Title - "Relax II: Relieving the Tension" (1/1)
Author - Saska - with generous help from Magrat & the Moose-Cat
E-Mail address - sstover@ior.com
Rating - NC-17 for detailed but safe sex
Category - S/V, R, H
Spoilers - Minor "Tooms" and "Paper Hearts" references.
Keywords - I think this gets the big Mulder/Scully UST vote.
Summary - Mulder discovers the gift that keeps on giving.

Distribution: Do not post to ATXC; I'll do that myself.  Archive with
full headers intact and let me know where it goes.

Notes: I received what I felt to be an overwhelming number of requests
for a sequel to "Relax", which you will shortly be able to find on my
new X-Files-related web page at:
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Corridor/4159/
Please be aware I started this page a few days ago, and many bits are
still under construction.  I'm working on getting the fanfic up there
today, however.

This story would not have been written, no matter the clamor, without
the generous help of Magrat, whose own web site you can visit at:
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Lair/3366/

My most sincere thanks to her for providing the ideas my own Voices
refused to provide, proofreading the results, and laughing at my
jokes.

RELAX II: RELIEVING THE TENSION

Mulder allowed himself a brief consideration for how it might look to
Scully's neighbors as he sorted through his keys until he found the
two that fit in her door.  Late-night visits, even later phone calls,
and the casual manner in which both of them entered and left the
apartment, often without the other in tow, probably had the building's
residents engaged in a pool similar to the one at the office - the "Do
they do it, and if not, when will they?" pool.  Actually, the people
in the apartment building probably didn't think to wonder.  They
probably just assumed that FBI agents were so repressed they didn't
even scream.

He pushed the door open and absently threw the deadbolt once inside. 
Her plants looked a little limp - he'd only missed a day, but he
doubted she ever missed a day with his fish.  A pang of guilt gave way
to a pang of very real pain.  He would never admit to his
midnight-basketball circle that he was getting old, but age was a fact
nonetheless.  While most of the players who cycled through the lit
asphalt court were either finishing their first degree at Georgetown
or still getting away from their parents' living rooms, he learned to
contend with more numerous injuries and the onset of
thirty-something.  Last night's antics would no doubt draw an "Oh,
Mulder. . ." from Scully, and an arched eyebrow of disapproval.  If
he'd managed to block the shot, instead of getting voted down on a
goaltending claim, maybe he could have justified it to himself.  But
his threesome had lost the furious, two-hour half-court match by one
point, and now all he had to show for it was a very tender lower
back.  Sitting was torture, walking was worse, and laying down only
made for much squirming and twisting until he gave up on comfort.

He filled a pitcher with water from the kitchen sink and began making
the plant-rounds.  Fern, prayer plant, wandering Jew . . . what was he
forgetting?  He looked around absently, and then remembered the
gardenia in the bedroom.

No matter what the occasion, it always seemed voyeuristic walking into
Scully's bedroom.  The bed was made with the same precision she used
on reports: classical in style, a minimum of flourish, the single
personal touch a throw pillow embroidered with a pattern of ivy.  He
crossed to the gardenia, accomplished his mission, and left the room
as though she'd pop out of the closet and berate him for loitering.

As he passed the bathroom door, he spotted the string-of-pearls fern
hung next to the window over the tub.  She'd shoot him in the other
shoulder if that one died - in fact, she'd mentioned it specifically
in the note on her refrigerator.  He went in and made sure its feet
were wet, spotting the WaterPik massage showerhead he'd given her for
St. Patrick's day as he did so.

"Well, hello," he commented to no one in particular.  She'd said it
worked wonders on her neck; he wondered if it would do the same for
his screaming back muscles.  He ticked off the days on his fingers -
four since she'd left - and decided it couldn't do any harm to borrow
it.  He'd pick up the bathrug again when he finished, and she'd never
know he had used it.  If it worked, maybe he'd get one for himself.

He started the faucet running before taking the pitcher back to the
kitchen, and peeled off his shirt as he returned to the bathroom.  The
water steamed nicely, and he adjusted the temperature to
almost-unbearably-hot before discarding the rest of his clothes.  He
climbed into the tub, fought with the double curtains until they
seemed closed, and twisted the knob to turn on the shower.

He couldn't help a moan of relief as the water began to pound against
his back.  He kept his eyes open, fearing he'd lose his balance and
fall through the curtains if he didn't, and blinked as his eyes
adjusted to the diffused sunlight.

Hardly any room for two in here, he thought idly, and instantly wished
he hadn't.  Tantalizing smells were assaulting his nose as the water
continued to run - the clean scent of Scully's shampoo, the
cookie-like musk of an oatmeal-and-honey bath bar, the
vanilla-and-spice of something else he couldn't see.  He smelled
Scully, only stronger - as he imagined she might smell with his face
pressed against her stomach and no clothing to hinder it.

He shook his head sharply.  "No, no, no," he muttered to himself, but
even as he tried in vain to banish the thought from his mind, he felt
the tightness leave his back and concentrate itself in his groin.  He
pulled up image after image from the most horrible of cases - Tooms in
this very bathroom, attacking Scully (Mulder's mind flashed to himself
adjusting the charm necklace that hung between her breasts). . . John
Lee Roche with Mulder's gun pointed at the innocent little girl (and
then Scully, wrapping him in her arms and pulling his face to her
stomach). . . it was no use.  The scent of all things Scully was a
thousand times more stimulating than the best of videos, and Mulder's
erection was a thousand times more demanding than any produced by the
television.  He hung the shower in its cradle and turned to face the
water, hoping he could empty his mind.

Water pounded against his chest, over his pectoral muscles, and he
leaned forward until it hit him squarely on his left shoulder.  He
felt his muscles becoming liquid under its force, but his erection
simply would not follow suit.  Without realizing it, one hand had
found his swollen cock, and wrapped around it with familiar pressure.

He shook his head slowly from side to side, imagining Scully's fingers
massaging his scalp and neck.  The vision seemed determined to remain.

The steam swirled around him as he began slowly stroking himself from
base to head and back down again.  There was no denying he wanted
Scully - he didn't need to stand in her shower to know what he wanted
- but as he gave in to the need for release, his mind couldn't conjure
up a strong enough resistance over the fact that he was doing this in
*her* bathroom.  

The water had wrinkled his fingertips, and he reached for the bottle
of her conditioner, pouring a little into his hands and rubbing them
together.  The scent grew much stronger now, and as he moved to
continue his ministrations, waves of dizziness swept over him.  He
could almost see, almost feel, her silky red hair against his face,
and though he knew her hands would feel nothing like his own if ever
they should stroke him in this way, he gave in to the
all-but-forbidden image of having the one woman in life he'd never
get.

He imagined her perfect, medieval-beauty lips moving over his neck,
his collarbone, his chest, as she stroked his body - one hand roaming
his torso while the other kept a steady rhythm on his cock.  She would
say nothing, but her touch would be like a brand, leaving visible
imprints on his skin in her wake.  She would brush feather-light
fingers over the skin of his balls, slide the barely-loose skin of his
erection over the pulsing blood vessels below its surface, circle her
thumb over his head in a maddening dance. . .

He was vaguely aware of the declining water temperature as he growled
low in his throat, the Scully in his mind stroking faster and harder
as she sensed him on the edge of the precipice.  Her delicate fingers
clenched his shoulder where the water beat against him, almost
painful, almost real.  He came with a cry that was half-gasp and
half-shout of her name, and with trembling hands reached for the
shower knob as the last of the hot water ran out.  He stood panting,
taking mincing steps from one foot to the other in the ice-cold flow
from the faucet, waiting for the last remnants of his indiscretion to
swirl down the drain.  Turning it off with an audible thunk, he slid
the curtain back to reach for a towel, and as he made to step out of
the tub, heard the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the front
door's lock.

Mulder stood like a hunting dog, one knee pointed out of the bathtub,
frozen in fear.  His gun was in its holster on the belt of his slacks,
a few feet away.  He listened to the "snick" of the deadbolt closing,
and nearly unbalanced when the telephone jangled in stereo from the
living room on one side and Scully's bedroom on the other.  He heard
Scully's voice saying "Hello" in the other room - not her answering
machine, but *her*.  He'd closed the door when he entered the
bathroom, and already a "just using the bathroom, you're home early"
comment was forming in his brain.  He crept from the tub to the towel
rack, wrapping himself in terrycloth and trying to determine whether
she could hear his heart hammering from where she sat.

As he toweled himself dry, her voice drifted through the steam.

"I just got back," she was saying, seated at the dining room table
from the sound of it.  "Tara's fine, but Bill had to ship out a day
earlier than he planned to, and I decided to change my ticket.  I like
her and all, but we just don't have very much in common, and I have no
idea what Bill says about me when I'm not there to defend myself."

In the silence that followed, Mulder pulled on his boxers and T-shirt,
wondering who had called that she would speak so casually, and was
about to reach for his pants when she began speaking again.  Her voice
was closer this time - the living room? - and he froze again, fearing
she'd discover the closed bathroom door and come bursting through with
her Sig Sauer aimed right at his head.

"I'm really sorry I missed his birthday this year," she was saying. 
"We were between cases, and I'd been promising Bill I would come and
visit them again now that the baby's a little older.  I'll bring his
present over this afternoon, if you're going to be around."  A pause. 
"Oh, speaking of gifts, I have to tell you.  Mulder got me one of
those massage shower things for St. Patrick's Day -" another pause,
and a chuckle, "I don't know why St. Patrick's Day.  Maybe he felt
guilty about something.  Anyway.  It's amazing.  Great for getting the
kinks out at the end of the day."  She giggled.  "Well, not just the
muscle kinks."

Mulder felt a blush creeping up his cheeks as he stood, trousers in
hand, preparing to put them on.

"Oh, come on," she continued.  "I figured I was the last girl on earth
who knew what those things were good for."  He raised an eyebrow and
sat down on the toilet lid as he slid into the other pantleg.  "Well,
you know, you can only do so much with your fingers, and I could
*never* walk into one of those shops and buy something like a" her
voice dropped, but he heard her all too well, "vibrator."  She giggled
again.  He could count on one hand the number of times he'd heard that
music, but her laughter was the last thing on his mind.  Was she
really saying she used the shower for - what he'd just used it for?

Now she laughed out loud.  "Gosh, I hope not," she gasped between
chortles.  "He may make a comment now and then, but I doubt he'd
knowingly give me something like that.  Still, for days after he gave
it to me, I was sure he knew.  Everything's an innuendo when you've
got a guilty mind."  Silence.  "Oh, come on.  I'm surprised the nuns
didn't hold classes in self-satisfaction during junior high."  Another
laugh.  

Mulder wasn't sure if the cold sweat breaking out over his body was
from fear or from the image of Scully, indulging in a little
"self-satisfaction" with the gift he'd given her.  He looked down
glumly, realizing that the other half of his brain was most definitely
still interested in Scully-in-the-shower imagery. For a moment, he
entertained the idea of hiding in the shower until she'd left again,
but then it occurred to him that she'd shoot before she even pulled
the curtain back, and he could think of nothing more embarrassing than
her pulling back the curtain to see him, bleeding and in pain,
sporting an erection she could hang a teacup on.

"Well, I'll give you a call when I'm ready to get out of here.  I have
*got* to use the bathroom, or I'm going to burst.  My eyeballs are
floating."

Mulder fought back the panic.  Drew a deep breath.  Adjusted the
waistband of his slacks.  Held the towel in front of him.  And reached
for the doorknob, mind racing over a thousand improbable stories of
what had kept him in there the whole time she was on the phone.

The old-fashioned knob turned beneath his still hand.

"I don't remember closing the bathroom door," Scully was muttering to
herself as she swung it inward.  He would have seen her reach for her
hip with the lightning-quick reflexes of a trained FBI agent, but he
was clutching his head, pain flaring red in his vision from where the
door had connected squarely with his eyebrow.  "Aaaah!" he shouted. 
"You're home early," he finished lamely, looking up at her from
beneath his hand.

She stared and exhaled.  "Mulder?  What are you doing in my bathroom?"

Eternity yawned before him.  That was exactly how long she would wait
for an answer, and about as long as he felt like it took to come up
with one.  "I was - borrowing your shower - there was a basketball
game - hurt my back - you liked it -"  he berated himself inwardly for
that last statement - "and I thought I would give it a try."  He
blinked a few more times, unable to make eye contact.  "I'm sorry if I
startled you."  He realized he was still holding the towel in front of
him, but the pain of the head injury and the look on her face would
have melted ice, and made short work of his arousal.  "I was, uh,
going to go put this in the hamper."

She regarded him cooly.  "How long have you been in here?"

"I don't know.  What time is it?"  He felt cold sweat trickle between
his shoulder blades, and resisted the urge to squirm.

"Did you hear me on the telephone?"  Her eyes were icy, but he thought
he detected a hint of fear in them.

Decision time.  "I heard it ring."

"And?" She was definitely nervous.

He knew he could hold this over her head for the rest of her life, but
she'd shot him once already.  "I wasn't paying attention.  I was
getting dressed."

She appeared slightly relieved.  "And?"

His eyes darted around the room.  There was no exit, except through
Scully.  "What, were you talking about me?"

Now she looked cornered.  "No.  I was - I was talking to my godson's
mother.  About his birthday."

He nodded.  "So what's the worry?"  As he assumed the offensive, his
heart slowed a little in its drum solo.

She simply looked at him.  "You used my conditioner."

"Um.  Yeah.  I hadn't planned to take a shower, or I'd have brought my
shaving kit with me and used my own."  He realized he'd have to go
home and wash his hands, or he'd be in Scully-scented-torture for the
rest of the day.

She shook her head, looking at him with amusement.  "Did you like it?"

"The shower, or the conditioner?" he replied, perhaps a bit too
smartly.

"Both," she snapped in reply.  "The shower."

He tried hard to keep his smile from becoming a smirk.  "It's great
for relieving tension."

She nodded, searching his face for a moment before replying.  "I've
found that to be true as well.  Think you'll get one for yourself?"

I'd rather use yours, he thought briefly, biting the inside of his
lower lip before the words got out.  "I think I'll have to."


-- 
Sheryl D. Stover * sstover@ior.com * http://www.ior.com/~sstover/

"Anyone who can appease a man's conscience can take his freedom
away."      -the Cigarette Smoking Man