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* * *
It had been a long, hard day in the morgue, and Scully's
mind was spinning with rampant anatomical, physiological,
and pathological trivia. Her brain was stuck in diagnostic
mode, overanalyzing those around her in a medical context.
This mental reflex allowed her to keep the world ordered,
an excellent distancing method when she felt the urge to
bitchslap each and every individual who got in her way,
interrupted her work, or just plain looked at her wrong. She
knew that fatigue, stress, and a mid-cycle surge of estrogen,
as well as a small spike in adrenal androgen production,
had combined to both heighten her senses and make her
cranky as hell.
After silently diagnosing the few denizens of the late shift--
the Decedant Affairs secretary with cigarette-related
emphysema, the janitor with essential tremor, and one of
the bullpen agents with secondary syphilitic palm rashes--
Scully lugged her briefcase to the basement in search of a
quiet place in which to rein in her thoughts. She opened the
door to the office, noting the warm, humid atmosphere.
There was her partner, standing before one of the filing
cabinets, his back turned. He was bent over an open
drawer, rifling through the contents. The ovoid curves of
his muscles were visible through the seat of his slacks,
occasionally twitching as he shifted his balance. Scully
found herself biting her lower lip as she gazed at the twin
gluteal offerings before her.
She shook her head, surprised by how easily her thoughts
had succumbed to base instincts. Then she enjoyed one last
look for posterity before shedding her suit jacket and
settling into the chair at her small, temporary desk.
"Damn."
"Problem, Mulder?" she asked. She made a conscientious
decision to keep her eyes on her work. Or to try, anyway.
"I can't seem to find the Beckman file."
"Shouldn't it be in the..."
"A-B drawer? Yeah. But it's not, which is why I'm looking
elsewhere," he replied with the slightest edge of sarcasm.
Scully pressed further. "If memory serves, Dr. Beckman
was involved in a rather unusual incidence of alleged
vampirism."
"Uh-huh," Mulder mumbled, sifting through the various
drawers of his filing cabinets like a man possessed. The
sleeves of his blue Oxford shirt were pushed up to his
elbows, making it easier for him to reach into the deep
folders.
"He ran a side-business. Called it 'Native Therapy,' in
actuality, nothing more than a scam to lure his more
attractive female patients in front of his camera. Told them
he was publishing the pictures in a scientific journal, when
he in fact had no such intention."
"Essentially, yes."
"Dr. Beckman subsequently produced a quite successful
underground soft porn magazine until one of his slightly
less gullible models found out that the journal promises
were all a scam, and she was found exsanguinated in a dark
alley half a mile from his studio."
Scully walked toward her distracted partner, close enough
to clearly remind him of her presence. She inhaled his
scent--cool, spicy aftershave and a tinge of musky sweat.
"Do you have something to add to the case? A new lead?"
"Not exactly," he droned. "Just making sure everything's in
order for the audit next week. A few documents have been
misplaced lately... Ah! Here it is."
Mulder extracted a thick brown folder from the bottom
drawer. He straightened and faced Scully, opening the file.
His triumphant expression pulled into a slight frown. He
thumbed through the documents, his brow furrowing with
each turn of a page.
Scully surreptitiously slipped her hand into the narrow
space between the nearest cabinet and the table, retrieving a
sheaf of glossy paper. She placed a finger in the crease of
Mulder's file, bending it down. He looked up at her, leery.
"Looking for this?" She held up one of the magazines in
question, waving its salacious cover photo in front of him
like a red flag.
He froze for a moment, jaw muscles twitching.
"Agent Scully, I didn't know you were into that sort of
thing. I'm shocked."
She chuckled, a nefarious edge in her laughter.
"Nice try," she said, snapping the magazine away just as
Mulder moved to take it.
She backed away, reveling in teasing her partner. His arms
snaked out, grabbing for one corner and missing. She took
one more step, dodging Mulder's lunge, and suddenly, her
vision exploded with light.
Her head throbbed with pain. She couldn't see, couldn't
feel anything but the lightning in her head.
"Scully! Can you hear me?" Mulder's voice slipped
through the ringing in her ears. "Say something."
"Ouch."
Scully reached back to inspect her head with her fingers,
surprised to find it wasn't sticky with blood. In fact, it no
longer hurt.
Mulder's eyes were wide with concern. She was sitting on
her ass on the concrete, her partner bent over her, but she
couldn't remember the fall.
"How long was I out?"
"About two seconds," he replied softly, "just long enough
to hit the floor."
Mulder's arm extended. His hand covering hers and pulled
it forward. The tingle of excitement shot down Scully's
spine. She suddenly felt her senses heighten. She became
aware of the bookish scent of Mulder's office, counted his
heartbeats as the skin of his throat pulsated, felt the sinews
of his inner thigh contract, brushing against her as he knelt
in front of her. The warmth of his body, his proximity,
made the beta-endorphins burn in her veins.
"How are you feeling?"
Scully struggled to pluck a coherent reply from the swirling
thoughts in her mind. Her focus wandered from the wet,
graceful curves of her partner's lips to the suggestive bulge
of his larynx.
"I'm a little...warm," was all she could manage.
"No wonder. Your face is red. Do you think you can
stand?"
"Yeah."
Scully held onto her partner's forearms for support. The
volar muscles rippled sequentially beneath her fingertips:
the flexor ulnaris, palmaris longus, flexor radialis, pronator
teres, and a broad brachio-radialis. Scully had always found
symmetry and order in the ancient Latin terms of medicine,
but the words were intangible entities. In Mulder, they all
came to life with functional, graceful, and artistic clarity.
He lifted her to her feet, the action pulling the partners
closer together. Scully watched his nares fluctuate, in and
out with each breath. He looked down at her, head cocked
to one side.
"You must have bitten your lip," he said quietly, drawing
the textured pad of one thumb across the commisure of her
mouth. He held up the digit before her, its tip smeared with
her blood.
Scully realized she had been trying to control a strong and
primal urge. The subject of all of her emotional,
intellectual, and physical desires stood mere inches away,
holding her, assaulting her olfactory glands with the
pungent pheromones of masculinity.
She wrapped her hand around his, bringing his thumb
against the philtrum of her upper lip. She kissed his thenar
curve, parting her lips slightly to allow her tongue to dart
out and lick the glabrous skin, tasting the salty surface and
the tang of her own blood.
Mulder moved his fingers beneath her jaw, tilting her head
back slightly and to one side.
"You're still bleeding."
He leaned down, covering the tiny wound with his own
lips. She turned toward him, pressing her mouth to his as
she moved her hands to his lower back. His eyes grew wide
when she pulled his hips forward. She grazed his bottom lip
with her teeth, feeling him shudder against her. Mulder
gently pushed her back against the edge of the bookcase.
Hundreds of tiny fibers bore the message of arousal
throughout her body. Her parasympathetic neurons
delivered their jarring buzz of action potentials, creating an
acetylcholine high. She felt a growing pressure against her
lower abdomen and knew that Mulder was also feeling the
same effects. He released a deep moan which resonated
down her throat and deep into her chest.
She felt his heartbeat slowing against her breasts. Mulder's
polychromic irises constricted as he fixated on her.
Sandwiched between his long body and the bookcase, she
began to sweat, trapped with no space on tired feet and
legs. He reached down and grasped the small zipper on the
side of her skirt. She stopped him, shaking her head. He
traced the outline of her figure instead, drawing both hands
up her hips and her waist. His fingers bumped over the
undulations of her ribs, coming to rest on either side of her
breasts, his thumbs teasing her nipples to erection through
the fabric of her blouse and brassiere.
Scully tried to ignore the painful complaints of her sore feet
and lower legs, but they were only compounded by the
intense waves of sensation emanating from Mulder's touch
and the subsequent knee-shaking weakness. She winced,
and Mulder took that as his cue to slow down. He
disengaged his mouth from hers, moved his hands to her
waist.
"Is something wrong?" he asked, his voice husky.
"My feet are killing me."
"We can't have that," he said, backing away from the
bookshelf and drawing her with him. He pulled his rolling
desk chair toward her. "Relax, Scully. You deserve it." He
then seated her with a quaint, gentlemanly sort of flair that
she accepted only from him.
He proceeded to knead the muscles of her shoulders and
upper back, sending a pleasurable tingling from the
serratus, levator scapulae, and rhomboids throughout her
entire body. She let out a guttural sound of orgasmic
indulgence when he moved his attentions her neck, rubbing
his knuckles along either side of the nuchal line.
"Oh my. That's wonderful," she uttered.
Once the muscles in question had relaxed, the stimulus
disappeared. Mulder walked around her, rotating the chair
with him until she faced the desk. He piled up one small
stack of files and reports, stowing it in one of the drawers.
Then, he rolled her closer to him and surprised her by
grasping one of her ankles.
"I think it was Voltaire who said, 'The art of medicine
consists in amusing the patient while nature cures the
disease,'" he recited and slipped the shoe off of her foot.
He commenced massaging her bared sole.
"Mulder, you can be my cure any day."
Scully groaned and let her head loll back as Mulder
activated a thousand free nerve endings of her arches,
playfully tickling her skin while soothing weary muscles.
He had propped her feet on his thighs for convenience. He
was completely focused on her. His eyes had a certain self-
denying glaze about them.
Scully decided to share the fun.
"Thanks. That was just what I needed," she said, edging her
free foot down between his legs. Carefully, she traced the
upper edge of his pubic bone with her toes, the ball of her
foot brushing against his crotch. Mulder froze as a thousand
urgent signals redirected through his brain. He lowered his
head slightly, gaze still fixed on her. One corner of his
mouth curled into a predatory smirk. Her bulbourethral
glands involuntarily spasmed in response, causing a focus
of pressure low in her pudendum that made her want to
milk her partner dry. Quickly, she extracted her extremities
from his eager digits. It was her move.
Scully took advantage of her partner's temporary,
erogenously-induced tonic state to move into a more
assertive position. She stood and nudged her legs between
his knees. She laid a finger on the knot of his tie, lazily
following the path of the silk toward its tip.
"Why don't we make some more room here?" she
suggested, stopping her finger at the waistband of his
slacks.
Mulder nodded once, leaning aside to set his lamp on the
chair. He nudged a stack of archive references to the floor
with a thud and a cloud of dust. Scully pushed him the rest
of the way to a supine position. Mulder's long legs were
slung over the short edge of the desk. She shoved her knees
against his, moving his hips into a stack of MUFON data
printouts and the latest Most Wanted list. She noted that the
upward angle of his thighs and pelvis only served to
increase the already-arching silhouette of his fly.
Scully pressed down on his shoulders as she climbed atop
and straddled him, positioning the warm, damp center of
her panties over Mulder's prominent, jutting zipper seam.
She could feel the tension rise in his quadriceps as he
fought his parasympathetic system for bodily control.
Her own autonomic response created a shunting of blood
similar to his, engorging her sensitive pudendal flesh. She
felt the subtle pressure of her Bartholin's glands as they
swelled with lubricating fluid. The small, twin cylinders of
her erectile tubercle filled to capacity, straining away from
its suspensory ligament. She lowered herself flat against his
chest, pressing down until her glans rubbed against its stiff
male homologue.
"Scully..."
"Shh. Don't say a word."
She pressed the fingertips of one hand to his lips, holding
them there for a second before following the curve of his
chin and throat to the collar of his shirt. He reached for his
tie, trying to hasten events, but she caught his arms and
moved them down to his sides, petitioning with her hungry
eyes and vulva for him to let her set the pace.
Mulder complied as best he could, allowing all of the
voluntary parts of his body to lie pliant. He gazed at her,
curiosity and anticipation nudging his eyebrows upward.
She loosened the top fold of his half Windsor, drawing the
large tongue of the tie up, away from his face. Scully ran
the tongue under the loop, making short work of the
accessory. Next, she unbuttoned his shirt, squeezing her
hand into the heated layers of fabric to untuck the front tips.
She moved the edges of the Oxford apart so she could
watch the slow, deliberate undulations of his chest. His
rectus abdominis rippled in waves.
Scully arched over her partner so she could wriggle free of
her panties. She kicked them to the floor, her hips still
draped by her skirt. Mulder swallowed hard. The corners of
his mouth turned up in a lecherous grin. Scully straddled
him again, sitting on his thighs while she opened his fly,
the primitive, limbic portions of her brain focused on some
of the decidedly non-intellectual gifts her partner
possessed. She pinched his buttock, urging Mulder to lift
his hips, which allowed her to push his clothing down and
out of the way.
She rested her hands on his knees, behind her, and let the
moistened fold of her prepuce and the bundle of Meissner's
corpuscles it sheltered glide up and down the length of his
spongy urethral sheath. His clenched fists shook, and he
closed his eyes, his breaths now coming in irregular gusts.
Scully bent forward until the blunt end of his spongiosum
was embedded in the divot of her umbilicus. She angled
herself closer to his face.
"Hold me," she whispered.
She unfastened the bottom three buttons on her shirt, baring
her soft abdomen to the pink mucosa of his tip. He slid his
hands beneath her blouse. He braced his elbows against the
desk and cradled her small ribcage with his palms, tickling
her lactiferous follicles with his thumbs. She felt a jolt of
electricity jump from his touch straight to her perineum.
She moved herself forward, allowing him to support her
upper body while she reached between them. She wrapped
her fingers around the girth of his engorged cavernous
bodies. His Cowper's glands expressed a single drop of
proteinaceous fluid. Her thumb encircled the rim of his
meatus, spreading the natural lubricant in a lazy spiral over
the strumous member.
His nervous system was set afire. His glutei and obliques
forcefully contracted, nearly driving her into the air.
Knowing that neither one of them could hold out much
longer, She adjusted her skirt to cover both of them. She
bent her knees, lowering herself until her foramen was
hugging the warmth of his bulbous spongiosum. She
clamped down with her ischiocavernosus and lifted her hips
slightly, causing her fourchette to tug on the remnant notch
of his frenulum preputii.
Mulder's thrust reflex drove his warmth deep within her.
He swept his hands around her hips, using the leverage to
ensheath himself to the root. His naked coronal sulcus
caressed her plicae with each lunge, distending her
muscular wall. Her pelvic floor tightened again, invoking
his programmed reaction. His involuntary ictus raised both
of them off the surface of his writing pad and the latest
copy of The Sasqwatch. She rode the wave of his slow,
metrical undulations, swaying to unheard music. The
friction of her folds against his dorsal nerve caused the
influx of more blood, distending the vascular core of his
tumidity to its limit.
Scully writhed atop him, shaky voice rasping out, "God,
you fill me."
"You--give me--so much," he said, deep tones resonating
between panted breaths. His eyes held a feral gleam that
instantly made her vagina ripple and ache. She gasped,
having hit her threshold and bringing her partner
precipitously close to his. His entire body stiffened. He
closed his eyes for a moment, but she caught a rare fleeting
glimpse of his erotic euphoria. When he looked at her
again, his control was back. He studied her gently with his
eyes, with his hands, with his entire being. She felt at once
intrigued and flattered by the scrutiny. Finally, he let go of
her right hip, his dominant hand snaking to her pubic curls.
"I want--to give you--this."
He tickled the edge of her prepuce with his whorled pad
until he found her clitoris already engorged. He massaged
her, squeezing the short shaft between two fingers while
rubbing firmly on the crus beneath her labia. She dragged
in a shaky breath. The air was thick with the scent of her
arousal. And suddenly she was ravenous.
She didn't want more. She wanted all. She clutched the
edges of the desk and nudged her feet and ankles beneath
her partner's knees. Her lean arms flexed as he withdrew
slightly, slamming him back onto the desk and into her.
Already, the rhythmic twitches of her thighs had begun
accelerating. She raised herself to the edge of his flared
rim, careful not to separate entirely, and impaled herself
again. The desk shook with the impact. Mulder groaned
and bucked beneath her, managing to continue
ministrations to her erectile body.
Scully grasped at his chest, her body now rocking over
their merge point, tangling her fingers in the wiry hair and
leaving linear, angry red scratch marks on his skin. His
nipples stood as she skimmed them with her nails. She
wanted to stay there forever, note every expression, every
taut sinew and inch of skin. She could have kept the
moment for eternity, but like all others, it would pass.
She sensed that his rise was nearing its zenith, so she
leaned as far back as she could, reaching behind to hold
onto the corners of the desk near his knees. Her flexibility
was rewarded with a more acute angle of contact. His
thrusts now shoved against her anterior wall, causing an
electrical storm in the dense cluster of highly sensitive
Grafenberg nerves.
The lower half of her body jerked in the flutters of an
orgasm. She distantly registered the stretch of her vagina as
it peristalted around its visitor. The higher functions of her
brain were repressed, but she fought to retain one piece of
information, even as she lost herself in sensory overload.
The pace, strength, and urgency of Mulder's strokes
increased. She angled her hips forward and rested her hands
on his thighs. He placed his hands in their customary curve
at the small of her back. He splayed his fingers and pulled
her forward, then thrusted straight into her. She rocked
forward, then back to maximize the pivot motion and tactile
stimulation. His rhythm started to break, signaling that he
was nearing his orgasmic plateau. She moved her hand to
the bottom of the curve of her ass. Her left hand grasped his
scrotum, lightly rolling the retracted testicles together,
while her right hand followed the line of his raphe to his
perineum. He was straining with each motion now,
grunting with effort. She pushed two fingers deep into the
soft plane of tissue between the base of his scrotum and his
anus, directly stimulating his prostate and putting pressure
on the adnexa. He started to moan, but the breath caught in
his throat. His eyes rolled back, lids fluttering, as the coital
intensity overwhelmed him. He drove himself into her
again, hitting the lining of her ectocervix with the apex of
his glans. Contractions of his seminal vesicles, vas
deferens, and urethra propelled a warm effluxation of
semen into her birth canal. He poured himself into her two,
three, and four times before shuddering to a halt. Finally,
he fell back on the desk, completely spent.
Scully lay forward, resting her head on his shoulder. She
felt him grow flaccid inside her, but she stayed still,
holding him. She closed her eyes and basked,
contemplating a resurrection of her long-ago smoking
habit.
"Scully," Mulder said, interrupting her reflections.
"Hm?"
"Wake up."
"Huh?"
"C'mon. Wake up."
Scully was puzzled, but when she attempted to open her
eyes, she found she could not. She tried a more vocal
approach.
"Muh-derrrr."
Her voice was too thick. Her tongue felt heavy and useless.
She was starting to get frightened, not understanding what
had happened. Differential diagnoses flew through her
head: stroke, seizure, aneurysm... She soon discovered that
she couldn't move, as Mulder shifted restlessly beneath her.
Everything was distant, shadowy. Her body seemed
detached, as if she was experiencing the sensations second-
hand.
"Scully, can you answer me?"
Before she could attempt a reply, there was a knock at the
door. And then another.
"Agent Mulder!"
Her partner fell silent.
The pounding on the door continued.
"Agent Mulder, are you having a problem in there?" A
pause. The doorknob rattled. "Let me in!"
Mulder shifted, rolling Scully onto her back in a dizzying
whirl of motion. Then the warmth of his body was gone.
She heard him walk to the door. Heard it unlatch. She was
horrified, caught in a compromising situation, unable to see
or move or even speak. The floating sensation intensified as
she heard Skinner and Mulder's footsteps approach.
Someone was moving her again, propping her up on a firm,
uneven surface. A flood of pain washed through her head,
shutting out all other signals. She was lost, without any
reference points except her growing fear.
Her partner's voice pierced through the fog, but the pain
stayed this time. "Oh, shit...Scully, can you hear me?"
Of course, Mulder. I'm not deaf, she thought, but the words
did not come out.
"Agent Scully," Skinner's baritone followed, "give us some
sort of sign. Squeeze my hand."
But she couldn't tell which hand he held, so she tried to
ball both of them into fists.
"She's responding," Skinner said.
She opened her eyes.
Her sight was still blurry, but she recognized Mulder
looking at her, upside-down. Then there was Skinner, and
then the ceiling. She lay there trying to regain control of her
voice and wondering what Skinner thought of the situation.
She'd be lucky to still have a job tomorrow.
"Muh-der, put 'ur pants back on."
Her command was met with complete silence.
"Sir, thizizn't what it looks like. Ssswear."
"Uh, Scully, what the fu-"
"It's okay, Agent Mulder. She doesn't know what she's
saying. She's got a hell of a goose-egg on her head."
So, it had all been a hallucination due to post-concussion
syndrome? Scully could not believe it. She slipped right
past disappointment and resentment and straight into
denial. It hadn't seemed the stuff of dreams. It was the stuff
of the everyday, of two regular people working together in
extraordinary circumstances, of two people merging
together in extraordinary sex. Why couldn't it have been
real? she wondered. Was the scenario so unlikely that it
could occur only in fantasy?
Finally, her vision pulled into focus.
"Wha-what happened?"
"You ran into the 'M-N' drawer. And then you took a nap
on the floor," Mulder explained, his brow furrowed with
concern.
"How long?" she inquired.
"Oh, ten or twelve."
Scully shook her head, almost certain that she'd heard him
say "inches."
"Do you want us to call an ambulance?" Skinner asked.
"Um, no, thanks. I think I'll be okay."
Scully sat up to prove her point. The pain resolved to a
throbbing focus on her scalp. It was then that she realized
her head had been lying in Mulder's lap. The thought was
almost too much to process.
"I just need--some water. Cold water."
"If you're sure..." Skinner stated, not looking terribly
convinced. He and Mulder nonetheless provided support as
she stood.
"I'm fine. Thank you, Sir. It's just a bruise."
"All right. Just let me know if you decide to take the rest of
the day off, or whatever you need to do."
"I will, thanks."
Skinner looked back and forth between her and Mulder,
perplexion written all over his face, before leaving. He
closed the door behind him.
Scully took a few steps toward the desk, the scene of the
crime, and suddenly felt very woozy. Her knees buckled.
But this time, it had nothing to do with the concussion.
Mulder caught her, pulling her against his body to keep her
from falling.
"Scully," he said softly, easing her down to sit on the edge
of the desk, facing the back wall with its host of newspaper
clippings and the bold blue-green-and-black poster. "Take
it slow."
She looked at him, studying every detail. Her partner was
so caring, so perfect, so close. And she was incredibly
turned-on.
"I think I'll go get that cold water now."
"Need me to help you?"
Yes, she thought, straightening. Do I ever. But she shook
her head no, unable to meet his eyes. She redirected her
gaze to the poster behind him. Read its message.
"So do I," she whispered.
"What?"
"Just daydreaming, Mulder." She smiled. "Be right back."
She went out into the narrow corridor and followed it to the
women's room. She splashed some cool water on her face,
took a few deep breaths, looked long and hard into the
mirror, and headed back to the office. There was her
partner, working quietly. He looked up, checking to be sure
she was okay, before returning his attention to the pile of
paperwork.
She began sifting through her own backlog, moving
mindlessly like an automaton. Silence ensued until Mulder
cleared his throat.
"Scully?"
"Yes?"
"You kept saying my name over and over. And then you
screamed."
She wasn't quite sure what to say, so she didn't.
"Must have been one extraordinary nightmare," he said,
offering her an easy out with a half-suppressed smirk.
"Oh, it was extraordinary."
And she let the silence return, allowing him to toy with the
possible implications of her words without offering another
clue.
Someday, someday, she said to herself.
She believed.
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