TITLE: Heat (1) AUTHOR: Abra Elliott CLASSIFICATION: MSR, UST, Scully POV RATING: R SPOILERS: none FEEDBACK: accepted with gratitude at xilerui@hotmail.com DISCLAIMER: They're not mine and I'm still poor. DESCRIPTION: Scully has reached a certain point in her life. *** I think I must be in heat. I know that the magazines all say I'm the right age for my "sexual peak." I also know, somewhat more rationally, that this is bullshit; that what's described as a sexual peak is not only particular to the individual, but also refers to how easily one achieves orgasm, not to how much one desires sex. Sometimes I think my rational self should just shut the hell up. Frankly, this *feels* more like what the magazines are talking about. I think about sex at the most inconvenient times, in the most inconvenient places, and, worst of all, with the most inconvenient people. I'll be sitting in Skinner's office, getting reamed for yet another breach of FBI protocol that isn't my fault, when I'll suddenly picture myself bent over his desk, skirt hiked up to my waist, our rather burly Assistant Director pumping me full of his throbbing manhood from behind. Needless to say, such meetings can't end soon enough; my recent pattern has been to rapidly excuse myself, leaving one confused AD and one pissed partner in my wake, while I rush off to the ladies room for a little R&R. The other day, at the Gunmen's place, I even found myself zoning out during one of Mulder's angst-ridden soliloquies...with visions of strange foursomes dancing in my head. Now, Byers I can understand. He's got that sweet, cultured air about him...but you *know* its bad when, in my mind, I've got Frohike and Langly kneeling down at my feet, sucking on my toes. Then there's said partner...who usually puts in a memorable appearance in *all* these daydreams of mine. Mulder thinks I'm angry with him; I'm curt with him in the car, can barely bring myself to look him in the eyes when we're in his office together, and I seldom even join him for meals anymore when we're on the road. I speak to him in that tone of voice that I usually save for when I'm *really* mad at him; the quiet one that tells him he'd better clear out and leave me the hell alone. And the bastard does; writing me off as a cold- hearted and incomprehensible bitch, he sulks in his motel room, sulks at his desk...I assume he sulks at home, too. Just as well. If we were getting along any better right now, I don't know how I'd be able to avoid jumping him. As it is, I go a little crazy every time I see him pout...he'll be sitting at his desk, his sullen lower lip jutting forward, and, in my mind, I'm straddling his legs, squirming against him, sucking that lip into my mouth. When he wears that gray shirt and the Armani suit I like so much...well, let's just say that his lip isn't the only thing I imagine sucking. So what does a perpetually horny, hopelessly busy, and sadly asocial G-woman do to get her through the long days and even longer nights? I tried just a vibrator and my own fantasies for awhile...but, in the end, this wasn't much of a solution. Most of the fantasies involved my pouty partner, which made facing him in the mornings even more difficult. Then I tried adult TV channels while we were on the road; it turns out that these are a little too expensive to justify what they offer: lots of tits and ass, but very little for the female imagination. And, it turns out, it's a little hard to explain the charge on the motel bill...for awhile I tried to explain to Mulder that I was on a "Titanic" jag, but he just kept looking at me with that insufferable smirk of his. Asshole. He probably could hear the moans coming from the TV, but I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of admitting to my new viewing habits. Let him dream...maybe it would make his life as hard as he was making mine. It was while we were in Kansas, on yet another lost cause case of Mulder's, that I discovered online adult chatrooms. Now, you may not know this, but cybersex is not as easy as it sounds. I pride myself on being fairly competent at it, but you'd be surprised just how many guys want to just sit back and let the woman do the typing. In my admittedly-limited experience, most seem to suffer from severe vocabulary impairments; that is, they mostly write variations on "oh yeah baby, that's good baby, right there, baby." Or they like to tell me how I'm feeling; as in "you are so wet" or "my cock makes you quiver." Yeah, right. Whatever. But lately I've found a good partner. He says he's 6'1, 190 lbs., with Scandinavian good looks and a 9 inch cock. Yummy. Of course, he thinks I'm 5'7, 120 lbs., blonde and green-eyed, with a 36D bust. Well, we all have our little dreams. His username is "Apollo." My Greek god. I would have used "Diana" just to match his, but, well, I have *issues* with that particular name. So I'm just "G-woman." He seems to like it; in fact, we've played "naughty FBI agents" a few times now, and he's quite good at it. You know...partners who have to hide their raucous sexual escapades from the prying eyes of their superiors, fellow-agents, and various and sundry bystanders. The stuff of my day-to-day fantasies. He's clearly brushed up on the terminology: he knows what an AD is, knows the different divisions within the Bureau...a quick study, I guess. In fact, he's so good at it that "naughty FBI agents" has become my favorite game to play with him. And yet, I have to confess that it takes some work for me to keep my mind focused on my blonde boy and not let it wander to my *real* FBI partner, lusciously pouting in the next room. Yes, in the next room. By some odd stroke of luck, 'Apollo' is most often online when I'm on the road with Mulder. We'll finish up a day's work and head back to the motel. I'll snap an impatient "goodnight" at him, ignoring his hangdog demeanor as I rush to get into my room before he has a chance to corner me with questions. I feel bad that he misunderstands me...he thinks I'm mad, when all I am is horny. But I can't let him closer...as it is, whole days spent by his side are enough to keep me awake at nights, eyes staring into the blackness as my mind lingers over his clothes, his face, his body. No, I *need* to get away from his too- curious gaze...I need my pop-up Greek god. Who, happily, is almost always there when I log on. It's strange; we often log on within minutes of one another. It's almost uncanny enough to make me take a Mulderesque leap of logic and think we're somehow psychically connected. He's never said what he does for a living but has suggested it keeps him on the road a lot. I guess all of us road-warriors keep pretty similar hours. Someone at his job must keep him as frustrated as Mulder does me: lately, when we "meet," he's been half-crazed with lust. Niceties are thrown aside; we rip at each other's clothes, sucking, licking, fondling every imaginable place on each others' bodies. His vocabulary is rich...he describes his actions in painstaking detail, sending shocks of pleasure throughout my body. He responds to my electronic caresses, goading me, pleading with me, begging me...and sometimes, when I'm in the mood, forcing me to please him. It's almost as if he can *see* Mulder's office; or rather, that's where I always imagine our trysts taking place. Me against the file cabinet, in Mulder's chair, under the desk, on top of the desk (the desk tends to get top-billing)...he describes similar scenes, and they slip seamlessly into my own fantasies. My self-described Amazonian physique notwithstanding, he uses words such as "little," "delicate," and "tiny" to describe me. I never complain; truth be told, it makes me feel more real to him somehow. Clearly he's imagining someone else...well, I guess that makes two of us. For my part, his chest is always broad, his arms are always muscular, his hair is always short, and he's always impeccably dressed. What a man. He definitely scratches my itch. Lately, he's been asking for my number...he wants to try our nocturnal games on the phone. I've been a little nervous about this; what if I'm embarrassed and lousy on the phone? What if he has this high, squeaky voice, so unbecoming to a Greek god. Do I want such a personal connection with this man that I don't even know? I worry that it will kill the fantasy, after we've reached such a delicious level of comfort with each other online. He was such a treasure to uncover...someone as articulate as 'Apollo' doesn't come along everyday, I've discovered. And yet, I have to confess to no little curiosity about his voice. What if, instead of squeaky, it's deep and gravelly? To hear those sensuous words of his in low, murmuring tones...it *is* tempting. So much so that tonight, if he asks, I'm giving him my cell phone number. I know its foolish. I'm an FBI agent, for god's sake; I know all the warnings, and then some, about the perils of online pick-ups. For all I know, he's a crazed maniac. God knows I've had my fair share. And yet...my body is screaming for his imagined voice. Every part of me aches to finally hear him, and it occurs to me how quickly common sense is willing to take a back seat to sexual desire. In my mind I know that this isn't the brightest thing I've ever thought of doing, but rational Dr. Scully seems to have bowed out of the situation, leaving only her quivering hormones behind to cope as best they can. I can't seem to stop imagining his silky syllables caressing my aching body. Not to mention that its got to be so much easier when there's not a keyboard involved. No motel phone numbers; the last thing I need is this guy knocking on my door. If he asks tonight, I'm giving him my cell phone number. Mulder is the only person who ever calls me when we're out on a case, and he hasn't been doing much calling lately, anyway. Besides, he's in the next room tonight, *still* sulking, no doubt. Which just leaves my Greek god, 'Apollo'. I blush as I recall the name...my breath becomes shallow in anxious anticipation, my heartbeat quickens. I hope he asks. I want to hear his voice... End of part 1 *** HIDEY-HO MOTOR LODGE SOMEWHERE IN IDAHO IN MEDIAS RES I grabbed the pen and pad of paper off the bedside table and plopped back down in front of my laptop. Glancing at the scrolling screen, I prepared to jot down the long-awaited key to my immediate satisfaction, a phone number that I'd spent fruitless weeks trying to obtain. Somewhere between the glance and the paper my heart stopped. My hand, clenching the pen in an ever-tighter death grip, hung suspended above the small blank square. I think my eyes bugged...I *know* my jaw dropped...and all I could think was *Scully*. But I'm getting ahead of myself. *** My too-famous porn video collection notwithstanding, I'm not nearly as uncontrollably horny as my paranoid (and sadly under-sexed) friends think. It's a little-known fact that pornography is often a refuge for the lonely, at once a release and a sad reminder of what is missing from life. I'm certainly no exception in this regard. I've always felt that I had a choice: sleep around with the first upright, two-breasted organism I could find, or find other ways to take care of my completely natural biological urges. I chose "other ways." Okay, I'm not usually this clinical about it, but that's my story and I'm sticking by it. It hasn't helped that my job requires me to spend nearly every waking moment in the company of a woman who has completely confounded everything I ever thought I understood about women. B.S. (that's 'Before Scully', but it works the other way as well...), my 'conquests' were anything but. I pretty much managed to walk into the carefully-laid traps of every woman I met: all beautiful, all controlling, and *all* of them not a little terrifying. I was theirs, hook, line, and sinker. They were exciting, brilliant women who pushed me to "be something," and who professed varying degrees of undying willingness to back me all the way. It's amazing what a *little* eccentricity will do to a guy's reputation. Once the days of Fox the FBI Boy Wonder were over, once I found the X-Files and all I had left was my little corner of the basement, the women dwindled to a slow, then nonexistent, trickle as well. Even Diana, the queen bee of the hive, disappeared. I know she liked to think she was somehow pivotal in my early X-Files work; she certainly played it that way to Scully, and I guess I kind of encouraged it. What can I say...that was probably the first time I'd ever seen Scully act even a *little* territorial about the X-Files...it was sort of heady. But, make no mistake, Diana was way the hell out of there at the first sign of obsession. Anyway, enter Dr. Dana "take-no-shit-or-prisoners" Scully. The first time I saw her, all I noticed was that her suit didn't fit very well, that she was short, and that she certainly wasn't a threat to my still-raging testosterone. She didn't even come close to provoking my usual self- destructive pattern of hopeless infatuation with tight-assed power bitches; in fact, if anything, she seemed more like one of the guys, a *good* guy that you could count on to be there with her gun loaded, covering your back. I teased her all the time; I guess it was the first time I'd ever been in that kind of position. It had always been the other way around, with women yanking my chain and me following along with my tongue hanging out and my tail wagging. For the first time, I'd finally met someone who wasn't playing mind games...and so I teased her. She seemed to like it well enough; I usually got that indulgent smile she seemed to reserve just for me, which, of course, only made me tease more. Strictly speaking, I guess it wasn't the way I'd treat "one of the guys," but, even then, that's all she was to me. We were just friends. Maybe I had to remind myself of that a little more frequently as time passed, but I knew, in my heart of hearts, that that's all we were. Partners. Confidantes. Friends. I let down my guard. And she blindsided me. I never saw it coming. I couldn't tell you the moment it happened. One day she was Dana Scully, unbeliever, skeptic, pain-in-my-ass, friend; the next, she was *Scully*, the reason I got up in the morning, the reason I went to work, that I persevered, that I found the will to live when things were at their worst. Was it losing her that first time? Was it the threat of losing her again? Was it the combined weight of so many barely-averted losses that made her so precious in my eyes? Or was it the graceful curve of her calves, rising smooth and unblemished from her too-tall shoes? Was it the fiery hair she tried so hard to tame, only to have it escape her control and curl so softly around her face? Was it her mouth...those scowling, sobbing, smiling pink lips that said so much without ever uttering a word? Her eyes, perhaps...wide in alarm, half-lidded in warm drowsiness as she sat in the car next to me, driving from one town to the next, watching normal lives pass us by through gray-tinted windows. Or maybe it was just *her*. Her mind. Her body. Her soul. I'll never know. All I know is one day she was a friend, *just* a friend, and the next she was my life. What's a guy to do? Specifically, what's an FBI agent in love with his partner supposed to do? They don't cover this in the regulations (well, actually they do, but not much to my satisfaction). I tried telling her a few times, but there always seemed to be too much at stake to *mean* it...my confessions were, to a one, made under extenuating circumstances, couched in my teasing banter, and generally forgettable in the grand scheme of things. At least by her; she never brought any of them up again. Remember what I said about porn? Well, it doesn't get much lonelier than being stuck in an automobile for hours on end, days at a time, with the only woman you've ever really loved, who could, by all appearances, give a damn. Or try spending night after night in crappy motel rooms, knowing that she's undressing, bathing, sleeping, on the other side of one very thin connecting door. Frankly, I'm amazed to still even be here; by all rights I should have lost my mind years ago. I'll never reveal who it was that introduced me to the wide world of cybersex (Frohike; who else?), but it was like the answer to a prayer. I'd pretty much worn out my own porn collection, and the stuff in the motels was lousy at best. Since Scully, the magazines had come to seem pretty sleazy, somehow...I needed a human connection, someone to talk to, someone who would respond. The phone thing was great...until I got the bill...but online I could talk, for free no less, with anyone who would talk with me. Praise Jesus and pass the plate. Honestly, I wasn't too impressed with a lot of what I found. Maybe they just don't have much experience, but a lot of the women online seemed to think that repeating "I'm sucking your cock, it feels so good" was a turn-on. Frankly, it kind of left me cold. Then I found her. G-Woman. The name caught my eye (for no reason that I'd ever admit to) and I asked her about it. She told me she'd always had a weird fantasy about making it with a gun-toting FBI stud (too much TV? who was I to complain?); well, here I was, one tailor-made, gun-toting FBI stud at her service. I called myself Apollo (so much for forgetting about Scully...even my username was all about her, or, rather, that stupid keychain I got her all those years ago. I'm such a glutton for punishment). Fortunately, she never asked about it. I made myself a little more studly, in sort-of a Norwegian, or Swedish?, kind of way, and she described herself to me as long-legged, willowy, blonde and buxom. The Anti-Scully. Just what the doctor ordered. Or what she would have ordered if she'd known that the patient was sick. It turns out I was pretty good at the FBI stud game, having had no little opportunity to play it out in my mind again and again as Scully and I drove silently through sandy deserts, wooded forests, and crowded cities. I put years of pent-up frustration to creative use, taking G-Woman in every conceivable place in my office, from the filing cabinet, to the desk, to the desk again (gotta love that sturdy office furniture); I fucked her everywhere that I'd imagined making sweet love to a soft, supple Scully. The forgetting thing, clearly, wasn't going too well. G- Woman was incredible, with an appetite for sex (and a linguistic capability) that nearly put my own to shame; yet, in my mind's eye, it was Scully I saw lying underneath me, riding on top of me, doing the most amazing things with me. It was *her* small hands, her delicate face, her tiny body that gave me pleasure, and I was well on the way to making myself crazier than when I began. I needed to give a voice, if not a face, to G-Woman. To make *her* real to me, and thereby, maybe, escape the hell I'd begun to create for myself. I began asking to call her; I'd never done it before (well, not with an amateur, anyway), but hearing her voice was fast becoming an imperative for me. Scully had been acting strangely for awhile, by turns cold, skittish, and, more than anything, clearly unhappy with me. I thought maybe she knew about my feelings and didn't know how to react. I became anxious, nervous, which only seemed to increase her tension. God, I needed to make that other woman real. She'd seemed to be warming to the idea of talking to me. We were both on the road a lot, both seemed to share similar hours, and both spent significant amounts of time holed up in cheap motels. I asked, cajoled, begged her to let me call her...all the while hoping that the sound of her silky voice might distract me from the *very* real woman in the next room. Tonight she told me yes. Even as I rose from my seat at the little round motel table to grab a pen and paper, I kept one ear trained on the door connecting my room to Scully's. Part of me wanted her to hear my moans of pleasure as I talked with G-Woman; and yet, I was terrified of what she might think of me, her oversexed partner. Her room was almost silent. I could hear the muffled sound of her TV in the background, and it sounded like she was typing up a report. I sighed as I reached for the pen and paper. What was I doing? All I wanted was her, not this nameless, faceless woman that I didn't know and who could never be anything but a cheap substitute for Scully. I sat back down. I saw the phone number. It was the number that was first on my speed-dial. The number I had programmed into my phone at home. The number I knew like a prayer. It was my lifeline, my connection to everything that was sacred to me. And it belonged to G-Woman. My hand hung suspended in the air for a good two minutes. And then, for lack of anything more intelligent to do, and because I was suddenly feeling pretty light-headed, I spread my legs and put my head between them. Holy shit. End of part 2 *** HIDEY-HO MOTOR LODGE SOMEWHERE IN IDAHO TWENTY MINUTES LATER I've been waiting for a good twenty minutes now and no word from 'Apollo'. I don't know what to think about this...he's been asking for my number for weeks, only to ignore me now that he's gotten it? I don't know whether to feel rejected, embarrassed, scared, or what. He didn't even acknowledge my post; it just rolled on by, lost in a cacophony of chatroom loneliness and frustration. As I sit staring into my scrolling laptop screen, I hear a door slam shut. Standing up, I walk over to the window and peek through the heavy curtains. Mulder is standing in front of the door to his room, wearing sweats and *that* gray t- shirt. He stretches halfheartedly, all the while keeping his eyes on the dark, starry sky. I find myself staring as he works different muscle groups, noticing the way his arms and back flex; I should remind myself to keep my observations clinical and detached, but his bending and twisting combine with my thwarted-but-not-disappeared arousal in a potent aphrodisiac. My lips swell...I *tingle* as my mind wanders, and, for just a moment, I see myself tangled in his heated grasp, drowning in his urgent caresses. *Get a grip, Dana* My face flushes and I look away, chastising myself. When I look up again, he is staring at me through the sliver of space between the curtains. Our eyes meet briefly, and what I find in his takes my breath away. I quickly step back, letting the curtain fall into place. I *know*. *** I chose the path of least resistance. I never acknowledged her message, letting her instead think what she would. I could practically feel her quickening as she sat silently in the next room, waiting for my reply, and it was all I could do to keep from breaking down the flimsy plywood barrier that separated us. I had to get away, if only for a little while. I went to the small, antiquated bathroom ("sanitized for my comfort"), splashed cold water on my face and stared at my reflection. I barely recognized the man looking back at me; his eyes were aching and hungry, haunted by the too-physical phantasy of a woman he longed for with heart and soul. I pitied this guy, but I didn't know how to help him. Nothing in my repertoire had ever prepared me for this. I quickly changed clothes and stepped into the cool night air. I stood for a long moment outside our rooms, willing her to see me. And, as I looked up at the vast expanse of sky, its sheer size seeming to promise limitless possibilities, I finally allowed myself the luxury of realization. Throughout our years together, I had witnessed myriad facets of the enigmatic Dr. Scully. I had seen her worn with fear and worry, afraid and alone, playful and merry. Occasionally she gave me the gift of her sunshine, gracing my ears with soft giggles and my eyes with endearingly silly smiles. So many Scullys, but I had only ever dreamed about the woman she became in our anonymous electronic paradise. The woman with an almost insatiable appetite for her imaginary partner... It seemed so obvious, and yet I could barely acknowledge the implications of my discovery. All those times, when my mind saw only Scully panting animal lust and longing beneath me, who did she see? A faceless blond stud, all muscles and tan and rugged good looks? Did she see the GQ model I had made myself out to be? Or, instead...was the man who held her in his arms, who pleasured her with his mouth, his fingers, his cock...was this man her *real* partner? Did she see *me*? I knew better than to give in to this feeling, the ersatz hope that surged through my mind as I considered the possibility. It wasn't the first time I'd felt it; every time a confession crossed my lips, couched in its self- protective armor, I hoped that maybe *this* time she would hear me. That her unguarded glance might, just once, meet mine in a moment of understanding. Of course, it never did. As I stared into the silent night, I felt uncontrollable emotions warring for ascendancy: hope, despair, longing, restraint. I turned to her window, half expecting to find her standing there, bathed in beautiful backlight, waiting for me to come to her. What I found there instead startled me. A thin slice of light shone between barely-parted curtains. Between them peeked Scully, and, for a brief instant, our eyes locked. Always guarded, Scully's eyes revealed little; yet, there was a glimmer of heated hunger that I'd never seen there before. She was looking at me, *seeing* me, and my lips parted in stunned wonder. I stared, and in the next moment she gone, hidden from view by the thick veil of cheap motel curtains. I turned and ran, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. I had to get away from there, from *her*. I ran, faster and faster, into the dark night, my demons nipping at my heels. *** Scientists seldom invent. Our lives are charted by our discoveries...we spend countless years searching for secrets that elude us, but which have inhabited the earth for millennia. We uncover what has always been there, and in our discoveries our lives somehow become enriched. We find lost pieces of ourselves, like parts of a puzzle we may never solve, but which still make us more complete than when we began. Sometimes the truth is more elusive than it need be. It may have been staring us in the face for eons, only to be revealed in a moment of happy coincidence. At times like this, it's hard to maintain a veneer of scientific professionalism; one suspects the hand of God. Perhaps, in this sense, my discovery can be called scientific. Looking for that long moment into Mulder's dark eyes, I am transported to another time, to very different circumstances. The night I sat with Peggy as she lay dying was one of the darkest of my life. I held her hand, trying to offer some solace, even as I seemed to be the sole witness to my own eventual demise. She never understood why her life was ending, how it might have been prevented, but that seemed to me to be the bliss of ignorance. I could only imagine my own last months, lying in an anonymous hospital bed in full knowledge of the futility of my death. Despair claimed me then, and I sat next to her silently shedding hot tears for us both. Lost in my thoughts, I had to rouse myself when Mulder burst into the room. I turned to him, but I could barely see him through the haze of my fear and frustration. Something in his strange eyes caught my attention, but only for the briefest of moments. I telegraphed anxiety, worry, and sorrow in mine, and he nodded, withdrawing in respectful silence. I hadn't thought about that night in years, but looking into Mulder's eyes tonight, I realize that I have witnessed that same strange glance again. In it I find hope...and fear. Worry and expectation. Happiness and despair. Love and fruitless longing. Or perhaps it's only myself reflected in the bottomless depths of his piercing gaze, because, in his eyes, I have discovered my love for Mulder. Not love invented in the space of a shared glance; this is love that had been with me for as long as I can remember. It has long masqueraded as lust, but that cannot alter its true nature. It is me, as much as anything else I am, and in this realization comes a fuller sense of being. *You made me a whole person* He told me that once, but, as always, I got distracted. Only now do I feel the truth of his words. A piece of the puzzle that is my life falls seamlessly, without ceremony, into place, and I can only wonder that I never saw it before. Patterned predictability guides me through the next hour or so. As I listen for Mulder's footsteps outside our rooms, I prepare myself for bed, all the while knowing that I will not sleep tonight. I step into the cascading water of a hot shower; I turn my face to the steamy jets, and behind closed eyes I see Mulder. His face turns to mine in comfort, his eyes search mine for signs of trust, of faith in his quest. His voice soothes me, irritates me, prods and pokes me into action, and I find love lurking there. Opening my eyes, I sigh. I take the small bar of motel soap and coax a frothy lather into existence. The silky suds slide over my skin, suggesting Mulder's hands. My eyes close again as I moan, so softly, imagining his fingers sliding over my hard nipples...tweaking them gently before he slips them into his hungry mouth. My hands slide lower...and in my mind his tongue is claiming parts of me that have always been his. Bracing myself with one hand on the cold tile of the shower wall, I part my legs and slip my fingers between them. They are Mulder, his tongue, his hand, his impatient cock, begging to let him make me his own. I oblige; my moans grow louder as his phantom body makes sweet love to me. My pleasure mounts...his arms hold me and my hands caress his hair...my fingers brush across his chest...our bruised lips meet and our tongues slide together as his hard cock fills me. I cry out, and the echo of my passion startles me. I try to silence my voice, biting gently into my arm, but delirious sensations overwhelm me and I give myself up to them... One long shower later, I emerge from the shabby bathroom in a cloud of steam, only to hear muffled movement coming from the next room. Climbing into bed, my silky pajamas clinging to my damp, fevered skin, I turn out the light and listen to elusive love. But the darkness beckons unwelcome worries. Tonight I belong to Mulder, but what about tomorrow? What if I misunderstand the message in his eyes...what if this is a sick fantasy destined to tear us apart? I don't know how I can go back; I've forgotten how to play the part of passionless Dana Scully. Discoveries, no matter how dangerous, cannot be unmade. As I lie in bed, listening to the soft sound of Mulder's feet traversing the worn carpet, I can't help but wonder what the morning will bring. *** I returned to the motel no worse for wear. Running always calms my nerves, and I even managed to make it through my door with only a cursory glance at Scully's window. I decided to jump in the shower; I hoped a quick once-over might help wash away any lingering confusion, allowing me to look Scully in the eye come tomorrow morning. All was almost well with the world until I got into the bathroom. The sound of running water should have tipped me off, but it wasn't until I closed the bathroom door that I realized what it was and where it was coming from. I think I blushed; I don't know for sure because, suddenly, I couldn't look at my reflection in the mirror, unable to bear the tortured expression I knew I would find there. The walls of old motels must be made of cardboard, because, as I stood naked in the small bathroom, my feet glued to the small floor tiles, I heard a sound that was at once the answer to my most fervent prayers and a siren song calling me to my doom. I heard *Scully*...moaning in an ecstasy of pleasure. Her soft sighs sent proverbial shivers down my spine. My skin puckered in electric goosebumps...my nipples grew hard, and my cock twitched in response to her growing cries. You might think that, after years of traveling together, this wouldn't have been the first time that such sounds reached my eager ears. But, then, you don't know Scully. I always assumed that she took care of her...biological needs...the same way as the rest of us celibates; but I also knew that she was far too discreet to ever be vocal about it. Occasionally, when our beds backed to the same wall, I thought I heard hers bumping gently against it. The increasing tempo was the stuff of my lullabies, but, in the morning, I could never be sure of what I heard, and I always wound up convincing myself that it had been my imagination. But this...these wanton cries were no hallucination. I stood riveted as her sighs grew deeper, more urgent. My body rocked gently as I listened, and I reached out to balance myself, gripping the towel bar with one hand as the other wrapped itself around my aching cock. Closing my eyes, I stroked my throbbing flesh in time to her panting voice, all the while imagining her legs wrapped around my waist, my cock pumping deep within her wet, downy folds. Her voice reached a fevered pitch. I bit my lower lip, groaning softly as she gasped, crying out in a long, low moan, and my hips jerked as I felt my own release... Eventually I opened my eyes, a soft, shaky sigh escaping my lips. Only then did I look into the mirror; staring back at me was a man whose passion could no longer be denied. Studying the dark eyes of this man for awhile, I came to a decision that might spell the end of everything I valued in my life. Scully had given me her phone number. It was time I called. *** HIDEY-HO MOTOR LODGE SOMEWHERE IN IDAHO FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER But first I had to have a drink. It was probably the oddest little nowhere motel I had ever stayed in. Old, cheap, and sleazy in so many ways, and yet it had the most well-stocked mini-fridge I'd ever seen in my many travels. Of course, I'd seen the town earlier in the day; if I had to live here, I think booze might be one of my main staples, too. I pulled a couple of little bottles of scotch out, grabbed one of the flimsy plastic glasses, watered down the scotch a little less than usual (I think I sort-of splashed water in the general direction of the cup), and downed it in one gulp. One more time. There. Now I felt better. Or, at least, my hands had stopped sweating and I figured I could *probably* talk without my voice quivering too noticeably. This was important if I was going to pull off what I had planned. Although, honestly, I didn't think I had an ice cube's chance in hell of doing it; I figured Scully would answer, recognize my voice, assume I was calling about the case, and we'd be back at square one. Never-ending frustration 1, Resolution 0. I sat on the rickety bed and turned out the light. Peeking under the dividing door, I saw that Scully had also turned out her light; great, I was probably going to wake her up, too, so that when she heard my voice, knew it was me, and assumed I was calling about the case, she'd be pissed. Chalk up another point for Frustration. *Just do it* In fact, it didn't take much persuading. The scotch, far from erasing my earlier arousal, had actually stoked the fire, and all I could see in the dark was the image of Scully, pleasuring herself in the dingy shower next door. It made me hungry for more, fueling my less-than-prudent actions. Swallowing, I picked up the receiver of the motel room phone and dialed her cell phone. I don't think my fingers shook *too* much. I came close to hanging up when I heard her phone begin to ring in the room next door. My heart pounded in my chest as it rang once, twice...and I swallowed again as I heard the familiar electronic *beep* of the phone being picked up. "H-hello?" I could hear Scully's voice both in the receiver and echoing softly from the next room. This wasn't the woman who was piercing clarity and determination during the day; she was hesitant, and I took heart. Closing my eyes, I took a quick swig of my third drink and opened my mouth to speak. *** Once, when I was a girl, my class was called into chapel. I hated chapel; usually a lot of talk about rules and propriety, with a bit of "Kumbayah" on the side...but this day was different. Sister Katherine, who taught science, was standing at the front of the small room holding a large beaker filled with a clear blue liquid, covering the opening with her other hand. She stood tall and silent until we grew quiet, and then spoke to us in her soft voice. "Today, instead of our usual chapel service, I wanted to share something special with you all. I was mixing chemicals in lab earlier and came upon the most wonderful concoction. Can anyone guess what it might be?" We threw out ideas. Most were of the usual junior high variety: toilet-bowl cleaner, blue pee, and so on. Sister Katherine, the *cool* nun, listened, laughing, before she said, "Well, why don't I just show you. Now, watch out; this is strong stuff. When I take my hand off the top of this beaker, the most amazing odor is going to fill this room." We leaned forward eagerly. I was sitting in one of the back pews, chatting with my friends about what the solution might be; in junior high, you still care about what your teachers might want to impress you with. Sister Katherine removed her hand, and confused cries arose from the front of the room. A voice called out "peppermint!" and kids in back rows leaned forward a little further, noses in the air, hoping to catch a whiff. I was no exception; I leaned forward, sniffing the cool air with all my might until, finally, I caught the *lightest* scent of peppermint. I smelled it; it was real, and it began to fill the room. Capping the beaker, Sister Katherine set it down on a table behind her; when she turned back to face us, her expression was serious. "Can you tell me what it was?" she asked, and voices in the front called out, "Peppermint!" She shook her head. "This is water with blue food coloring. Your minds only thought it was peppermint, because your friends told you it was." The lesson I took away was probably not the one she had intended. Sister Katherine was worried about our impressionable minds and how secular soociety might lead us astray. *I* marveled at how powerful the human mind was, how it could create reality from nothing, how it could play tricks on us, teasing us with our hopes and desires. Which is a roundabout way of explaining why I hear what I hear when I answer my cell phone, chirping away in the darkness. "H-hello," I answer. I'm suddenly reminded that my phone number has been floating around in cyberspace for the past few hours, and I experience more than a little apprehension. A deliciously low, dangerously soft voice murmurs, "G-woman. It's me." It's Apollo...but the voice that fills my ears is Mulder's. My hunger for him has conjured his electronic doppelganger, and I feel myself instantly growing wet again. I close my eyes, and, in a low voice, I reply, "Hello." *** I came to the point. "What are you wearing right now?" No explanations, no apologies. I had to be in control here...I needed to assert my intentions from the start, or I knew she'd never go along with me. At first she didn't answer. In my mind, I saw her weighing her options. When the silence lingered between us for just a beat too long, I assumed she'd hang up, and that I'd be left here in the dark, dick in hand, waiting for the morning sun to burn my tortured love to a crisp. Instead, she whispered huskily, "Nothing." "Liar. Try it again, and make sure you tell the truth this time." Actually, I had no idea if she was telling the truth or not; the desire to dominate her simply overpowered me. I wanted to see how far this new Scully would go with her invisible lover...we'd played such games online, but this was entirely different. She paused, and I could picture her considering her next move. My heart pounded in the darkness; I licked my parched lips, swallowing my nervousness as I waited for her. "Pajamas," she murmured penitently. "That's better. Tell me what kind..." My hand crept to my growing cock as I imagined her laying back in her bed next door. "S-silk. Buttoned top...long sleeves...baby blue..." Her voice had grown deeper, softer. I pictured her whispering into her small phone, her pink lips barely brushing against it...and I felt my cock twitch in response to the vision. "Unbutton the top...I want you to touch your..." I swallowed hard- "breasts...tell me how they look and feel..." She hesitated. "I-" "Do it." *** I don't even know this man...this phantom...and here I am, unbuttoning my pajama blouse...sliding my free hand inside and caressing my nipples with my fingers. "Talk to me." *His* voice...and I obey. "T-they're...my breasts are soft...my nipples..." I can hear him breathing on the other end of the phone...softly edgy sighs...as he listens to me. I see Mulder in my mind's eye, laying back on his bed, cock in hand, slowly stroking himself, and a sigh of my own issues, uninvited, from my swelling lips. "Go on..." Apollo's voice is somewhere between a plea and a command. "My nipples...are hard...aching..." He pauses briefly; I close my eyes in this moment and now Mulder is in the dark with me, his slender fingers sliding over my breasts, cupping them...gently tweaking my nipples. My hand becomes his, and I tease them... "Take off your top. Play with your nipples...tell me how it feels..." he whispers in a low growl. I slide the soft silk off my shoulders, tossing it aside as I lay back on the bed, my fingers pinching...kneading... *** My eyes are closed and all I see is Scully, her flaming hair spread on the pillow, her small hand dancing over her beautiful pale pink nipples. I feel myself stiffen as I listen for her voice, aching to hear her pleasure. "They...my nipples are sensitive...touching them...feels good everywhere on my body..." I lick my lips and whisper hoarsely, "Good. Pinch them for me..." "Yesssss"...a soft Scully sigh, and I find myself stroking my own nipples lightly, aching to nibble on hers until her cries fill my ears. "Take off those pajama bottoms...are you wearing panties?" A pause. Then she replies softly, "Yes...they're wet...dripping...for you..." Oh god. My thumb slides over the engorged head of my hard cock as I imagine sliding her panties down her slender legs, then burying my tongue in her hot, steamy pussy. "Take them off, NOW," I growl. I hear the crisp sheets crinkle through the phone as she removes her panties, and I know I have to be closer. Picking up the phone, I stand and walk to the dividing door. Resting the phone on the floor, I lean with my back against it, stroking my throbbing cock. "They're off..." she whispers, and I hear a low purr in her voice. Oh Scully... *** I lie there naked on top of the sheets, the fingers of my free hand tentatively slipping through the curly hair covering my clit. I can feel myself growing wetter and wetter as I listen to Apollo's commands...little drops of my pleasure sprinkled over my soft folds. "You're wet," he tells me, and the assurance in his voice makes me tingle. "Yes..." "Touch your pussy lips...tell me how they feel..." My hand explores. "Soft...silky..." His breath turns ragged. "Slide a finger deep inside your pussy..." he whispers. Still Mulder's voice, the one I've imagined in my late-night fantasies. I ache for this voice to belong to him and abandon myself further to my hallucination. "Yes..." I reply as one finger slips inside my fevered pussy. My hips begin to rock as I imagine Mulder pleasuring me...I whimper softly and Apollo seems to match my breaths with his own soft panting. We continue this way for several moments, each lost in our own imaginations. His quickening sighs goad me on, and I hear myself vocalizing my pleasure...secretly hoping that Mulder, ensconced in the next room, will hear my mounting cries. *** God, I can't take this...Scully's voice, softly crying out in delicious pleasure, fills my ears. I hear her on the tinny phone, richly vibrant through the thin door separating us, and all I want to do is take her, make her mine. My voice quivering uncontrollably, I manage to groan, "Touch your clit...make yourself cum for me..." "Yesss...yesss..." Her soft cries increase, fueling my own fire as I grip and stroke my cock. My balls begin to tighten, and I hear myself begging Scully, "Give me my name...call out my name..." Panting, Scully whispers, "I don't know your name..." Another soft gasp punctuates her confusion. I growl, needing her. "You know my name...call to me and I'll come..." My own groans grow louder. I don't care if she hears anymore...I need to feel her small, soft legs wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer, deeper. She begins to moan...her release so close. I'm wild with desire and my moans match hers. "Mmmmmmmm..." *** I can't stop it...I can't hold it back...I want him, only him... "Mmmmm...Mulder..." I groan. The disembodied voice on the other end of the line pleads with me. "Yes, that's it...call to me, call to me, Scully..." I'm too far gone to know if this is dream or reality. My aching pussy grips my small finger as waves of delirious ecstasy begin to wash over me. My back arches...gasping, I cry out my desire. "Mulderrrr!!!" Somewhere I hear his voice, groaning, panting, calling to me. "Oh god...S-Scullyyyy...Scullyscullyscully..." We are each lost in our own delirium. Long moments pass before my senses return. I lie on the bed trying to catch my breath, and it's then that I realize what I've been crying out. A knock comes on the dividing door. I freeze and, in a moment of panic, unthinkingly switch my phone off. Another knock, and my heart catches. "Scully." Mulder's voice. I imagine it accusing me, his glance grim and unforgiving. Have I breached our trust? The passion in my cries was unmistakable. I remain silent, but tiptoe to the door, leaning close to hear him. "Scully," he calls again, softly. His next dusky syllables fall on incredulous ears. "I told you...if you called me, I would come." I swallow and reach for my pajama top. Wrapping it around me, I slowly unlock the dividing door. Mulder is there. His hair has fallen, tousled, into his eyes. His lips...those luscious lips...are red and swollen. His cock...soft now, but showing signs of re-awakening. But what I see are his eyes. At once shy and bold, seeking out mine in desperate need, in longing love. My breath catches, and I realize I am returning his gaze in full measure. I step closer, and his body weaves so slightly. I slip my arms around his waist, and rest my head on his chest. I've done this so many times before, but only now do I feel myself relenting to his embrace. His arms hold me, his lips kissing my hair as he whispers my name over and over, softly caressing me with his voice. I look up at him and my gaze is sorrowful. "Mulder...I'm so sorry...I didn't know..." He places a single finger over my contrite lips, smiling softly as he silences me. "Hush. You do now. We both do." We stand there together in the dark, the doorway framing us. Then he draws me inside his room and closes the door behind us. *finis*