TITLE: Scent of a Woman II--The Nest 
AUTHOR: Terma99 
EMAIL: terma99@aol.com 
DISTRIBUTION: Gossamer, Xemplary-YES! 
Anywhere else-YES! But be kind and let me know!! 
SPOILERS: Triangle/Dreamland/Monday 
RATING: NC-17 for "suppressed erotic fantasies" 
CLASSIFICATION: UST/MSR, H 
SUMMARY: Scully makes herself at home in Mulder's lair. 
Part two of Scent of a Woman. 
POST DATE: 3/11/99 

MY NOTES: This is part II for a four part MSR called "Scent of 
a Woman." Please read stories in order for maximum "effect." 
To find missing installments, visit: 
www.geocities.com/hotsprings/8334/fic.html. 

SPECIAL THANKS: to my fab beta babes: Sue, Dasha, Kelley and 
Deb (who knows a lot about guns, BTW). Without them, this 
whole thing would read like one run-on sentence. And to all 
the Scent-I readers who bribed, begged and threatened me to get 
on with it already! 

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Dana Scully, but tonight she's glad I at 
least control her mind. All regards to 1013, FOX, and such 
for providing the fodder for my dirty little mind. 

FEEDBACK: Slap me silly!! 
Terma99@aol.com 
  
Scent of a Woman-II 
The Nest 
by Terma99 
  
Dana Scully sighed and unharnessed her overnight bag from 
her shoulder, setting the soggy paper sack clutched in her left 
hand down on the floor in front of apartment 42 in an effort to 
stage a new attack against Mulder's impertinent front door. 
The abused block of wood was not much for helping a tired, 
slightly fumigated FBI woman wrangle the lock into submission. 
Her hands free, Scully jiggled her keys again and got a firmer grip 
on the one labeled "Mulder," as if she'd forget the greenish bent 
key was his any time soon. With some struggling, she fit it in the 
lock and wrenched the knob while applying a sidelong kick to 
the edge of the bottom panel as she had seen Mulder do on 
occasion. The pressboard groaned and wobbled open. Entrance 
was granted. 

Scully gathered her bags and slipped into the cold, darkened 
space, fumbling with her free hand for the light switch. She flicked 
it. Nothing. Dead bulb. Another sigh escaped her and she 
abandoned her baggage once again, stumbling cautiously forward 
--not a little concerned some Fed-eating mutant might be laying 
in wait just ahead--until her ankle made sharp contact with the 
leg of Mulder's sidetable. Painful, but at least she knew where 
she was. With a turn of the switch, the little green table lamp 
came to life, illuminating the apartment to the best of its dim 
40-watt ability. 

Using reverse psychology on the door, she managed to succeed 
in closing and locking it. Picking up her warm, moist-bottomed 
bag, she headed for the kitchen, turning on lights as she went. 
Tonight's dinner, as she pulled it out onto the counter, consisted 
of Giovanni's best marinara primavera with fresh grated Parmesan, 
a duet of fluffy breadsticks, and for a special treat, a plastic tin 
of tiramisu. She opened the foil breadstick bag and let the 
garlicky steam fill her nose. Her mouth had been watering for 
the last half hour as she drove over from the restaurant to 
her makeshift lodgings for the evening. It was a dinner pick-up 
and drive she had made many times before, except this time 
she didn't have to keep an eye out for a big sneaky hand 
pilfering her breadsticks while she slurped down her pasta. 
She almost always lost half her food when she ate with Mulder. 

After popping the lid off her entree, she gingerly dug around for 
the bag's final contents--lifting out the drippy soda cup, straw, and 
a now permanently fused wet set of napkins. Scully wasn't one 
to normally order a drink to go for this very reason, but 
experience had taught her not to tempt fate with the sparse 
and often frightening contents of Mulder's fridge. She'd also 
taken the precaution of picking up a large bottle of Evian given 
the notorious tap water hazards one could expect from this 
building. Eating a meal at Mulder's was like traveling to a third 
world country. 

Preparing herself for the horrors that lay ahead, she jerked 
his refrigerator door open to find the contents surprisingly tame: 
two beers, an empty bottle of juice, some kind of barbecue sauce, 
a box of baking soda, and a single orphaned egg, lying on its side 
in the door rack. Nearly deserted, but at least its occupants 
weren't walking on their own yet. She set her dessert in to chill 
for later and closed the door. 

Scully popped a breadstick in her mouth as she dragged 
open Mulder's silverware drawer and selected a fork with 
reasonably straight tines. In the first cupboard she rescued a 
solo blue plastic tumbler from a ring of dinged mugs with "Eat 
at Eddie's" logos on their sides. So maybe as the years had passed 
Mulder's apartment had upgraded itself to the second world, but 
still, it appeared to be a country where its citizens had to resort 
to smuggling dinnerware from various late-night diners. It was 
a good thing Mulder didn't entertain much. She poured the 
remaining contents of her soda into the tumbler, and tearing off 
a few paper towels, carried her meal out to the coffee table. 

The low table was scattered with psychology journals, various 
issues of Discover, TV Guide, Sports Illustrated, Scientific 
American, and something with a busty wench on the cover that 
she quickly slipped under the more socially acceptable periodicals. 
Parting the paper sea, she set her dinner in the center and 
re-arranged the magazines into two neat stacks. She probably 
shouldn't be fussing with his stuff, she realized, but after all, one 
had to make room to eat. She bit the rest of the way through 
the bread and stuffed the end of it into the pasta to hold it for 
a moment while she reached under her for the TV remote. 

Seventy-two channels and nothing on. Mulder didn't hesitate to 
splurge for premium sports cable she noticed, twirling her 
pasta around the fork, as she flipped past three college 
basketball games, some celebrity golf tournament, pro bowling, 
and a muddy horserace that made her wonder if her partner 
had sense enough to get in from the rain tonight. A few bites 
later she gave up on the national networks and decided to brave 
the video boxes she saw lying around the TV. 

Hmm...action flicks...most of which she wouldn't be caught 
dead waiting outside a theater for, but would certainly hold 
her interest in a captive situation such as this. Too many years 
of living alone made her habitually turn on the tube for dinner 
companionship. Mulder's livingroom was set up in a similar 
manner. From the fine dust layer on its polished surface, it 
didn't look like his dining table ever held anything finer than 
file boxes, folded laundry and paperwork. 

Rejecting the Steven Segal and subtitled Japanese films, Scully 
settled for Die Hard III, hoping she couldn't go too wrong with 
Jeremy Irons as the handsomely-desperate villain. She popped 
it in the machine and with a groan and static hiss, it came to 
life. Settling back onto the couch, she lifted her pasta tin into her 
lap, careful not to spill as she ate, pausing to take a few large gulps 
of her barely cool beverage as 65 million dollars worth of action 
got underway. 

As glucose streamed its way into her thudding brain, Scully began 
to relax. It had been one hell of a Thursday. Coming home to a 
"We're glad we sprayed your home with toxic chemicals" note 
from the building management tacked to her door and the ugly 
smell of acid-burnt eggs, was not how she had intended to start 
her evening. Ten minutes after letting herself in, she was seized 
with a coughing fit and a pounding headache that had her 
reaching for her windows and her cellphone at the same time. 
After a brief conversation with Mulder, who was arguably having 
a worse time in Kentucky than she was in Georgetown, she set 
about removing herself from the fallout zone for at least 24 hours. 

A sleepover at Mulder's. This was a new thing for her certainly, 
she thought, sponging the last of the red sauce from the bottom 
of her container with the butt of the breadstick. In the brain- 
cell-melting noxious fumes, she hadn't given the request 
much debate. Was it appropriate? She could have called her 
mother, but Mulder was about 45 minutes closer to work and 
she still had Friday to get through. With her partner out of the 
office chasing aliens with a horse-fetish (an excursion she had 
passed on--she'd seen enough exsanguinated livestock to last her 
a lifetime) she'd been saddled with a mountain of fiscal year- 
end paperwork. Just the thought of it waiting for her in the 
basement was making her subsiding headache come back with 
a fresh throb. 

Besides, as it turned out, Mulder had recently rediscovered 
his bedroom. Evidently he'd been up to some redecorating the 
last few months. She'd caught him arguing with the deliverymen 
on the phone a few weeks ago. Overhearing the words "mattress" 
and "bedroom" in the same sentence, she was sure Mulder 
was talking to his mother. But she was quite wrong, and there was 
no hope of hiding the shock on her face when he asked her to 
cover for him while he went to go let them in. Mulder and a bed. 
Two things she was certain she'd never live to see co-habitating 
under the same roof. 

Bullets were beginning to fly across the screen accompanied by 
a string of profanity as she slipped off her shoes and lay back 
into the pillows, pulling Mulder's old Indian blanket around her 
to ward off the chill the ancient heating system had yet to conquer. 
 All at once she got the sweet impression of lying back against 
his chest, the two of them wrapped in the blanket, his fingers 
lazily stroking her hair as they both laughed at this dreadful 
movie Mr. Irons was doing nothing to improve upon. 

Scully sighed as she brought the edge of the fuzzy wool to her 
nose and breathed in. He must still sleep on the couch from time 
to time because a faint hint of his aftershave remained--a wisp 
of fragrance not unlike the trace evidence he would sometimes 
leave on the lapels of her blouse or coat after a nice long hug. 

They should hug more, she thought, letting herself indulge in 
a memory of his strong arms around her, his towering form 
making her feel safe, surrounded by warmth and tenderness. 
Yes, the man knew how to hug and right now this well loved, 
tattered blanket he crawled under to sleep at night was providing 
a fine simulation. 
  
*********************************************** 
  
The next thing she knew, she woke with a start as the blank signal 
at the end of the tape began to whine, nagging to be rewound. 
Scully fought with the myriad buttons on the remote until she 
succeeded in silencing the player, and lay back with a yawn, 
rubbing her forehead. She must have been more tired than 
she thought. Looking up over her head she eyed the light fixture 
and wondered if Mulder was bullshitting her about the 
surveillance hole. She'd better not press her luck; the last thing 
she wanted that black lunged sonovabitch to have was live video 
of her drooling on her partner's couch. So she roused and tossed 
out her dinner tins and rinsed and put her and Mulder's 
leftover dishes in the washer; came back out and fed the fish, 
double checked the deadbolt, shut off the lights, and headed to 
the bedroom. 

Impressive, she thought, turning on the bedroom light and 
eyeing the new maple and rosewood furnishings. Very nice 
indeed. How odd that Mulder was strangely evasive and shy 
about the project. He would joke and claim it was an act of God 
or something, that he'd finally unearthed this room from the 
mounds of squirreled paranormal paraphernalia and made 
it habitable. He wouldn't let her have more than an accidental 
peek the one time she'd stopped by since the mattress call. 
It surprised her now that she was able to get a good look at it. 
It was pretty cozy, certainly not a manner in which your 
average professional bachelor would have settled himself. 
She liked it--a lot. 

Scully walked slowly about the room running her fingertips along 
the polished surfaces, awed by the size of the new Sony wide- 
screen television set (why the heck was the VCR still attached to 
the old one?) with a digital sound system and eight level duel 
CD racks. Quite the state of the art. New bookshelves, dressers, 
bedside table...and then there was the bed. It was huge. She 
approached it cautiously, admiring the tall dark mahogany 
bedposts and, oh my, reflective tiles? She peeked gingerly under 
the canopy again. A mirror? Well it seemed not all the bachelor 
had washed out in Mulder's old age, she thought with a smile. It 
was right in step with his billiard ball coat rack, dart board and 
running shoes sitting in the middle of the floor. 

Where'd he get the money for all this? she wondered. 
And why now? Was he preparing for something? Someone? 
She swallowed nervously, glancing about the room and was 
startled by a small image of herself standing framed on 
Mulder's new dresser. When did he get that? She stepped in 
for a closer look, tilting the frame toward her. 

Was that the...oh no...and he says he's not a Freudian. It was a 
picture of her holding a Nerf football near the Washington 
Monument at last year's ridiculous FBI On the Green barbecue. 
Well, she did look rather nice in it despite the looming phallus. 
The rest of the photographs were of family and, of course, 
Samantha and him as kids. He did make a pretty cute twelve-year 
old--all gangly limbs and too much nose. No other unrelated 
adult females graced his dressertop. Maybe he was feathering 
his nest for someone she knew a little too well. The thought 
made her feel both hopeful and uneasy. 

Picking up his running shoes before she tripped over them, 
Scully carried them over to the closet and slid the door open, 
uncovering his cultivated collection of fine, pressed suits 
carefully hung by hue from dark charcoals and grays to blues 
to that striking pin-stripe number he hadn't worn in years. 
She assumed it had been destroyed by one too many encounters 
with spectral ectoplasm or runaway RVs. She rather enjoyed 
him in pinstripes, she thought, running her hand up the 
expensive Italian wool, letting her fingers slip under the lapels 
as if she were able to touch him briefly over 800 miles away. 

She missed him of all things, she realized. Not even three days 
had passed in the reclaimed cavern of their office without 
his lumbering presence and she was already counting the hours 
until his return. He'd be back tomorrow, she reminded herself. 
And tomorrow was Friday--prime excuse for a 5PM display 
of affection. The kisses they had begun to share were tender 
and brief, like trying to sip at the rim of a cup of fresh coffee, 
fearful of getting burned, but dying for a good hot swallow. 
Maybe they should try blowing on each other first, she thought 
with a snort, patting his suitcoat back into place. Still, it was nice 
and she hadn't gotten one in a while. With a little luck, maybe 
he'd call her to come pick him up at the airport. She wondered 
what Mulder would think of that, getting planted with a big 
smack in such a public setting as he walked off the plane. It 
made her lips curve at the thought. 

Shutting the closet to keep out midnight visitors, she unpacked 
her toiletries and pajamas and headed into the shower. She 
cranked on the old knobs and slipped out of her clothes while 
the water heated, steam quickly filling the little room. Scully 
stepped in and stood under the hot spray, letting the water work 
into her stiffened shoulders and neck, flowing forward down 
over her breasts and hips. Mulder had a wonderful showerhead, 
and she reached back to help the pulsing water knead the last 
traces of the chemically induced ache from the base of her cranium. 

Scully could figure on one hand the number of times she'd 
had someone do this for her in the last five years. Not counting 
her mother, the tally included a weekend spa gift certificate 
she'd won at the last Bureau softball team raffle and one 
brief encounter with Mulder's long strong fingers, about one 
year, three months, and twenty seven days ago. God, she'd 
practically melted in his hands as they'd molded around the 
nape of her neck, losing all resistance and embarrassing them 
both with a unmistakable moan--which cut the whole thing 
off pretty fast--Mulder mumbling shyly about needing to go 
make a call or something, leaving her to ride out her blush in 
blessed privacy. 

Although they were cautious around one another physically, 
the truth of the matter was, abstinence only made occasional 
physical spontaneity all that more awkward and charged for 
them. Scully often found herself pining for the early days 
when Mulder's solicitousness was unbound and the innuendo 
flowed freely. It was easier then, they laughed more, he was 
closer in many ways, yet at the same time more distant. Their 
relationship, or whatever one would call it, was still evolving, 
but at an agonizing geological pace. Seeing as they had 
recently mastered the act of kissing one another without 
exploding into bits, maybe she could ask him for a little 
neck rub now and again--hoist their intimacy status up 
one more rung. My, but she was getting brave in her old age. 

Scully helped herself to some greenish soap and applied her 
own set of travel shampoo and conditioner to her head. Taking 
her time to rinse, she enjoyed the simple sensuality of Mulder's 
shower until the water began to cool. 
  
**************************************** 

Twenty minutes later found her clean, dry, lotioned, and clad in 
silky blue longsleeved pajamas, sitting cross-legged on top of 
Mulder's bedspread, nibbling at her tiramisu from the back of 
the fork, idly flipping through the late night talkshow selections 
playing across the huge TV screen. On the bed in front of her was 
an old issue of Omni she'd picked off of the bookshelf from 
between Mulder's collection of best sellers, the complete 
paperback works of Carl Sagan, and the largest encyclopedia 
of unexplained mysteries she had ever seen published. 

She was amused to find this issue carried a special feature 
penned by one M. F. Luder that she was now leisurely perusing. 
One eye on Jay Leno and the other on the magazine, she took 
another bite of her dessert, savoring the dark coffee and rum 
soaked cakes and sweet mascarpone cheese on her tongue like a 
rich deep kiss. Not that she'd had one of those lately, either. 
She collected a few shavings of chocolate with her damp 
fingertip, sucking it into her mouth as she read. 

"The alien abduction phenomenon is a message warning modern 
man to accept his status in the ancient heart of the universe." 
Oh brother. You've come a long way, Mulder, she thought, 
flipping the magazine closed and setting it on the sidetable. He 
had changed quite a bit she had to admit--it wasn't just the 
bedroom. He did seem to travel a league closer to shore each 
year, while she got an almost equal distance further out along 
the continuum of their bi-polar rationales. Maybe it was about 
time they met at the beach. She tapped her fork on the plate 
considering...no, best not go there tonight. Not while she was 
sleeping in his damn bed. And she picked up the rest of her 
chocolate and rum decadence and walked it back to the 
kitchen to save it for Mulder. 

Returning to the bed, teeth brushed and minty, Scully pulled 
back the fresh covers and sorted the pillows. Checking the alarm, 
she shut off the lights and settled down on her back while 
Leno introduced some leggy model with silicon for both breasts 
and brains. Three minutes of vacuous conversation and Scully 
was beginning to nod off. She hit the power button and rolled 
over onto her side. Distractions dismissed, and the inhibition 
of drowsiness upon her, she allowed herself to wonder what it 
would feel like if he just simply came home some time tonight 
and slipped in next to her, waking her with a long, delicious 
tiramisu kiss. 
  
*********************************** 
  
An echoing thud and the rattling of wood woke her suddenly. 
In the darkness, her heart was already pounding. The goddamn 
front door--someone was breaking in. She heard it groaning and 
she was on her feet, hands in her overnight bag, searching for 
her weapon. She pulled it from the holster and walked silently to 
the bedroom doorway, peering around the corner into the 
inky blackness of the hallway. Silence. Not a sound save the 
eventual thunk as the door swung lightly back against the jam. 
Who the hell was it? Consortium henchmen? Men in black? She 
could hear nothing. 

Taking a defensive stance, Scully inched along the hallway to 
the light switch and flicked it quickly. Nothing. Dead bulb. Fuck. 
Her Quantico training took over: 

"Federal agent! I'm armed. Raise your hands and step back 
toward the front door." 

More silence. She moved forward until she could see the rim of 
light around the edges of the jarred door--she hadn't imagined it-- 
it was open just a crack. All at once she was hit from the side. 
Hands grabbed her firing arm and in one clean move disarmed 
her and knocked her to the floor. Falling backwards, Scully's 
ankle made contact with the sidetable. Painful. But not enough 
to keep her from delivering a swift kick to her shadowy 
assailant's side. The effort was futile for in another second she 
felt the cold muzzle of her Sig against the side of her head. 
The intruder was breathing heavily over her as he fumbled 
with the switch on the small green table lamp. 

"Scully?" 

"Mulder!" 

And she was awake, sitting up in the darkness of his bedroom 
scrambling to turn on the bed-side lamp, her breath racing from 
her chest, fingers flying to her temple where she swore she 
could still feel the cold press of her own weapon against her skin. 
She was shaking badly and flushed, shifting uncomfortably as 
damp hot flesh met the silk of her crotch--she was extremely, 
undeniably aroused. With a whimper, she fell back against the 
pillows and dug an impatient hand into the bottom of her 
pajamas, cupping the swollen lips in her hand. She was hot and 
wet and her traitorous little clitoris was screaming for attention. 
She was in no state to reason with it and ran the length of her 
middle finger along it, moaning at the touch. She always did 
manage to wake up before the good part. She closed her eyes as 
her fingers began to fondle her needy flesh and let the images of 
her dream reconnect and continue in a lucid state of half- 
consciousness. 

The first to go was the gun, safety locked and spun across the 
floor. Then she reached for him and his beautiful stricken face 
and turned their mutual shock into desire with a long, hard kiss. 
Mouths open and hungry, they kissed without restraint, 
pressing hard and sliding lips over tongues--tasting, touching, 
searching. Mulder slid forward over her, letting his weight press 
her into the hard floor as he held her face, whispering her name 
over and over in a mixture of contrition and love as he set his 
mouth to her chin and neck accentuated by rough little nips. 

Good, that would be so good, she thought, as her hand, slick with 
her arousal, parted her inner lips and slid with just enough 
pressure against the hooded edge of her clit, sending a thunderbolt 
of sensation down her spine. She wanted him to come unhinged, 
lose that cool exterior, get a little rough with her in a desperate 
need to crawl inside her for once and forever. She wanted to feel 
him lifting her up with strong arms and moving her where he 
wanted her, bringing her up onto her knees in front of him, her 
back against his chest--held fast by his long strong arm, while 
his free hand began to knead her breasts against the silk of her 
top, bringing her nipples to hard little points that she could feel 
in her own palm while her other hand remained below, sliding 
over her swollen tissues with nimble practiced fingers. 

Kneeling on the floor between his thighs she could imagine 
herself pinned against him, one hand over her bared belly, the 
other tangled in her hair as he tipped her head back and traced 
the curve of her ear with his tongue. "Tell me, Scully," he'd 
whisper low and rough. "Tell me what you want." 

She'd want what she could feel pressing urgently through the 
denim of his crotch, impatiently nudging into the small of her 
back. She'd try to find her voice through the heaving of her breath. 
"I want..." she'd begin, as his hand moved from her stomach to 
the curve of her tilted throat, his teeth closing on her tender 
earlobe. 

"What?" he'd sneer, running his tongue behind her lobe. 

"I want you to take what I've denied you for so long." 

He'd groan, and rising to his feet, pull her up, dragging the silk 
from her shoulders so that she'd stand half naked before him-- 
the predatory look in his eyes bringing her over into complete 
recklessness. In a second, they'd clash into a battle of furious 
mouths and hands, stumbling backwards toward the bedroom. 
They'd make it in the doorway and fall into a tumble of greedy 
limbs and half shed clothing, rolling and crawling across the floor 
like a couple of dogs, collapsing into the rug. 

Lips and teeth would seek nipples, breasts and tender skin, 
sucking licking, and biting in a feeding frenzy of pleasure and 
pain. She have his fly down and the hot tip of his cock between 
her lips before he'd unfastened her pajamas as he would struggle 
to do with frustrated fingers, while fighting with his hips to 
wriggle out of his jeans. She'd free him and he'd fall onto his 
side where head to hip, she'd lick and kiss and suck his hardness 
for everything she was worth. Somewhere below or above he'd 
unslip the satin buttons denying him access to her sex and in 
one fluid tug leave her suddenly naked, moist and shivering in 
the darkness, until the warmth of his lips closed over her labia 
and the rough drag of his tongue sought and conquered her 
swollen clit. 

Fastened to one another they'd reel in pure sensation adjusting 
and flowing easily into synchronization, matching need to intensity 
in fits and starts and jointly falling into plateaus of sustained 
pleasure--caught in a maelstrom of unhinged lust. She'd tighten 
and quiver and he'd swell and pulse under each other's hungry 
mouths and together they'd muffle the cries of release in each 
other's sex as six long years of denial came to fruition in a 
sudden violent exchange of sweat, wetness and come. 

With a noisy gasp, Scully lay back and slid her cramping fingers 
from between her slickened thighs, waiting for the pounding in 
her heart and the contractions in her core to subside. A strange, 
wild-eyed woman was watching her from above, as she caught 
her breath and waited for her head to clear. What the hell was 
that all about? In her rush to fuck Mulder, she'd forgotten to 
fuck Mulder. And the gun and the crawling and biting? 
What ever happened to sweet and tender lovemaking? Even in 
her dreams she couldn't wait ten minutes to dig into his pants. 
Maybe this is what happens to the psyche when it's left 
unattended for so long--sexual tension gone rabid. 

God, she was drenched. She really didn't want to leave any 
trace evidence in the bed, so she forced herself to struggle to 
her weakened legs and limp into the bathroom. Under the 
soothing run of warm water, she cleaned herself with 
dampened toilet tissue, gingerly wiping around her overtaxed 
nerves. And in an unexpected rush of haywire emotions, found 
herself emitting a few stray, confused tears as she flushed the 
toilet. Not wanting to face the shattered mess of herself in the 
mirror, she blew her nose and wiped her eyes with a wad of 
kleenex, tossing it in the trash. Grabbing the box, she flipped 
off the light and turned on the perfectly operational hallway 
light. Trudging down the hall, Scully re-inspected the deadbolt, 
and pausing to yank his blanket from off the couch, headed back 
to bed where she wrapped it tightly around her and huddled 
back under the covers. 

Nestled once again in his scent, with the light from the hallway 
expelling the voids, she felt herself calm and take comfort in 
his surrogate closeness. Closing her eyes, she could already hear 
her therapist's calm, detached voice delivering her logical 
analysis. "Let's see, you've experienced intense, vivid sexual 
fantasies while bringing yourself to climax in your partner's 
bed. Dana, this is perfectly normal for a woman at her sexual 
peak who hasn't experienced relations with a man (or anyone 
else for that matter) in how many years?" 

Sure, perfectly normal people adopt celibacy in exchange for 
secret government conspiracies and extraterrestrial intrigue 
every day. Did she really need to pay someone $90 an hour to be 
told she needed to get laid? No. That wasn't so hard to figure out. 
She was not denying the need, she was denying the vehicle-- 
Mulder. So what was the problem? He was trustworthy, sincere, 
kind, loving--certainly to her--not hard on the eyes, and, if 
memory served, furnished with a fine set of equipment for the 
job. And if she could allow herself to believe it, in love with her 
too. He'd even told her as much, and only now, lying in his bed 
blowing her nose through his kleenex box, cuddling his blanket 
like a newborn, did she finally let it into her head. "I love you," 
he'd said, clear as day. And what did she do? Rolled her eyes 
and walked out of the room. God, she hoped he was too drugged 
to remember. 

For heaven's sake, what was she waiting for? She had the 
scientific proof her goddamn strict rationalism required. This 
wasn't an X-File--this was a mystery as old as the evolution 
of mankind. To hell with the Darwin approach, it was about time 
they dragged their six year love affair out of the Paleozoic. It 
would be fun, invigorating, good for the cardiovascular system; 
they wouldn't need to visit the gym for months. Mulder had 
better stop chasing aliens and hurry up and get his ass home, or 
he'd be in for a heck of a lot more than just a kiss stepping of 
that plane. That decided, Dana Scully sighed for the final time 
that evening and rolled over, letting mental exhaustion take her 
into an unsuppressed and dreamless sleep. 
  
************************************************* 
END 

Begging for the next installment in the continuing 
"Scent" saga is most graciously received at: Terma99@aol.com. 
Don't worry, there's action ahead..... 

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