentle tug of resistance up my arm, and then Mulder is stopping
beside me.

Chuck.

At Denny's.

What a surprise.

"Hello, Chuck," I smile, much more gracious this morning, now
that everything I want in the world has been placed into my
hands like a gift.

"*You're* Chuck?" I hear Mulder ask the question and I can't
stop the grin that spreads across my face, the slight tremor of a
chuckle that shakes my body. Shock has lent Mulder the subtlety of the
proverbial bull in a china shop. His comment was utterly without tact,
but blessedly, Chuck will never get it. His power of perception is
rather limited in the social arena -- I offer last night's dinner as
my proof.

"Mulder," I say, catching his attention, and he drags his gaze
away from Chuck. "This is Chuck Mitchell, the friend I had
dinner with last night. Chuck, this is Fox Mulder."

I have no need to explain to Chuck my relationship with
Mulder. It's obvious from the way I'm holding Mulder's hand in
mine, the way I'm leaning ever-so-slightly into his arm, the way
I turn my face up to his and let my eyes smolder as I look at
him. Even a man as body language-impaired as Chuck Mitchell
can see that Mulder and I are...Mulder and I. End of
discussion.

"Nice to meet you," Chuck says around a mouthful of
pancakes, offering a syrup-stained hand for Mulder to shake.
He takes it gamely, managing to hide the wince as a smear of
syrup is pressed into his palm.

"Pleasure," Mulder replies, releasing his hand and -- he makes
me so proud -- not immediately wiping his hand against his
coat, or pant leg...or me. Though maybe that's not a bad idea.

"Good to see you again, Chuck. We'll have to do this
again...sometime," I offer lamely, and then I am tugging Mulder
away from his table and to ours, where the hostess has already
laid out our menus and hustled away.

"So that was Chuck," Mulder comments blandly, sliding into the
booth and pulling me in beside him.

"That was Chuck," I reply. "See why I was in such a bad mood
last night? Well...at least for a while..." I give him a coy smile,
the kind that tells him I am remembering very particular nuances of
why my mood so drastically improved last night. He smiles.

"He seemed...nice." Good Lord, Mulder still sounds vaguely
insecure. How could this be possible? After last night, after this
morning....after actually *seeing* Chuck and talking with him, even
briefly, he can still wonder about his own worthiness?

"Mulder, I was bored stiff with him last night," I say
emphatically, catching his hand again with mine. "It was
wretched. The only saving grace is that I got to see him again
this morning, with you."

"With me?" He's puzzled.

"Sure. Mulder, I was showing you off. Getting a little revenge
against the ex-boyfriend, immature as it might be. I wanted him
to see how great I've got it." I let the silliest grin spread across
my face, delighted with my own adolescent giddiness, and the fact that
I am soothing Mulder's painfully scarred ego. This man has received
far too little love, far too little praise, in his life. He doesn't
know what to do with it when he *does* receive it. Thank God, I'm
here. I will teach him, and relearn it with him.

He smiles again and, glory be, twice in less than 12 hours, it is the
one with teeth. I feel my bones liquifying. If Mulder knew just how
much power he has over me, just with a look or a smile, he could be
dangerous.

We break eye contact long enough to look over our menus, but
I can't keep from stealing glances at him from the corner of my
eye. It is a habit I will have trouble breaking, having for so long
had to hide my utter interest in him, not letting myself be caught
simply feasting in the look of him. Actually, there is still a rather
delicious pleasure in sneaking these peeks, a thrill of sorts. As if I
can nibble off pieces of him with my eyes and tuck them away in my
heart.

And then I'm gasping, because unless my nerve endings are
entirely deceiving me -- and admittedly, they've had an
exhausting night -- Mulder's toes are creeping their way up my
calf. How did he get his shoe off so quickly? I look over at him. He's
studiously avoiding my gaze, but there is this tell-tale smile at the
corners of his mouth.

Casually, I wiggle my opposite foot out of my high-heeled shoe
and shift my position,
presumably to cross my legs. And I stretch out with one
stockinged foot and search for...Aha.

George.

Unfortunately, Mulder just took a sip of water.

Hmmm. The server will have to clean the mess later, because
that mouthful of water is now sprayed all over the table in a fit of
startled coughing from poor Mulder. Diners are turning to stare at us
and I pull my leg down quickly, resting my chin on my hand and letting
my fingers hide the smug, delighted grin on my lips. The restaurant
patrons return their attention to their meals. Nothing to see here.
Nothing unusual at all. We have escaped detection. I widen my eyes
oh-so-innocently at Mulder.

"Something wrong, Mulder?" I ask, my voice muffled but not
hiding my amusement.

"Agent Scully, we're going to have a little demonstration later
on the psychological effects of invading personal body space,"
he said in a low, insinuative voice.

"I look forward to it, Agent Mulder."
 

********

What was that?

WHAT on earth was that?

I mean, I *think* it was a foot and I'm pretty damn sure it came
in  contact with a highly sensitive part of my body, but hell, this is
 Scully.  And my Scully is not wanton.  Is not such a tease.

At least, I don't think so.

But then, I'm discovering all sorts of interesting things about
Scully this morning, like how she does taste (yup, clean and a
little salty), and what her face *does* look like when she
comes  (breathtakingly beautiful).  And that she -ahem- likes to
give and  recieve oral sex.  Fine with me.

I've also realized just what a loving woman she is.  She told me
this  morning as we lay together that she's loved me for a long
time, even though she never did anything about it.  I confessed
the same of myself.  For two intelligent and strong people, we
really can be fools sometimes.  Though, so long as she's *my*
fool, I'll be happy.

Oh, Lord, I fall in love and I become sappy.  Shoot me now.

But then I steal a glance at Scully, who is fastidiously spreading her
napkin in her lap, and decide that I don't mind the sappiness one bit.

So what did I order?  In honor of last night, a Grand Slam
breakfast, of course.  Hell, not only did I hit a home run last
night, but I.....  why can't I complete that sentence?  Whatever. The
important thing, though, is that Scully (my lover!) is here, sitting
next to me eating Belgian waffles with whipped cream and strawberries.

Whipped cream and strawberries?  Good Lord.

Scully looks up at me and licks a tiny white creamy speck off
the corner of her mouth.  I can't help chuckling at her getting
her breakfast all over herself.  She picks up on my train of
thought, of course, and smugly says, "Look, I'm feeling pretty
exotic this morning."

"Exotic?"

"Yeah.  And if you're good, you'll find out tonight just how
exotic I'm feeling."  She gives me a tiny grin and takes another bite
of her waffles.

Here I am, sitting contentedly in a Denny's with my lover, eating a
decent healthy breakfast.  What could be better?  And I'm feeling
really good about myself.  REALLY good, for a change. All that anger
and hostility from last night have evaporated away, leaving a tingly
feeling in my stomach that might be either hunger or love.
Personally, I hope the latter.  Yeah, I know we have "issues," but we
also have plenty of time to work on those. And time to cure me of this
sudden craving for nicotine.  For right now, though, we'll live for
the present.

We discuss the case as we finish eating, then pay our bill and
walk out to the car together, to begin another day of
investigation.

Together.

What a wonderful word.
 

********
 

THE END.

Please, *please* send any and all feedback to emmalanna@aol.com
or mickirae@aol.com.  Thanks so much for reading!
 
 
 

~~~~~ Emma Baker, emmalanna@aol.com ~~~~~
"Oh my god!  They killed Kenny!" "You bastard!"
 --South Park.
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