By Flynn
flyn121@yahoo.com

Clasification: MSR, wild RST, major PWP
Date: April 27, 2003
E-Mail: flyn121@yahoo.com
Archiving: Unlike Surferboy, I was taught to share my
toys. Please keep author and headers attached, and let
me know where to visit.
Website: www.geocities.com/cratkinsonflynn/
Feedback: Better than Mountain Dew. <sigh>
All right, not QUITE as good as Mountain Dew,
but just as addictive.
Rating: NC-17. *MAJOR* NC-17
Spoilers: all things; brief nod to Chimera and X-Cops

PLEASE NOTE: RAMPANT SILLINESS ABOUNDS. YOU'VE BEEN
WARNED.

Disclaimer: Archetypes belong to Carter. Besides, you
know what they say about the sincerest form of
flattery, right?

Scribbler’s note: I’m having serious S-7 flashback.
Bear with me - I'm sure it'll pass, but hopefully not
for a year or two. <insert big silly grin here> Hey,
the writer's block is gone and I'm feeling good.
Forgive me.
 

Thanks to Christine for putting up with whinings about
writer's block <see above paragraph>, and to my cats
for being nice to me even after I slammed the door in
their little hairy faces for the hundredth time.
 

~~~~~~~~~~~~
X Post Facto
by Flynn
~~~~~~~~~~~~

M~*~M~*~M

Hell. It had to be. Not that it had flames or
anything. Or the Devil, per se. Actually, it was dull
and boring. In fact, it looked a *lot* like the office
of Assistant Director Walter Skinner. The chairs were
upholstered in leather-wannabe. The people sitting
around the conference table looked a great deal like
corpses: pale, motionless, their expressions strangely
blank. Even Skinner himself, sitting just a little
sideways in his seat, his chin propped up against his
balled fist, eyes not-quite-fixed and *almost* glazed,
looked like he'd rather be somewhere else. Or more
accurately, *anywhere* else.

No doubt about it. This was hell on earth, and Mulder
was stuck in it.
 
It wasn't just that he was jet-lagged as shit,
although that certainly wasn't helping matters a whole
lot. It wasn't *merely* that he'd been bulldozed into
this quarterly departmental meeting at literally the
last minute, though he'd sooner have had a root canal
than voluntarily subject himself to the hours of
sawdust-chewing, clapping-with-one-hand boredom that
such events usually subjected him to. It wasn't even
because he was getting hungry and was in desperate
need of fresh coffee, to say nothing of a fast trip to
the men's room.

Oh, yeah. Compared to this, sitting for hours in that
soggy field in England had been a piece of cake.

Mostly it was hell because of Scully. Not that she'd
done anything particularly hellish lately. Well,
except maybe for wearing that shirt, which if they
were alone together in the basement would look
fantastic, but since they were surrounded by a bunch
of no-neck, no-personality department heads .... and
male, don't forget male .... well, Mulder would just
as soon the damned shirt wasn't
almost-but-not-quite-opaque, with maybe a little less
flesh visible around her throat.

Her throat.

It was pale and slender, and he knew what it smelled
like up close. He knew what it tasted like. He knew
what *she* tasted like, there and in all sorts of
places. That tender flesh inside her wrist. The hollow
between her shoulder blades. The gentle sweep of her
hip bone, the back of her right knee, the stretch of
skin between her navel and her .... yeah, right there.
Sweet and salt, musk and spice and vanilla cream, all
rolled up in one delicious package. And the sounds
she'd made as he .... as they ....

Just the thought made his balls ache and his dick
twitch in anticipation.

No, that wasn't what was hellish. Neither was the fact
that he'd awoken alone in his big bed. That part
hadn't even surprised him, really. Disappointed, sure,
but it didn't surprise him. The surprise would have
been if she *had* still been there beside him when he
finally managed to pry his eyelids open and hammer the
screaming alarm clock into silence.

For the record, *any* alarm going off at that hour
following a fourteen hour flight constitutes Hell in
his book, but that part wasn't her fault.

No, hell began for him when she marched into Skinner's
office just that morning, nodded a polite greeting to
everyone in the room .... *even him!* .... and sat
down as if they hadn't just spent the better part of
the night making each other's toes curl.

And since the meeting started two hundred and
seventy-nine years .... no, make that one hour and
fifty-three minutes ago .... not one furtive smile.
Not so much as a stolen glance. Her attention was
either on the various speakers or her own notes. Hell,
she hadn't even taken the seat beside him as she
usually did, but practically fought Gillman for the
chair *across the fucking table.* Like she didn't want
to touch him. Like she didn't want to even be near
him.

Hell. Hell was ....

Hell was not being able to touch her. Not even by
accident. No chance brushing of a sleeve against her
arm. No gentle shoulder nudge, which in their own
silent dialect could convey so many things. Boredom.
Shared frustration. His own personal favorite - humor.

Blah blah blah. Mulder managed with great restraint
not to roll his eyes or sigh impatiently. He wanted to
leave. Just get up, grab his partner's hand, and drag
her down to the basement where they belonged. No one
would mind. No one would even care. It was well known
throughout the boys' club known as the Bureau that the
two of them generally didn't mix well with others.
Besides, what they were hearing this morning
definitely was not worth sitting through.

Nothing to look at. Shades were drawn against the
cloud-choked morning sky. The cup before him was
half-empty, and what coffee there was in it was beyond
tepid. Out of desperation he looked across at his
partner. For a full ten seconds he allowed himself the
luxury of studying her. He wondered about the distance
she'd put between them. It didn't make a whole lot of
sense. After all, it hadn't even been twelve hours
since she'd crawled, naked, into his bed. Since she'd
rolled with him, under him, taking his weight and his
love as naturally as if she'd been doing it all her
adult life. As naturally as breathing, really.

He must have done something wrong. That had to be it.
Mulder pursed his lips as he slouched back in his
chair. Maybe he'd said something in his sleep. Maybe
he'd called her Diana. Cripes, that couldn't be it.
Surely that neurotic, immature part of his brain had
been walled off years ago. He might not be the most
disciplined of individuals, granted, but he did have
*some* self-control. Besides, that thing with Diana
never happened, right? That was his policy nowadays,
particularly when it came to certain people: Deny
everything, especially to himself. To hell with the
psychology of it. Self-examination never got him
anywhere but in trouble anyway.

So that couldn't be it, he decided with an inward
shrug. Trouble was, he couldn't think of anything else
that it *could* be. Had he left the toilet seat up in
the night? Was the mess in his bathroom particularly
repulsive? What about the fact that he hadn't picked
up a little something for her in England?

No, she didn't care about things like that. Toilet
seats were common male blind spots and she knew it. An
untidy apartment was probably more specific to him,
but in all the years she'd been coming over she'd
certainly seen worse. And that gift thing .... Scully
just wasn't all that comfortable receiving presents.
Personal experience had taught him that.

To his left, Neufield was droning on about federal
stats of recidivist offenders. At the head of the
conference table, Skinner looked like he had perfected
the art of sleeping with his eyes open. Probably
something you learned in middle-management, Mulder
thought with an inward snort. Across the table, Scully
was jotting down note after note on her tablet,
employing abbreviations and the different symbols that
Mulder had come to regard as her own style of
shorthand. No one could read it, not even him. What
she was thinking and what she was writing.... and
feeling.... were mysteries.

Probably her request for a transfer, he thought
glumly, plopping his pen down on his own tablet
- blank, of course - and folding his arms across his
chest with a soft grunt. =Dear Sir, I can't take it
any longer. My partner is immature, bull-headed, and
sucks in bed. He ditches me whenever the whim strikes
him, then leaves me pedantic clues so I can scurry
after him and bail his skinny ass out of whatever fire
he's managed to get himself into. Besides, he makes
lousy coffee. I need a change. Respectfully, Dana
Scully, M.D.=

A forlorn sigh escaped him. *Jesus, it sucks to be
me.*
 

S~*~S~*~S

Mulder was pouting.

She didn't dare look up at him again, but she didn't
have to see his face to know that. She couldn't
actually look *at* him for another fifty-two seconds -
she was timing it on her watch. Her left arm was
placed ever so casually before her so she could track
the sweep of the second hand without moving her head.
The last time she'd glanced at him he'd been staring
at Skinner like the answer to today's jumble puzzle in
the Times could be found on the man's forehead.
Expansive though it was, it just wasn't going to give
up any clues, to life or anything else.

She glanced at Skinner. Asleep with his eyes open. Is
that why he called these meetings, she wondered; to
give him time to catch up on his catnaps?

She'd filled three pages of her legal pad with
absolute nonsense. Shopping and errands lists. Things
she needed from the grocer, from the deli. Her name
was represented here and there by a B. No particular
reason, except that any of her three initials were
dead giveaways. Having brothers and a snooping older
sister had taught her caution.

P stood for Partner. M would have been too obvious,
and F was almost insulting. Mulder hated his first
name. Just from the heckling she'd witnessed the past
seven years, she didn't blame him. She could just
imagine what it was like, growing up with the burden
of that name. What had his parents been thinking? He'd
told her once that he'd tried to go by his middle name
once upon a time, but never could learn to answer to
William. People must have thought he was deaf, he'd
joked. Fox may have been a stupid name, but it was
*his* stupid name. He was stuck with it.

Thirty-eight seconds.

Jesus, Neufield was boring. She'd known corpses that
were more interesting. She supposed it *was* important
to know how many men returned to the federal
penitentiary system between the years of 1965 and
1995, but at the moment she couldn't think of one good
reason to give a damn.

She reread her last paragraph. *Clean out fridge.*Iron
curtains in back door.*Pick up silk suit from
cleaners.*Repot rubber tree in living room.*B loves
P.* Glance at Skinner. Glance around the room. Twelve
drowsy agents. Glance at Neufield. Yadda yadda yadda.

Ten seconds. Nine.

She cheated at six. She couldn't help it .... even
with that frown pinching his brows and the lower lip
that was threatening to topple him, face-down, on the
fine oak table, Mulder was far too enjoyable to look
at.

God, the things she planned to do to that lip. The
things she'd *already* done. Cheeks burning, fingers
tingling, she dropped her gaze back to her tablet.

She remembered what he'd looked like as she stood and
watched him sleep last night. As he stirred beneath
the blankets and opened his eyes. As he looked at her
and realized she was wearing her pendant and not much
else.

Finally, a way to render him speechless. Well, for a
while at least.

The black thong had been a nice declaration of her
intent, but it certainly was a brief one. She'd been
lucky to find it that morning, scrambling around in
the dark as she was, trying to locate her clothes and
get dressed without waking him. It was a good bet that
Mulder would not have minded in the least if she'd had
to borrow a pair of his shorts, but the boxers would
have absolutely wrecked the snug lines of that black
skirt.

She chanced another glance well before its scheduled
time. He was looking down at his hands now. So solemn.
What was he thinking? He clearly was upset by her
choice of seats. No doubt he wanted her in the chair
right next to him. Ah, but that might have resulted in
an embarrassing scene, because one errant brush of his
hand, as he was so wont to do, and she might well have
ended up in his lap, latched onto his mouth like a
red-haired moray eel in silk. No no no. That little
drought in her sex life, the one that had spanned some
seven years, was definitely over. Not that she wasn't
still thirsty, but this was neither the time nor
place. All he had to do was smile at her and the
proverbial clouds would gather in a flash. She
certainly wouldn't mind getting wet and hot with him
again, but she'd just as soon it didn't happen in
Skinner's office and with quite so many witnesses.

Another soft sigh from him. If he didn't watch it, he
was going to hyperventilate.

No, he was looking way too miserable. She felt a warm
little flutter in her chest, and a considerably
stronger one a little farther south. Clearly he didn't
have a clue as to *why* she'd chosen the seat she had.
He probably thinks I'm angry about something, she
mused. After all, she *had* taken off that morning
without so much as leaving a note. *Not* that it would
hurt to keep him on his toes a little - she didn't
want him getting complaisant about anything - but his
neuroses could be a little too overactive for her own
peace of mind. Not much fun to fantasize about someone
who looked like he was waiting to have a vasectomy. It
was time to do something about that pout before he did
something to hurt himself. After all, she *did* have
plans for that lip. To say nothing of the rest of him.

Slowly, carefully, she slipped one foot out of its
leather pump ....
 

M~*~M~*~M

God, I'm depressed. I am *so* depressed. What did I
do? How can I make it right? What if she doesn't want
to see me anymore? What if she *does* ask to be
transferred?

He felt something touch his shin and then skitter
away. Probably someone had shifted in their seat and
their shoe had inadvertently brushed his pant leg. It
happened sometimes, so he ignored it. A moment later
there was another touch, this time to the middle of
his shin. Enough with the accidents, he thought with a
stab of annoyance; no one liked shoe prints all over
their damned pants, and he was no exception. He looked
around, a silent challenge at the ready, but no one
moved or so much as looked at him. Sighing, he slumped
back in his chair again. Cold coffee, a full bladder,
an aching heart, and now some insensitive ass was
wiping their feet all over him. What else could go
wrong?

Something brushed his ankle then, square between pant
cuff and the top edge of his wingtip. Something small
and soft. Across from him, Scully was scribbling away
furiously at her tablet, but something about the set
of her head .... the way she tilted her chin for just
an instant ....

She was smiling.

He sucked in a quick breath and sat up sharply, and
only years of practice kept any further reaction out
of his expression. His panic face, Scully would call
it. Well, so be it. Better that than a victorious,
my-partner-still-likes-me expression, which under the
circumstances would look rather dopey and no doubt a
little suspicious.

"Agent Mulder, you have something to add?"

Now, why would Skinner ask him that? Oh hell, everyone
was looking at him. Shit. When did that happen? Guess
that little gasp of his hadn't gone totally unnoticed.
Neufield had paused and was looking at him. Not good.
Not good at all. Mulder quickly assumed a
self-effacing grimace, which under the circumstances
wasn't much of a stretch. "No, sir. Just a touch of
sciatica this morning. I'm sorry for the interruption
..... please continue, Agent Neufield."

Yack yack yack. The man's words were lost in a rush of
sensation and giddy emotion, and Mulder was hard
pressed not to react again when the foot once again
found his leg under the table. This time it moved
slowly, meandering up the inner line of his calf and
tucking itself into the fold of his knee. He closed
his eyes as heat flashed through him, starting at the
contact point and settling nicely in his groin. Mulder
quashed an overly-exuberant rush of lust. Slowly,
carefully, he trailed his left hand across his lap,
eased it down his thigh, and brushed a fingertip over
the smooth, warm foot nestled against his leg.

Clearly Dana Scully hadn't spent the better part of a
decade in the company of prying eyes without learning
something about self-control. There was no reaction in
her expression, no change in the tempo of her
respirations, but he felt the foot give a slight but
definite twitch.

Two could definitely play at this game. Carefully he
played one finger down the length of the foot,
starting high near her ankle, edging his way down the
ball, returning up the curved plane of her instep. He
didn't dare look at her, but this time he clearly
heard her sharp intake of breath. He was neither
disappointed nor surprised when the foot abruptly
withdrew, leaving a cool spot under his thigh and a
decidedly warm spot dead center in his lap.

For a full two minutes neither of them moved. When
Neufield wrapped up his presentation and took his
seat, Scully delicately cleared her throat and, with a
subtle, graceful move, edged her chair minutely closer
to the table. The hard edge was practically cutting
her in two at the waist now, and Mulder couldn't help
but wonder how comfortable such a position could be.
Still, he mused, the human body is resilient,
particularly when that body is intent on something and
will brook no interference in getting it. She was up
to something, and he couldn't wait to find out what.

Yee-hahh! He bit back a startled exclamation and
covered his shock with a totally fake sneeze. The
contrivance conveniently allowed him the chance to
blow off a little tension while also serving to press
his crotch that much closer to the firm pressure of
her stockinged foot. He covered his mouth with his
fist and faked a cough this time, shooting her a
startled look over his knuckles as he did. She was
looking at him intently, her brow wrinkled, her gaze
warm and full of concern. *Are you okay?* she silently
mouthed.

He narrowed his eyes and scowled fiercely. A quick
glance around the room ascertained their continued
privacy - no one was looking at them. Evidently no one
had noticed her gently nudge his balls up into the
small of his back. In fact, half the people arranged
around them had that same blankness of expression
Skinner himself had demonstrated but a moment before.

Which was a good thing, really. If everyone was asleep
at the switch, then maybe no one would notice Mr.
Happy, who at that moment was standing tall and proud
and very, very stiff in the front of his Armanis.

At that moment the door to the front office opened and
the slim redhead who worked out there stuck her head
in the room. Skinner gave a little start at her
intrusion. The foot abruptly withdrew from Mulder's
crotch, and he could just imagine his partner's mad
scramble to get her shoe back on. "Sir, the coffee
service you had me order is here. Where shall they set
up?"

Skinner seemed to give himself a little shake. Maybe
he really *had* been asleep with his eyes open. "Oh,
uh .... out there, I suppose. This is probably as good
a time as any for a break." He glanced at his watch,
then looked around at the slumberous agents. "Let's
take ten, ladies and gentlemen. Help yourself to the
refreshments, but please .... try not to spill on the
carpet this time."

There were a few comments and a yawn or two as the
agents pushed their chairs back and got their feet
under them. As badly as he needed some fresh coffee
and a trip to the can, Mulder thought it wise to
remain where he was until he could get his erection
camouflaged. No need to fan the flames of gossip that
raged around him and his partner. Besides, to stand up
now would be difficult, to say nothing of
uncomfortable.

Across from him, Scully had capped her pen and was
pushing her chair back. Her expression was carefully
neutral as she regarded him. "Sciatica acting up this
morning, Mulder? I'm sorry to hear that. Maybe you
over-did it this weekend."

He eyed her as he gingerly pushed himself to his feet.
That she could still hold a straight face at this
point was just one more reason to love her. "Might
have something to do with the way I slept last night,"
he replied. "You do too many things right before you
go to bed and anything can happen. Well, you're the
doctor - you know how it is."

Her mouth quirked in the promise of a smile. "Okay,
why don't you go stretch those sore muscles while I
get us some coffee."

He blinked. Coffee? Who said anything about coffee? He
wanted sex, and *soon.* Janitor's closet would do just
fine. All he had to do was talk her into it without
using any immediately recognizable terms. Hmm. Tough,
but not impossible. Okay, so maybe he wasn't thinking
all that clearly at the moment. What of it? Probably
had something to do with oxygen deprivation, what with
all his blood thundering south of the border.

He stepped around the table, and his hand settled
practically of its own accord at the small of her
back. At least he was touching her now. Trouble was,
it was like caressing a live current, and his erection
twitched with growing impatience. "Actually, I have to
go downstairs for a minute. There's a folder I left in
the office this morning .... we really should have it
for this meeting. I'm not sure just where I left it,
though. Care to accompany me and we'll look for it
together? Two heads are better than one, you know."

Amusement flashed in her eyes. "Time is a factor here,
Mulder. Ten minutes, the man said. The clock is
running."

He glanced around at the other agents, but they were
already lined up around the refreshments cart parked
in front of Kim's desk. No one cared if he was even in
the room, let alone what he happened to be saying to
his partner. He leaned a little closer to her and gave
her a smoldering look. "I can do ten minutes," he
whispered. "Five minutes, even .... That's okay by
me."

Her expression remained stoic, but her eyes were
laughing. "Maybe you didn't realize it," she whispered
back, "but most women wouldn't consider that a selling
point."

"You wouldn't last five minutes."

One chiseled eyebrow arched proudly. The very portrait
of dignity. Quite unlike the writhing, panting figure
that had clung to him through the small hours of the
morning. "Is that a challenge?"

"A fact."

Her chin rose. "And you know this .... how?"

God, how he wanted to kiss her. Right here, right in
front of Skinner and everyone. Well, actually it would
be *behind* them, since everyone was eagerly piling
their little paper plates with whatever treats the Man
had thoughtfully provided. Her face was mere inches
from his .... it was *so* tempting.

Still, a kiss would give away too much. Best to keep
their secret to themselves. Besides, waiting would
only make it better. He bent a little closer and
whispered, "I have my ways, Agent Scully. I *am* an
investigator by training, yes?" He tipped his head to
one side and pretended to just notice a faint blemish
on her neck. "Oh, my. You have something right there,
did you know that? It looks a little like .... oh,
never mind."

In a heartbeat, anxiety completely replaced dignity in
her expression. Her hand darted to her throat and she
nervously brushed her fingers over the tender skin
beneath her jaw. "Is it visible? Dammit, I though I'd
put enough concealer on it." She shot him a hard look.
"That was dirty pool, you know. You and your oral
fixation. Why couldn't you have .... I mean .... where
it wouldn't show?"

He quirked his brows at her. "Where's the fun in
that?"

Ooo, blue ice. What Agent Bartholemew once called The
Look. Actually, he'd asked Mulder how he kept his
balls from withering up into raisins every time she
flashed that expression on him. Raisins, indeed ....
too much more of that particular expression and he'd
end up splitting the front panel right out of his
dress slacks, Skinner and company notwithstanding.

She held the look for a moment, then turned on her
heel. "Go get some air, Mulder. And take some
ibuprophen for that pain in your backside. I'll get
coffee for me and mine."
 

S~*~S~*~S

Oral fixation. Damn Mulder anyway. She was sitting in
a quarterly meeting in her AD's office, and she had a
hickey on her neck.

The meeting was interminable. The data she had to
relate to the other departments were basically limited
to lab stats, which made her almost as interesting as
Neufield. Mulder then reported on the findings of
their current cases, which to date included a
murderous, shape-shifting psychotic housewife, an
apparently invisible but nonetheless deadly
"fear-monster" which not only managed to elude them
through the streets of Los Angeles, it also made them
look like idiots on the Fox network, and a
cross-dressing, Bible-quoting fundamentalist who used
his feminine wiles to persuade crack-addicted hookers
to try the straight life on for size.

He gave his report while sitting. No one said
anything.

Small wonder, Scully thought to herself. She herself
could barely move .... hell, she could hardly
*breathe*, he was sitting so damned close. He'd come
back from the men's room sporting a counterfeit limp -
his sciatica being irritated by prolonged sitting by
that point, no doubt - and unceremoniously plunked
himself into the chair beside her while its rightful
occupant, Agent Margaret Farrell from Domestics, was
in the restroom. And before the meeting finally
concluded after a record-breaking six years and eleven
months, Mulder had successfully stepped on his
partner's foot countless times, trapped her sleeve
between the table and the arm of his chair with his
incessant fidgeting not once but twice, spilled the
dregs of his coffee across her notepad - thus
rendering it useless for mindless doodling - and
surreptitiously caressed her knee more times than she
could remember. It was a campaign, of course, the sole
purpose of which was to wear her down, to drive her to
distraction, and make her *his.*

She was so rattled she could kill him. After she
fucked him senseless, of course.

At last the meeting broke up. Skinner didn't yawn and
stretch as he excused them, but he might just as well
have; his eyes were bloodshot and bleary, and Scully
couldn't help but wonder how long it would be before
his door was locked and his assistant ordered to field
calls while he was "in conference" on one of the sofas
under the framed headshots of Bill Clinton and Janet
Reno.

Mulder wasted no time exchanging pleasantries with
anyone in the outer office or in the hall as some of
the other agents did, but clung to Scully like a
shadow all the way to the elevator. She eyed him
sourly as they boarded with a half-dozen others,
trying without success to put at least a *little*
distance between them. One step forward, two steps
back; no matter where she went, he seemed to end up
just a little bit closer.

After two stops they were alone and on their way to
the basement, and she knew without question that the
ante was about to be upped.

He said nothing as the car came to a gentle stop and
the doors breezed open, but fell into step behind her
with all the precision of a drum major in a military
band. She could feel the heat radiating from him,
could practically taste the pheromones rolling off him
in waves as she searched her pockets for the key to
the office. Speed was her only ally; get the door
open, and find some refuge behind the glass partition
in the lab portion of the office, the space designated
as hers. Surely he wouldn't pursue her there. This was
a puerile jest, nothing more. Okay, so they'd made
love. She was pretty damned sure they would again,
probably sometime soon. Right now he was just
overwhelmed with affection and sexual desire. All
right, lust. But none of that mattered when they were
at work. *Work.* Their search for the truth .... that
came first, right?

She knew he was close, could feel his breath stirring
the hair on the back of her head. She started to
bridle when she felt his hands rise to her shoulders.
To her surprise, they hovered there as though drawn to
her and yet repelled at the same time, like magnets.
Positive and negative. Polar opposites.

Her breath caught. Where was that damned key? And why
were her fingers shaking so badly?

"Scully," he breathed at last, and she fought back a
shiver. His mouth .... that deliciously talented mouth
..... was hovering just over her ear. She could feel
the warmth of his expelled breath on the side of her
face. On her neck. Her throat. Her eyes sagged closed.
His hands settled on her shoulders, resting so lightly
she could barely feel them. Ah, but that was the
point, wasn't it? To persuade without coercion. To
take without force by making her *want* to give.
Pleasure ran hot and liquid through her body, and this
time she couldn't help but shiver.

"What is it, Mulder?" she replied, trying with all the
strength she had left to sound abrupt and distant. It
was a good plan, but a futile attempt; her voice was
high and breathless, in no way resembling the
tough-as-nails federal agent she spent most of her
time portraying.

His hands trailed slowly down her arms. She could feel
his lips now, grazing the curve of her ear, nuzzling
her temple, opening to encompass the curve of her
browbone in a tender kiss. This time the shiver was
sharp, and she felt her nipples draw up tight and hard
under her shirt. What color was her bra? She couldn't
remember. Hell, with his mouth doing that, nuzzling
and kissing as it explored, it was a wonder she could
even remember her own name.

Or his. "Mmm .... ul ...." Hell, that was a moan. The
bastard made her moan and he was barely even touching
her yet. Try that again. She managed to turn her face
away. "Give me your key - I can't find mine. C'mon, I
want to go in. We h-have work to do."

He smiled against her cheek and made no move to
comply. "Sh .... have something better in mind."

Uh oh. She knew how his mind worked. Whatever he had
planned, work probably wasn't involved. She gave her
head a little shake. "N-no. Office. Now."

His arms were finding their way around her. He was
holding her from behind, and as she tried to turn she
felt the strength and length of a very considerable
erection pressing eagerly into her lower back. Oh, he
has got to be kidding, she thought blearily, pushing
at the arms locked in place around her. It was
hopeless, of course - he had her and he knew it.

He began rocking very slowly from side to side, and
she wasn't particularly surprised to find herself
being maneuvered away from the office, down the
hallway and toward the restroom around the corner from
the elevator. It was unisex, converted to accommodate
women as well as men, and had the added feature of
being equipped with handicapped facilities. The Bureau
had definitely covered the bases with this one.

He caught her shoulders and suddenly spun her to face
him. She found herself engulfed in a tangle of limbs
and lips that smelled and tasted so good, she could
barely think to protest. "Wait .... what if someone
comes down ...."

Mulder snorted softly. "Yeah, we get *so* many
visitors down here." He pressed her gently against the
wall and kissed her, long and deep. Shit shit shit.
How did he do that? How could he make her react
without thinking, whether it was a case they were
working on or a kiss they were sharing? Tongues
swirled and danced in a joyous bout, and it wasn't
long before she found her arms around his neck and her
fingers digging with happy abandon in the thick
softness of his hair.

"C'mon," he breathed, drawing her with him away from
the wall and toward the restroom once again. His lips
were shiny with saliva.

Lust was addling her brain, but common sense was slow
to die. "We shouldn't. They might be watching." She
tried to pull away.

He didn't let her go. "If they are, we're only showing
them what they've suspected all along."

"But why the restroom?"

She suddenly realized his fingers were working on her
buttons and had the her shirt half open. "It's such an
obvious place, I'm betting they've already decided it
would be wasted effort. Seven years of watching us
pee. Not even Buttman would care about that."

She realized with a start that the fingers working on
his pants weren't his, but hers. Oh, the drought was
over and she was *thirsty*. That must be it .... that
must be why she'd lost all reason. Mulder finally had
driven her around the bend. What the hell .... it
wasn't like she'd actually be able to accomplish
anything today, *especially* with him accosting her at
every turn ....

They staggered into the restroom and somehow managed
to get the door locked.

Then he was on his knees ....

..... her shirt was gone ....

Long fingers wasted no time in unraveling the mystery
of the front clasp. He caught his arms around her
waist and trailed his lips over her belly and to a
breast. A tentative lap with the flat of his tongue
made her gasp and roll her head from side to side
against the cool tile. "Do it," she breathed. *Please,
yes, do it do it do it ....*

The first suckle almost dragged her to her knees. She
bit her lips when a languid moan tried to escape. His
hands were not idle, but had found the zipper of her
dress slacks and were making short work of that as
well. Without so much as a thought toward the pressing
her silk trousers would need, she quickly shimmied
free and kicked them aside. Her skimpy underwear,
which judging from her partner's rapt expression were
just as appealing as that black thong had been, posed
no real obstacle to progress; without hesitation he
nudged the strip of material away and carefully
slipped two fingers into her.

Delicate tissues, only recently reacquainted with such
intimacies, stung at the intrusion. She swallowed her
protests, fearing that he would stop if he knew or
even suspected he was hurting her. The fingers slid in
and out, generating and spreading moisture and setting
a nice rhythm guaranteed to drive her out of her mind.
The mouth continued its seduction of her breast, and a
humming had started deep in his chest. Something else
had started too, an ache and twitch signaling her
rapidly approaching climax, a sensation amplified by
the careful touch of his thumb to the tiny, pulsing
knot just above his dive-bombing fingers. Her head
fell back and her mouth dropped open, and distantly
she knew that, were it not for his hold on her, to say
nothing of her own hands which were caught up in fists
in his hair, she would either drop to the ground in a
heap or else explode into flight.

Instead, she exploded.
 

M~*~M~*~M

Mulder had, in his twenty-odd years as an adult,
witnessed a hell of a lot. Nothing, however, could he
quantify as more beautiful or in fact more
extraordinary than this. Her release was, by
extension, his. Well, sort of. True, his balls were
just about to split and his dick couldn't possibly get
any harder, and he *knew* the orgasm coming his way
would be one for the record books. Still, to hold this
woman and taste and smell and watch as her climax
ripped her apart was without doubt one of the high
points of his life.

He would like to have taken his time at this point,
were he not on his knees on a cold concrete floor, and
if they were anyplace other than the Hoover. He'd like
to lavish more attention on those breasts, then maybe
spend a little more time letting his mouth get to know
the neighborhood his fingers had just visited. He'd
done a little of that the night before, but other
activities had taken precedence and he'd had to go
with the flow.

As things stood, time was not particularly a luxury,
and for more than one reason. First and most
pressingly, he was about to come a river in his
shorts. Not the ideal place for that to happen. Also,
and perhaps equally as important, she'd made an
excellent point about the notion of surprise visitors.
Stranger things had happened in the basement. On the
whole, chances were great that no one would really
care if the news of their relationship were to get
out; but if they happened to be discovered doing the
deed there at work, *and* on government time ....
well, that wasn't a scenario he was too eager to see
play out in real time.

That meant he had to get on with it. Which, all things
considered, wasn't such a bad option.

Logistics had to be reckoned with. He'd like to have
had the janitor's stepstool for her to stand on, but
neither of them were dressed for the brief sprint down
the hall to the closet to retrieve it. So he did the
next best thing: he caught his hands under her ass and
hoisted her up, pinning her body against the wall. Her
eyes and legs both opened wide, and as her knees
gripped his hips, his turgid cock slid home in the
deep, hot recess of her body.

The pressure was exquisite. The two of them hung there
for a beat, motionless, silently taking in the
sensations and the knowledge of what was happening.
Her eyes closed for a moment and then opened again,
and his heart sang with joy when she smiled at him.
Rushed, yes; physically pressed, all right; but she
wasn't sorry to be there, not at all. He kissed her,
long and deep, and when she responded and the tight
heat of her body gripping his became even wetter, his
hips began the age-old dance of thrust and retreat.
The angle was wrong and he couldn't get much depth
with his strokes, but even *that* was all right
because she wanted him to be in her and he was, he
was, and it was hot and slick and she was using some
cool female thing to tighten up around him, caressing
and quivering and licking the head of his cock with
her .... with her ....

Words were tumbling out of him, carried on pants and
grunts, and it wasn't long at all before she went
rigid again, writhing and gasping as he ground that
magical spot of hers with his pubic bone. Liquid was
pooling up between them and beginning to trickle down
his thighs, and though he wouldn't be anywhere else in
the world at that moment, he also would have given
just about anything in the world to be able to see and
taste that elixir, which was proof positive of her
need for him.

Her head came back up and her gaze locked with his,
and he *knew* she could see it in his eyes, just a few
more strokes and he'd be gone. He grimaced, desperate
to stave off the inevitable and yet desperate to let
it happen. His cock was expanding in her, a sure sign
that the end was in sight, and he grunted as he
bounced her against him, using physics and gravity to
add the final touch to his torture.

One stroke. Two. Three and the ending began, a hot
spurt that quickly became a gush. Fire lived in him,
in his heart and his blood and especially his cock,
and he bit down hard on his lip to swallow the roar as
insanity tore him apart.

When reality asserted itself around them again, he
realized his legs were shaking so hard, he could
barely stand. God but they were wet. He gracelessly
bent at the knees, allowing her to find the ground
with her feet, and his dick left a slick trail across
her belly as it slithered free and hung, thick and
dark and subsiding rapidly in the cool air of the
restroom. He leaned one hand on the wall over her
shoulder, catching his head on his arm and wiping the
sweat from his face with his sleeve. "I'm getting too
old for this," he whispered hoarsely.

Scully was wasting no time, using a length of toilet
paper to catch what spilled out at his withdrawal.
"Impressive," she murmured, depositing the wad in the
trash can and then readjusting her underwear with a
quick swivel of her hips. He looked at her blankly for
a second, and she flashed him a quick smile. "You
recover very quickly. That was a hell of a lot of
semen for a guy who's had four orgasms in the past
twelve hours."

He smiled breathlessly. "Didn't know I had it in me,
did you?"

"Oh, I've always known you were full of it." She
stepped close and gently helped reposition his shorts
around him. His dick, lethargic and sated, nonetheless
warmed again at her touch. She smiled again as he
zipped his pants and buttoned his jacket neatly.
Somehow she'd already retrieved her slacks and shirt
and had them back on. They were a little wrinkled from
their brief stint in the corner, but were largely
unscathed. "Let's get one thing straight right now,"
she said, her firm tone somewhat at odds with the
smile flirting around her eyes. She'd turned and was
washing her hands in the sink. He grunted as he joined
her. The soap was warm and slick in his hands, and he
felt another twitch from below. Damn greedy thing. She
eyed him through the untidy fall of her hair. "This is
a one-time shot. From now on, we visit this restroom
*one* at a time. No exceptions."

He felt his lip begin to stick out. She better than
anyone knew that he didn't like being thwarted.
"Well .... what if I need help in here?"

She gave him the Look. Funny, but his balls *still*
didn't feel like raisins. Big and mushy and very, very
happy, yes. Definitely not raisins. "Mulder, I don't
even want to contemplate what you'd be doing in here
that you might need *my* help."

That's the trouble with having a perpetually dirty
mind, he told himself with an inward grin: even when
he meant something totally harmless, his words would
be taken at face value and largely used against him.
"That's not what I mean, Scully. I mean .... I mean
..... what if I get a bad cut and I need you to help
clean it up? *That* would be okay, wouldn't it?"

Her stony look softened, and to his delight, she
kissed him briefly on the cheek. "Mulder, if you
*ever* need a wound dressed or a burn soaked or a ....
a booboo kissed better, I'll always be there for you."

He grinned wickedly. "Really?" He gestured to the
bulge of his dozing cock. "Because I have this strange
pain .... right about here ...."

She turned on her heel, but not before he caught a
glimpse of the smile that tugged at her mouth. "In
your dreams. C'mon."

He smiled as he wadded his paper towel and tossed it
in the general direction of the trash, then turned to
follow her back out into the hall. "Hey, Scully, do
you have the time?"

She glanced at her watch. "Yeah, it's ten minutes past
three. Why?"

He gave her a sideways glance and allowed a hint of
smugness into his tone. "So, we were in there, what
..... about five minutes, wasn't it?"

She didn't even look at him. "Shut up, Mulder."
 

~~~~
end
~~~~
 

Silly, wasn't it? Like it? Hate it? Lemme know!
 
 

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~~~Courage is not the absence of fear, but the strength to continue on in the face of it.~~~
 

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