TITLE: Perfect Opposites
AUTHOR: Flynn
CLASS: MSR, *MAJOR* PWP
DATE: November 1, 2003
E-MAIL: flyn121@yahoo.com
ARCHIVE: Unlike Surferboy, I was taught to share my toys. Take
what you want, but please keep author and headers attached, and
let me know where to visit.
WEBSITE: www.geocities.com/cratkinsonflynn/
FEEDBACK: Appreciated in mind and heart. 
RATING: NC-17 for adult expressions of affection
SPOILERS: Brief nod to Je Souhaite and Brand X


~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Perfect Opposites
by Flynn
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It all started with a phone call. 

"Hey, Scully, what're you doing today? Any plans?"

She groaned inwardly at the cheerful tone. With the vacuum
running, she had barely even heard the phone ringing. Now she
wondered if she shouldn't have let the machine pick up. A glance at
the clock told her it was barely nine. God, she hated conversations
that began with those words. How many weekends down through
the years had been ruined with just that phrase? Well, *ruined*
might be a little harsh. How about *compromised?* It wasn't that
she had anything all that exciting down for the next two days. Little
stuff. Cleaning the living room. Lunch with her mother. Clearing
her winter clothes out of closets and drawers and putting them
carefully away for the summer. Not one exciting thing to do, really
.... and she wasn't about to give any of it up without a fight,
especially to go running after Sasquatch or Elvis - if not something
even worse. "Mulder, what is it? What's the case?" Ooo, impatient.
Would he care? Would he even notice?

"What case?" He actually managed to sound confused, the little
faker.

She wasn't buying. Not this Saturday. Not after a month of beetles
and bodies, of hours spent in morgues and days in hospitals - to say
nothing of genies wishing away the ills of the world and apparently
taking her right along with them. That she had no memory of it only
made it worse somehow. Her impatience doubled. "C'mon, what's
going on? Where do you want us to go?"

A tiny hesitation. She wished she could see his face. She could
usually tell just by the gleam in his eye when he was trying to
hoodwink her, especially these days. Namely, since that night last
April. But over the phone? He could hide anything behind that
monotone. "Well, I was wondering if you'd like to take a drive
north along the coast today. Spend the night in one of the towns up
there, do a little sight-seeing, eat some seafood, maybe get our feet
wet in the Atlantic." Another hesitation. "But listen, if you'd rather
work, I think I could be pressed into finding something active in the
files -" 

"Forget it, Mulder. I'm not going."

"You're not? C'mon, Scully. It'll be fun."

Oh, that'll do it, won't it? When all else fails, whine. She could
picture him so easily standing there in the office, looking at a file
containing photos of God only knows what and trying to come up
with just the right line to entice her away from domestic chores and
a day of Cary Grant on AMC. Good luck, mister. She grunted as
she toyed with the lock of hair hanging over one eye. "Fun,
Mulder? Sure, I'll bet. What is it this time, cattle mutilations in
upstate New York? Bright lights hovering over the Governor's
mansion in Rhode Island? Whatever it is, I'm not interested."

He hesitated. "What do you mean, 'this time'?" Odd. He didn't
sound sullen, which at this point he normally would - Mulder didn't
like being thwarted. 

Well, neither did she. In fact, she hoped he *could* hear her
impatience. To hell with it. This was *her* day, dammit. "What I
mean, Mulder, is that I have a life right here in Washington. It may
not be an interesting life as some things go, but after the stuff we've
seen and done the past few months, I'm sort of looking forward to
just catching up on stuff around the house. We haven't had a lot of
downtime lately, you know, and I'm .... well, I'm behind on a lot of
things." Like laundry. If she didn't get some done today, she'd be
buying pantyhose for the coming work week.

There was an awkward silence, and she could almost hear the
wheels spinning in his head. Then to her surprise, he actually
chuckled. "Oh, now I get it. No, this isn't a case. This isn't work.
Honest."

The tense muscles in her neck and shoulders relaxed just a tad.
"Oh." It was her turn to hesitate. "Well, what is it then?"

Another chuckle. "What you just said .... downtime. Something
different. Something you and I have never done." He paused for
effect. "But listen, if you're not interested ...." The words trailed
off, potent in their absence. 

*Bluff*, she almost snorted. Instead she turned and surveyed her
apartment, quickly separating what needed doing from what could
wait. Vacuuming. Dusting. Some ironing to do. Filing - argh! Not
that word! Okay, so maybe a little road trip had its appeal. She
looked down at herself. A shower was definitely a must.
Fortunately, rapid departures were the routine with their work. "A
drive along the coast?" she repeated slowly.

"Mm hmm."

"A good hotel, or some fleabag dive Accounting would push off on
us?" Did he realize how much hinged upon his answer?

Evidently he did. "Well, I wouldn't say *fleabag.* It might not
exactly be five-star, but I doubt it has dung-eating robotic
cockroaches from outer space, if that's what you're worried
about."

She ignored *that* reference, but permitted herself something of a
sigh as she considered her options. A chance to sit on a beach,
listening to the surf and birds and the wind .... and her partner
prattling on about one thing or another, no doubt something
supernatural and altogether improbable, and priceless because of it.

Holding hands as they walked barefoot on the cold, hard, wet sand. 

Letting him steal a kiss as she ran her hands up his warm, smooth
back .... 

Damn. Laundry was quickly falling on her list of priorities. Still, a
lingering doubt remained. There was *always* more to his plans
than what he declared up front. Seven years had taught her that.
"All right, what's the catch?"

"Catch?"

She snorted very softly. "Yeah. I don't mean to sound suspicious or
ungrateful, but it sounds a little too good to me. We won't be
investigating reported sightings of the innkeeper's dead uncle
Edgar, will we? No dogs barking from beyond the grave? Nothing
to do with work at all? I just want to be clear on this. This is
*completely* for fun, right?"

His voice was silky in her ear as he replied, "Fun, Scully. The kind
that involves you and me and nothing else." He stressed the last
two words, and she swore she could feel him standing behind her,
pushing his nose gently into that spot just behind her ear, his breath
warming her neck and cheek and, as she turned her head, her
mouth. "Of course," he added in the same seductive tone, "if we
*do* happen upon some unfortunate victim ...."

She struggled against a girlish titter and lost. "If we do, then
*you'll* be bellying up to the autopsy table while *I* gorge myself
on whatever buffet I can find." 

"That, Agent Scully, is a deal."

His tone was still silken, and her giggle mellowed into a contented
smile. "A trip up the coast. With you. For fun." She paused as she
considered everything she'd been determined to accomplish over
the weekend. The image of her partner sprawled, naked and panting
and drenched in sweat, quickly reduced those ambitions to a
passing thought. "Oh, what the hell - I think I can handle that." 

"Good. How soon can you be ready?"

***M***

It was tempting, but he didn't rent the convertible. Not that he was
seriously afraid of decapitation. Nor that someone might look at
him cruising around in what could easily be termed a chickmobile
with someone as drop-dead gorgeous as his partner and
immediately assume he was suffering a classic mid-life crisis.
Nothing so pedestrian as that, and besides, thirty-nine wasn't old.
He *could* be practical when he wanted to, and for once he was
prepared to demonstrate it. Spring was drawing rapidly to a close.
The sun was going to be fierce. He would be okay, he reasoned, but
with that red hair and pale skin, Scully wouldn't fare so well.

However, just because he opted for the hard top didn't mean he still
couldn't indulge himself a little.

As he drew up in front of her building, he could see her standing at
her living room window, shielding her eyes with one hand as she
held a coffee mug with the other. On the lookout, huh, partner? She
spied him at once, and a grin practically split her face in two. What,
had she expected him to sign out something from the Bureau auto
pool? He double parked and got out in the middle of the street,
beckoning to her with a wave and a smile. With a shake of her
head, she retreated behind the shades and appeared a moment later
at the building's entrance, a gym bag in her hand and a small purse
slung over her shoulder. Her usual severe suit had been replaced by
jeans and a plain white shirt. Clean white runners instead of heels.
She looked comfortable. Even relaxed. Different. He liked it.

She came to a stop a few feet away and looked the situation over.
Her wry half-smile did not waver. "A Mustang, Mulder?"

Arms folded, he leaned casually against the gleaming fender and
winked at her. "A *white* Mustang. Which reminds me .... my suit
of armor's at the cleaners. Those coffee stains must have been a
real bitch before stainless steel came along. Here, allow me." He
moved closer and gently took her bag from her. Mm, she smelled
wonderful - all her assorted aromas combined with morning brew.
God, he wanted to kiss her right then and there. Time for that later,
he told himself firmly. A flick of his arm sent the bag through the
open window and into the back seat. 

She glanced at him as she belted herself in. He saw a smile twitch
the corner of her mouth. With a soft grunt he leaned close and
kissed her on the cheek. "Good morning, partner. Mm, you smell
good."

He was delighted at the answering wash of color in her face.
"Thanks. Better than my refrigerator's going to smell in a couple
days. And we might have to stop at Hecht's tomorrow. I don't
think I'll be doing much laundry before Monday."

He grunted softly as he pulled away from the curb and made the
turn onto Bridgeport. "Why, what do you need to buy?"

Her mouth opened and then closed, and the color staining her
cheeks brightened even more. "Never mind." 

***S***

This is weird. We're going away for the weekend. Mulder and I.
Together. For a purpose definitely not related to work. 

Weird.

He didn't say anything about getting separate rooms. God, I hope
he doesn't think that's what I want. I don't. 

She looked over at him almost bashfully. He was watching the road
and didn't seem to notice. Jesus, what was with her? Bashful? They
were partners. They were friends. Friends could talk, right?
Besides, weren't they lovers, too? True, they'd been together only
twice. The first time in early April, and then just the other night ....
beer and popcorn .... that silly movie .... a make-out session that
ended in a tangle of limbs long before the end credits played
themselves out. If he wasn't interested in sleeping with her, would
he have invited her along on what could only be called a romantic
jaunt?

Don't be such an ass, she chided herself. You're over-analyzing.
What is it he's always telling you? Just go with it?

She was startled when he reached over and took her hand. Analyze
that, smart ass. She smiled as she watched their fingers lace. "So,"
she said, "what's the occasion?"

His brows quirked. "Occasion?" 

She pursed her lips and half-shrugged. "Perhaps I should rephrase
that. What do you have planned for us?"

His smile prompted a slow burn from her throat to her pelvis, and
she was hard-pressed to restrain a shiver of anticipation. "Don't
you want to be surprised?" he asked softly. 

She was staring at his mouth. The realization caused her to blush,
and she struggled to look away. Jesus, he was sexy. Those jeans
and the charcoal T-shirt .... and the sunglasses. Yum. He didn't
appear to have shaved, either. Had he showered? She hoped not. It
wasn't often that she was treated to the raw essence of her partner.
Just the thought made her mouth water.

Her mouth, and other parts.

What was he saying? Come on, dammit, pay attention. What if he
asks you something? What if he looks over and finds you oggling
his crotch? What then?

".... little spin up the coast. I realize the traffic's going to be a bitch,
but so what? There's a place about a hundred miles from here
called .... hell, I can't remember. It's supposed to be nice, though.
Byers told me about it the other day."

That got her attention. She looked at him with what she feared was
suspicion in her eyes. "Byers! You didn't tell him about us, did
you?"

He gave her a look of genuine dismay. "No, of course not. Jesus, as
many years as Frohike's been hankering after you .... do you think I
WANT to have my apartment bugged again? Shit, I might just as
well hand the little troll my keys."

She relaxed back in her seat. "Well, how did it come up? You two
just happened to be discussing romantic get-aways?"

He smiled again, and her heart did a nice flip-flop. "Sort of. Only it
was framed as the old where-would-you-go-to-get-decent-crab
cakes question. He was thrilled to tell me about the convention
they're attending in Atlantic City this weekend. I think he was
hoping I'd want to go along." She gave his hand a quick squeeze
and smiled when he returned the gesture. "Anyway. I figured we'd
start with lunch down on the pier and see what happens after that.
Oh, and I made reservations for us at the Starlight motel. That's
fitting, don't you think? I checked it out on the internet. It
overlooks one of the local beaches, and close enough we can walk
to the town's nice, old-fashioned boardwalk."

She felt a stab of disappointment. "Reservations?"

He spared her a quick glance. "Yeah. Why? Shouldn't I have?"

Reservations, plural. She didn't want plural. Hope warred briefly
with pride. Pride lost. "But we're going to sleep together, right?"
she asked, picking at a spot of lint on the seat beside her knee, not
daring to look at him. "I mean, we ARE going to have sex this
weekend, aren't we?" No reply. She shot him a quick look and
found him staring at her, slack-jawed. A horn blared from a passing
car, and she made a fast grab for the wheel. "Mulder! Jesus, keep
your eyes on the road!"

He faced forward again with a snap. "Oh. Sorry." His voice was
little more than a croak, and his Adam's apple bobbed as he forced
a swallow. "Uh, yeah. Well, I suppose we could do that, if you
want."

Let it never be said Scully doesn't speak her mind. 

He could barely keep his attention on what he was doing. Thank
God driving was second nature at this point in life, because it was
just too hard to maintain any logical order to his thoughts. And
speaking of hard .... he was getting that way, fast. Why he'd opted
to wear those damned jeans, he could not remember. The Bermuda
shorts he'd packed .... okay, *stuffed* into his travel bag offered
SO much more room in front. As it was, things were getting
awfully uncomfortable. Oh, and it didn't help in the slightest when
he found himself thinking back on the other night. Watching her
make love to that beer bottle .... feeling her lean bit by bit into his
side until there was absolutely no distinction between his space and
hers .... the way she tilted her head back just enough to accept his
tentative kiss. 

It didn't stay tentative for long, as he remembered. That first kiss
was brief, a gesture of greeting. The second must have lasted a full
five minutes. After that, there was no looking back.

Her hand on his neck. Lips exploring his throat, his mouth. The
heat of her mouth beneath his as he delved into her, reacquainting
himself with all the sweet, secret places that comprised this woman,
his partner. Panting her name in time to the rhythm of their
movements. Jesus, how beautiful she looked as she rode wave after
wave of madness. And what she did to *him* .... well, he suspected
that both his next-door AND his upstairs neighbors were quite
familiar with her name by the time all had been said and done. 

And done. 

And done some more.

Blaring static interrupted those sweet, tantalizing thoughts. Oh,
thank God and all that was holy for the distraction. She'd turned
the radio on and was flipping idly through the stations. The
offerings were pretty meager - too bad the rental hadn't come with
a few CDs. Country? Ugh. Saturday evangelists - keep going,
partner. That bigoted, opinionated woman with the big hair and
even bigger mouth? He smiled. Sorry, Doctor KnowItAll. No time
for your puritanical crap today. 

He grunted his approval when she settled on a selection of jazz.
Not that they would have very long to enjoy it. "Good choice. And
perfect timing. This is our exit." 

*******

The manager greeted them with polite indifference. Have a nice
trip? Ice machine's two doors down on the left, just under the stair
well. Room 212. He ran Mulder's credit card, then handed it back
along with a little plastic key ring. Room should be ready for you.
Checkout's tomorrow noon. Enjoy your stay.

Mulder grunted in response as he turned and handed her the key.
The receipt, she noticed, was not shoved into his pants pocket as it
normally would have been, but disappeared into the bag slung over
his shoulder. Hmm. Guess there wasn't getting anything else into
those jeans. She'd noticed the pronounced bulge, of course, the one
only half-concealed by his fly. Poor Mulder. Too much longer and
he'd be in danger of sustaining permanent injury, probably to his
eyes when they popped right out of his head. How would she
explain it to their superiors? Well, Sir, you see, we were out on a
short holiday and, well, the pressure to copulate simply became
more than Agent Mulder could handle ....

Jesus, Dana, give it a rest. Mental babbling. Bad sign. Bad bad bad. 

He didn't say anything as he followed her up the wooden stairs, and
stood quietly as she turned the key in the lock and pushed the door
open. "Be back in a minute," he said as he flicked on the bathroom
light. She smothered a grin as the door clicked shut behind him.

The room was comfortable; clean if rather bland. A queen bed and a
color TV, complete with remote. Well, Mulder would be happy.
Laying her purse and bag on the bed, she went to the patio door
and heaved it aside. A brisk wind carrying a tang of salt washed
over her. Even from this distance she could hear children at play
near the water's edge. She let her head fall back and inhaled deeply.
The ocean, the laughter of children, and Mulder. No hospitals, no
cases, no forms that needed completing in triplicate. This must be
what heaven was like.

Mulder. What was he doing? She turned and eyed the closed door.
No sounds, not even the flushing of a toilet. She crossed back and
knocked gently. "Hey, are you okay in there?"

There - she heard a few muffled sounds. He'd taken his bag with
him. Must be changing. "Don't worry, Doctor Scully, I haven't
fallen in. Gimme a minute, okay? Don't worry, I'm not going
anywhere without you."

You'd better not. Definitely changing. Dammit. Not that she could
blame him, but that particular activity was one she would like to
have witnessed. She leaned a shoulder on the door jamb and closed
her eyes. He'd have kicked his shoes into a corner. Were the jeans
button-fly? She imagined them popping open one by one, and a soft
groan escaping him as he carefully peeled them off over his hips.
What sort of underwear did he have on? Not the silk boxers. Not
for a road trip. Seven years together had taught them a lot about
each other: he preferred cotton on the road, and particularly in the
summer. What color? Gray. Black. Dark blue. He would be winter-
pale yet; the man was not a great worshiper of the sun even at the
best of times, and life of late had been anything but the best. Yes,
pale. Thick and elongated and ....

Abruptly the door snapped opened, as did her eyes. He looked at
her in surprise. Yes, he'd changed. Khaki shorts instead of jeans, his
t-shirt hanging untucked and rumpled. A smile immediately
brightened his eyes. "Hey there. Something I can do for you?"

She lifted her chin and met his gaze full-on. "I was getting a little
concerned."

He shook his head slowly. "Thought I might be letting out a little
steam, so to speak? Not a chance. My girlfriend would kill me." He
edged closer, almost but not quite touching her. "What's on your
mind, girlfriend?"

She folded her arms as she looked at him. "You said something
about lunch down on the pier. Then I was thinking maybe a walk on
the beach, if we can find a spot that doesn't have twenty people on
it. Kick our shoes off ...."

His eyes were soft and warm as they flitted around her face. His
tone was low and soft. "I don't know, Scully. If memory serves,
*you* said something about sleeping arrangements. Maybe we
should work out the details before we get too involved with playing
tourist."

She willed away a girlish blush. Of course his priorities would lie
there. Well, if it came down to a choice, she'd take sex before food,
no problems. Still, she couldn't contain a wry half-smile. "Why the
rush, Mulder? Planning on taking a nap?"

He leaned closer. "Maybe." The lean became a nuzzle, and his voice
dropped to a whisper as his nose brushed her cheek. "God, you
smell good." Another nuzzle, and she felt his lips touch her jaw.
"Mmm .... so glad you said yes ...."

She smiled as she closed her eyes. "What else would I say to you?"

His response was not spoken so much as it was purred. "Mmm, you
always find a way to keep me guessing."

His hands settled on her folded arms, gentling them apart, touching
and stroking and caressing. It was fun to resist for a while, to
pretend that his touch did not reach her; but it was even better
when she gave in, returning his gestures with cool, not-quite-steady
fingers. His lips traced a line along her jaw, circling her ear and
eliciting a little gasp when he latched onto her neck and sucked.
Her hands were not still during this slow assault, but carefully slid
up beneath his shirt and mapped out the bare skin of his chest and
belly. The sprinkling of hair on his sternum gave way to stiff,
prickling beard at his throat. He smelled warm and musky. 

His lips trailed up the side of her face to her temple. He kissed her
eyes by turn, then tilted her chin up so he could lavish the same
attention on her throat. "This is what I was thinking about on the
drive up," he breathed. "Touching you. Tasting you." His fingers
shook a little as he worked at the buttons on her collar. 

"Tell me something, Mulder," she murmured.

His voice was little more than a whisper. "Anything."

She worked the thumb of one hand into the waistband of the
Bermudas. "Why'd you put these on if we're just going to take
them right back off?"

He let out a low moan as she gently drew her nails up his flanks. "
.... give you something to .... ah .... to open, of course."

She plucked at the zipper and eased it down. To strip down and
take him then and there was a temptation she wasn't about to resist.
It would be so easy. A single push toward the bed and he'd topple
onto his back - when faced with the prospect of sex, Mulder
became singularly cooperative. A few seconds to divest herself of
clothes, another few for a last kiss, and then ....

A sudden explosion shook the door violently in its frame, shattering
the peace of the moment and dispelling all thoughts of sex and
romance. They leapt apart in alarm, Mulder immediately grabbing at
his waist for the gun which he'd clearly forgotten wasn't there.
Only it wasn't an explosion, Scully realized - someone was merely
knocking. Well, pounding. And shouting. They exchanged
disbelieving looks. Then with a snarl, he closed up his shorts and
pulled his shirt down over the sizeable bulge. The jarring sound
continued, unabated. 

He jerked the door open, cutting off the thunderous hammering and
catching the gatecrasher in one motion when he stumbled forward.
A quick push and the intruder staggered back against the banister.
Scully sized him up quickly. A kid, probably no more than eighteen,
skinny and sunburned, and obviously drunk. Sandy hair was
disheveled from the wind and whatever else he'd been up to, and
alcohol fumes rolled off him in waves. He squinted a little as he
looked at them. 

"Something we can help you with?" Mulder snapped. His
interrogation voice. No Mr. Nice-Guy, Tell Me Your Troubles
here. Not this time. This was the voice of Mr. I've Had Enough Of
Your Bullshit, Just Tell Us The Fucking Truth.

The teen swayed precariously, like a scarecrow come to life. "'s
Sim'n ready t'go swimmn'?"

Mulder drew himself up, face wrinkling in disgust. "You've got the
wrong room, kid. How 'bout you do a one-eighty and go back to
where you came from before someone tells the manager he's got
under-aged drinking going on here."

The threat fell on deaf ears. The kid blinked and looked past him to
Scully. "Sim'n ready t' swim, Mis' McAl'ster?"

She laid a hand on Mulder's arm to both silence and restrain him.
"What's your name?"

Slow blink and more swaying. God, she could smell him from six
feet away. "Harl."

She nodded. "Well, Carl, there's no one named Simon here. No one
here is going to go swimming, either. Now I want you to turn
around and go back to your room. Will you do that?"

The sandy head jerked up and down. "'kay." He paused and looked
first left, then right. "Where's it?"

"Shit." Mulder sighed noisily and caught the kid by the front of his
shirt when the swaying threatened to pitch him backward over the
banister. "I'll be right back. C'mon, Icabod, let's go find out where
the hell you belong."

She stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Uh, Mulder .... are you
sure you want to go out like that? Armed, I mean." She gestured to
his midsection with a lift of her chin.

He snorted and gave the boy's arm a little jerk. "Don't sweat it,
Scully, it's on a fast fade. Save my place, would you?" He shot
their unfortunate visitor a withering look. "C'mon, fratboy. The bar
is officially closed."

***M***

Great. Fucking wonderful. Forty-five seconds away from absolute
heaven on earth and here he was escorting Ferris Bueller's idiot
twin to the principal's office. Forty-five seconds, tops, from being
up to his eyebrows in his partner, with those lush soft spots and
eyes that could see straight down into him .... oh, just the thought
made his balls ache. Not fair. Not fair. So many years of working
next to her, seeing her and smelling her and barely being able to
bring himself to God-damn touch her; and now that she was ready
and willing and so damn hot he expected it to burn when he kissed
her, *now* he wasn't even in the same room with her. And he
hadn't exactly been truthful just now: his condition wasn't
subsiding in the slightest. If he wasn't damned lucky, some passer-
by was going to see more than they were likely to appreciate.
Distinguished profile indeed.

Seven years together. Did she know adrenaline had that effect on
him?

It really didn't help his mood when, a dozen paces from the
manager's office, the kid abruptly threw himself down on all fours
and shot whatever he'd been drinking all over the pavement.
Mulder grimaced and took a hasty step back. Damn, maybe he
should have let Scully play escort, or at least come along for the
walk. ALL he needed was for the kid to barf up something vital,
because then it would be ambulances and paperwork and very little
time for touchy-feely for the rest of the weekend. Jeez, this just was
not fair. He looked around helplessly.

What luck. The manager was standing in the open doorway of the
office and had seen the whole disgusting show. 

Impatiently Mulder waved him over. The kid was either taking a
break from airing out his guts or he'd finally passed out - he had his
forehead pressed up against some lucky bastard's hubcap and was
moaning very softly. The kindly old fart immediately took control
of the situation, half-carrying, half-dragging his drunken charge
back across the parking lot and into the office. 

Mulder wasted no time on conversation. He took the stairs two at a
time - he might have done three, but it didn't seem a wise to
attempt it with a pry bar in his shorts. She was standing beside the
open patio door when he swept into the room. "Crisis over," he
announced as he locked the door behind him. "Our friend Harl
should be in rehab by the end of the weekend." 

She folded her arms and looked at him with a carefully blank
expression. Oh, who did she think she was kidding? Did she
honestly believe he didn't know her well enough to spot the
playfulness she was trying so hard to hide? It was actually getting
to be something of a game for them. How long could she hold the
dour fa‡ade? What would it take to make the ice in her eyes melt
away? Mmm, want to play with a blowtorch, little girl? I just
happen to have one *right* here.

Bending, he brushed his lips over hers. Her expression, he saw, was
still stoic, but her eyes gleamed with mischief. "Now then ...."
Another kiss, longer this time. "Where were we?"

One hand slid slowly up his arm, while the other drifted down to
cradle his erection. "Right about .... here." She hefted him gently,
and a sly gleam joined the mischief in her eyes. "Subsiding, huh,
partner?"

He smiled as he toyed with the buttons on her shirt, slipping one
free and revealing a small area of pale flesh. "Sue me." Another
button, more skin. Mmm, there was a lot for a guy to appreciate
here. The drunk was a rapidly-fading memory. 

Was that the door? He groaned as he kissed her. Life was not fair.
The dumbfuck was back. That must be it. Or Dumbfuck's friends,
no doubt more drunken fratboys out looking for their lost buddy.
Well, at least this one wasn't trying to wake the dead with his
knuckles. In fact, this one was actually polite. Timid knocks. A
voice that sounded almost apologetic. And familiar. 

"Mr. Mulder? I'm sorry to disturb you and your .... friend, but we
have something of a situation here."

Jeez, the manager. Shit, it had to be - no one else knew his name.
Shit. Shit. Shit! Reluctantly Mulder pried himself away from the
locked Scully had on his mouth. "Tell me not to pull my gun and
start shooting," he groaned.

She scowled gently. "You didn't bring it, did you? Mulder, we're
on vaca-"

"Kidding." He kissed her again. "It's the manager. Ignore him.
He'll get the idea."

Only the yutz didn't get it at all. There was a second volley of polite
taps, these just a little louder, a little more persistent. "Mr. Mulder,
I'm aware how inconvenient this is, but I'm afraid it's something of
an emergency. I must insist you open the door."

Scully drew back so suddenly the suction created an audible smack!
The look she gave him was guarded. Wary. "Mulder, tell me you
didn't use your credentials to book us here. Tell me he doesn't
know we're with the Bureau."

He blinked and shook his head. "Not a word. I think I even put
*Psychologist* down as my occupation. Whatever he wants, it
can't be our professional services." He glanced over his shoulder at
the door. "I should have put the Do Not Disturb sign up. Dammit."

She slowly peeled herself away from him and stepped back. He let
her go without a struggle. "Well, we should see what he wants."

He stared at her. Hair nicely messed up, face aglow, shirt and pants
hanging open to reveal what could laughingly be called underwear
.... God, he loved her in a thong. Oh, very nice. The man wouldn't
suspect a thing, would he? "Well, which of us gets the honors of
embarrassing the old guy?"

She gave him a look as she buttoned her shirt. "Do you honestly
think he doesn't know exactly what's going on in here? What goes
on around this place *every* weekend?" She softened her words
with a smile. "Close your mouth, Mulder, and get yourself pulled
together. I'll get this one."

Despite her words, she didn't exactly run to the door. He could
practically hear her cataloging herself before reaching for the
doorknob. Hair finger-combed out of her face, shirt buttoned,
zipper checked .... okay, so the guy knew what he was interrupting
here - there was no reason to give him a skin show. She slowly
unlocked the door and opened it a crack. "Yes, can we help you?
What's the problem?" 

The manager, a man in his seventies with soft blue eyes and an even
softer-looking Santa Claus beard, had the good grace to look
chagrined. "Terribly sorry to, uh, interrupt, but the boy that your ....
uh, friend apprehended evidently first stumbled over .... well, he
*fell* over the propane assembly behind the office and damaged the
regulator. We're going to have to evacuate the premises until the
unit can be repaired and the fire marshal can get in and give us the
all-clear."

She looked back over her shoulder at him. "Did you catch that,
Mulder? We have to clear out for a while."

Silently he applauded his restraint: not so much as a snivel. "What's
the timeframe?" he asked, his tone brusque. "Should we change
motels? Is there any real chance of an explosion?"

The manager drew himself up just a little. "None, in any practical
sense. This is only a precaution. The repair service is already on
their way from the next town. I assure you, there's no need to make
any changes to your plans." He hesitated as his glance took in their
rumpled clothes, and a dark flush appeared in his bewhiskered
cheeks. "What I mean is, it won't take long to make the repairs and
have the place inspected for safety. It's not too late for lunch - I
happen to know the Captain's Shanty down on the dock serves a
very nice seafood menu. And there's always the boardwalk. Now, if
you will gather what you'll need for the day, please - no one will be
allowed back until after the fire marshal's been." With that, he
turned on his heel. They could hear him knocking on the
neighboring door. 

Mulder swore roundly as he turned away. "Dammit, just once I'd
like it if things would go our way. Just once." He went into the
bathroom and retrieved his shoes, then threw himself down on the
foot of the bed and tugged them on without unlacing them. "You
know, I'm beginning to think we've been hexed. Maybe we're
damned to suffer Murphy's wrath all weekend. Maybe we should
just go -"

She silenced him with a kiss. "Shut up, Mulder. The only place
we're going is the Captain's Shanty, or whatever it is, for that lunch
you promised me." She kissed him again, over and over until she
coaxed a soft sigh out of him. "Come on. So we won't be able to
indulge in .... other things for a few hours." Kiss. "For *years*, I
went without." Kiss. "I can go a few more hours. So can you."

He grumbled sourly as she caught his hands and drew him to his
feet. "This wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I called you this
morning, you know."

She leaned into his side. "I know. C'mon, G-man. There's fun to be
had even with our clothes on."

He sighed morosely. "Not the same, Scully. Not the same at all."

***M***

Okay, so the day wasn't proceeding exactly as he'd planned. True,
he wasn't where he currently wanted to be, which was up to the hilt
in his partner. Did it really matter that he'd probably end up with a
third-degree case of blue balls? At least he was *with* her. They
weren't working. They weren't in some damned hospital. Neither
were they stuck in their own apartments, separated by circumstance
and miles of weekend traffic. The town was nice enough. The
weather was warm. He was hungry, and so was Scully.

The restaurant was charming, in a touristy sort of way. The
waitresses were nice to look at. The food looked .... pretty damned
good, actually. 

Not as good as his partner. Hair very nicely mussed, a faint glow
lingering in her cheeks and in her eyes .... None of the other women
in the room could hold a candle to her. And she was his. His. Jesus,
he was a lucky man.

They gave their order to the waitress, then he excused himself and
made his way to the bathroom. Gravity and disappointment were
finally getting a handle on the situation, at least as far as his flesh
was concerned. He looked as his reflection in the mirror as he
washed his hands. They'd eat. They'd walk. They might spend a
little money on stuff they didn't really need .... sex wasn't their only
mission that weekend, after all.

No, his inner hedonist moaned, but it was so close .... SO close ....

He thought back on that night back in April. The terror and the
hope that seized him when he realized just why she was coming to
him .... the feel of her, and the smell and taste .... 

"Get a grip," he muttered, reeling off a yard or more of paper towel
and vigorously drying his hands. "It'll happen. It *will* happen." A
glance in the mirror assured him that it was at least safe for him to
go out in public. Blood was flowing to his brain again. They could
always get another motel. Or maybe just drive up to the coast to a
secluded inlet where they could make out like crazed teens. The day
wasn't a total loss.

"Agent Mulder. Not working on a case, are you?"

He knew that voice. Oh, shit. He turned with a snap. 

"Sir." His hands clenched around the wadded paper towel. Strike
that thought about the day not being shot to hell. Fuck Murphy and
that God-damned law of his. "What .... are you doing here?" Did he
sound panicked? Was his poker face in place? 

The last vestige of his erection withered and died.

Skinner fell back a half step and allowed a tow-headed little boy
into the single stall. How did he do it, Mulder wondered. The
severe dark suit had been replaced by khakis and a casual shirt, but
the man still looked as relaxed and inviting as the Grim Reaper.
Maybe it was just his guilty conscience at work, but Mulder half
expected him to start quoting regs about male and female agents
consorting in hotel rooms. Ah! But they weren't on assignment,
were they? "...in town for a visit with my sister," Skinner was
saying. "She lives in the next town and invited me up for the day.
You know, a day at the beach with the kid. Ride the roller coaster.
Whatever."

It took two tries, but Mulder finally swallowed the rock in his
throat. "K-kid?" Oh, brilliant. Now a stammer. The man won't
suspect a thing.

Skinner eyed him curiously. "Yeah, kid. Maybe you've heard of
them. Look kind of like adults, only shorter. Perhaps you even
noticed the one I just came in with." His brow furrowed into the
scowl Mulder always seemed to cause. "What, may I ask, are
*you* doing here? I don't remember seeing a 302 cross my desk
that mentioned any sea-side towns." 

The rock slid out of Mulder's throat and landed with a thud in the
pit of his stomach. "That's .... because there was none. I'm not
working." He mustered a wan smile. "Personal time."

The AD's eyes narrowed perceptibly. "I see." He glanced at the
closed stall door, as if expecting to catch his young charge
eavesdropping. "Anyone I know?"

Should have seen this coming, Mulder thought wearily. Things
were going too well, at least for those precious few minutes. He
shrugged and tossed the wadded paper in the plastic trash can with
studied care. Would Skinner recognize his panic face? Scully would
in a heartbeat, but would Skinner? Best not to deny anything
outright; no telling if the A.D. had already seen them. "Yeah, you
may have seen her from time to time."

Skinner pursed his lips as he regarded him. "Uh huh." He glanced
again at the closed stall, then looked down at his feet. "Listen, if she
.... if she happens to have red hair ...." He paused, clearly searching
for words. "I don't need to know about it. I don't *want* to know
about it. No one needs to know. No one will, just so your personal
time stays personal." He met Mulder's gaze again, and his dark
brows twitched upward. "I trust I make myself clear?"

Mulder studied him for a moment before nodding. "Yes, sir. I
believe you do." He gave a feeble wave in the general direction of
the small feet visible beneath the stall door. "Say hi to the family for
us."

It was more difficult than he would have thought, but he managed
not to run back to his waiting partner. She was studying a framed
photograph on the wall beside their table. She looked up at his
approach, a smile lighting her face. "Mulder, take a look at this.
This man, who stands five-foot- three, managed to land a three
hundred pound halibut in 1953. This narrative says it took him two
and a half hours."

He didn't even spare a glance at the photo. "That's great. Excuse
me, Miss?" The passing waitress stopped short and eyed him
appreciatively. He pretended not to notice. "Would it be possible to
get our order to go?"

Scully's smile abruptly vanished. "What? I don't want to leave! It's
perfect here!" She folded her arms stubbornly and glowered at him,
reminding him for all the world of a rebellious teen. "I'm sure you
have a very good reason for this sudden change of plan."

He considered dragging her bodily from the restaurant, but
discarded the idea. Too much effort, too much noise; Skinner
would be bound to hear. Instead he picked up her purse and slung it
over his shoulder. "You want a reason?" he asked briskly.

She didn't move. "Yes, I do."

"No problem, I have the perfect one. I'll even give you a hint: it's a
guy, maybe six foot three, doesn't have a lot of hair upstairs, wears
glasses, has no discernable sense of humor .... and I'd just as soon
he didn't come out of the men's room and see us."

Her petulant expression dissolved away with remarkable speed,
leaving in its place a look of wide-eyed disbelief. "You don't mean
....?" He nodded. She looked at the waitress and managed a tight
smile. "We'll need that to go ....."

***S***

They found a quiet corner of the boardwalk and, using the rail as an
impromptu table, stood and ate their lunch. The motel proprietor
hadn't been exaggerating - the food *was* good. When the last of
the crab cakes were gone, Mulder tossed the Styrofoam containers
and wadded napkins into a nearby trashcan - this, Scully mused to
herself, was *his* idea of doing the dishes - and then they turned
their attention to the town's two main attractions: the wide, breezy
expanses of beach, and the vibrant, chaotic boardwalk, stretching
like a multi-hued dragon down the length of the pier.

No one could sulk like her partner, Scully knew, and she'd be
damned if she'd let him sink into one of his moods. Without a
word, she slipped her arm around his waist and pressed herself into
his side as they walked. His gaze quite naturally fell from her face
to her cleavage. When he realized she was smiling at him, he
actually blushed a little and looked away. "Sorry," he murmured.
That was followed by a dispirited sigh. "Hell, I'm sorry for
everything. The whole damned thing."

She chuffed softly. "What exactly does *everything* entail?"

He shrugged one shoulder listlessly. "This isn't what I had in mind
when I called this morning."

She sighed as she looked out over the crowd snaking along the
length of the pier. Sometimes he could be SO predictable. "Shit
happens." He looked at her, clearly surprised by the vulgarity, and
she grinned. "Come on, Mulder. You didn't do anything to foul
things up. We can thank our friend Carl for that."

Mulder grunted. "Yeah, him and that puddle of ooze that passes for
his gene pool. What kind of parent takes their kid someplace like
this and then lets them get plastered?" 

She tipped her head to one side and peered up at him. He could be
so cute when he pouted. If that lower lip of his stuck out any
further, it was going home with a tan-line. "You aren't pissed at
them, Mulder. Not really. You're just sore because you can't get
laid yet."

A wry half-smile drew at his mouth and eyes. "Is that your medical
opinion, Doc?"

She abruptly sidled away, searching in her wallet for some bills as
she made her way to a carnival stand. "I know how to take your
mind off your troubles. C'mon - I'm going to beat the crap out of
you in some of these carnie games." 

Challenge issued and accepted. His chin lifted just a little, and she
caught the glimmer of curiosity and the feigned affront in his
expression. "I seriously doubt that. Surely I told you about my
formative years? All those summers spent in all those resort towns,
honing my skills at dart-throwing .... breaking plates .... pitching
softballs ...."

She slapped a five down on the low counter and hefted one of the
cheap BB rifles anchored to the stand with plastic chains. "That
may well be," she replied, raising the gun to her shoulder and trying
to sight down the barrel. Evidently it had been put together by three
chimpanzees and Brittany Spears; the quality was deplorable, and
she quite earnestly thanked her lucky stars that her life had never
depended upon such a useless weapon. "I don't see any balloons or
plates here, though. You can talk the talk, Mulder, but if you're
gonna walk the walk, you're going to have to outshoot me, at least
this once."

His eyes narrowed. "Ooo, Agent .... was that the sound of a
gauntlet being flung down?"

She set her shoulders. "You got it," she replied without turning. 

"And you honestly expect to beat me with that piss-ant pellet gun?"

That made her look up. "You've GOT to be kidding." She jerked
her chin at the short alley before her, and the tiny red star centered
in the scrap of paper no larger than a playing card. "With your
crappy vision, I'd be surprised if you can even make out the target."

He fished a handful of bills out of his front pocket and picked out
some singles. The attendant immediately swept the money up and
stuffed it into the front pocket of his apron. Mulder hefted one of
the cheap guns. "Someone certainly sounds cocky."

"Probably something about the company I keep."

He snorted softly. "Ha ha. Get ready to eat crow, partner. Lucky
for you, it goes down a lot easier when it's warm."

"Well, you should know." 

***M***

All right, he'd admit it. He'd had fun. So what that she'd out-shot
him in three straight sets? Things like that didn't exactly bother him.
It certainly wasn't the first time that had happened - he *had* been
to the practice range with her before, after all. Still, it was a good
day. The sun was warm, with a delicious cool breeze coming off the
bay. True, the beer was watered-down; but the pretzels, huge and
soft and layered in salt, did a lot to make up for it. What was more,
he and his partner weren't working or fighting, *or* languishing in
some damned hospital somewhere. 

And he'd had an epiphany. Sort of. Gotta love those epiphanies.

It began with a chance encounter. Scully was in the restroom, and
he was waiting in line for lemonade .... well, lemonade for her and
another watery beer for him .... and there they were, right in front
of him. An elderly man and woman. Just another couple in a
veritable sea of humanity milling around him. Except there was
something different about these two. They were close. Not so much
in the physical sense - in fact, they rarely touched. These two didn't
have to. It was the way they looked at each other. The way they
spoke; quietly, not-quite-whispered, as if they and they alone
existed in their own small corner of the world. And their
expressions .... rapt. Then, realizing Mulder's carefully casual
scrutiny, they smiled and, with no more than a sidelong glance at
one another, politely invited him into their little world. Wasn't the
sun glorious? Did he win that stuffed horse at the shooting gallery?
Had he tried the soft pretzels yet? Weren't they wonderful? That
pretty woman with the red hair .... was that his wife?

It pleased him to learn they were on their honeymoon - well,
*second* honeymoon - having just renewed their vows the day
before. The man .... his name was Homer .... had once been missing
in action in Korea and of course been presumed killed. The woman
.... Emma .... thought she'd never see him again this side of the
grave. Only she had. Some deal or other, an exchange of men for
men, men for land, or something - and the love of her life had come
home. Life continued. It wasn't always fun, true, and in fact was
rarely easy. There were kids, and fights, lost jobs and looming
bankruptcies, and more than one life-threatening illness .... but the
partnership continued. Only it was more than that. Looking at them
now, Mulder figured it was safe to say the partnership hadn't just
survived, it had *thrived. *

They smiled at Scully when she joined them, admired her stuffed
horse and complimented her on her shooting skills, and then took
their lemonade and disappeared into the crowd. Mulder felt a
distinct flicker of awe as he watched them go. Conflict and fear,
disappearances and deals made .... and still they were together. In
the final analysis, maybe that was what really counted.

He found himself thinking about them a lot throughout the day.

A loud, throaty roar from the roller coaster abruptly snapped his
reverie and brought him back to the here and now. He glanced
around and saw Scully standing at the water's edge, looking out at
the rolling waters of the bay. They'd had their fill of the boardwalk
a while ago and, without so much as a single word being uttered,
agreed it was time to leave the pandemonium behind. A short walk
had brought them here, to a narrow strip of beach just below the
boardwalk. For the moment it was empty of sun-weary tourists and
screaming, playing kids. They were alone.

Her arms were folded, and he could tell just from the set of her
shoulders that her thoughts were far, far away. Probably thinking
about her father, he mused. Did she realize how lucky she was?
How much her partner secretly envied her for something she had
growing up with, and that he hadn't? William Mulder never let his
son forget the distance and differences between them; never missed
the opportunity to remind the boy of his inferior station, no matter
his age. How are you, Son? Where're they sending you this time,
Son? You've lost your sister again, Son. While he'd had someone
who ignored him and belittled him by turns, Scully had had
someone to take her out and teach her how to throw a ball. How to
shoot a gun. How to act .... and talk .... and .... and how to BE a
good person. 

Mulder'd had a father, but Scully had had a *dad.* 

And what about marriage? His idea of the concept certainly wasn't
a positive one, growing up as he did in the emotional icehouse that
was his parents' union. What chance did he stand of ever having a
stable relationship, let alone a good marriage? Certainly his efforts
to this point hadn't been all that successful. Lots of battles, lots of
scars; little caring, less comfort. It always felt better being alone. At
least then he didn't have to wonder what was wrong with him that
he could be in a so-called relationship and still be so fucking lonely. 

Homer and Emma. He wanted to be like them. Hell, maybe he
already *was* like them and just didn't know it. 

"Hey." He felt her before he heard her, the slim, sun-warmed hand
slipping into his, offering an anchor he couldn't imagine ever being
without. He gave his head a mental shake, chasing those particular
ghosts back into the shadows, and looked down at her. Yes, she
*was* lucky, in her own way .... but so was he. He had her in his
life. God, let that never change. She wrinkled her nose up, eyes
squinted against the late afternoon sun. "You were a million miles
away. Deep thoughts?"

He slipped his arm around her, drawing her with him back along the
smooth beachhead. "Thinking." 

Her arm slid around his waist, her hand finding its place on his hip.
"About?" she prompted gently when he did not expound.

A tinge of melancholy plucked at him. Being here was too
reminiscent of the Vineyard. He always thought too much when he
was around the ocean. Besides, how could he explain? Could words
alone begin to convey all that he had seen and heard and felt that
afternoon? What began with a hedonistic impulse that morning had
become, for him, a lesson about life itself. What he'd sought
without knowing it, without even realizing that he didn't know it,
was found in the eyes and easy smiles of two strangers who existed
for, and with, each other. 

Smiling, he drew her closer still and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
When words failed, as they so often did, it was habit to fall back on
silent communication. Now as always, she seemed to know exactly
what he needed to say and couldn't. She said nothing, merely held
him, arms encircling his chest like a lifesaver. Which, in a way, was
precisely what she was. 

Above them, the noise of the carnival was suddenly bothersome. He
could feel the gazes of curious strangers like fingers pressing
unseen bruises on his skin. He needed to be alone. With her.
"C'mon," he murmured. "Let's go see if Harl has blown our motel
off the map yet."

***S***

He was standing in the open patio door when she came out of the
bathroom. One leg was held straight beneath him, bearing his
weight; the other was bent, giving him a slumped, relaxed look.
He'd already kicked his shoes off. As she watched, he ran his
fingers through his hair and then laced them behind his head. His
shoulders rose and fell on a sigh. 

Outside, she heard the mournful call of a gull, and beyond it, the
deep rumble of breakers. The children who played so hard earlier in
the day had long-since been dragged off to bed by weary parents.
There was no sign of Carl or his kin. There was just the wind, and
the ocean .... and her partner.

He turned suddenly and caught her staring. His chin rose a little and
he grunted softly in greeting. Slowly she took up a position
opposite his in the open doorway. For a long moment they stood
there, silent, unmoving, and watched the lavenders of dusk deepen
into deep jewel tones of night. 

"Sorry the day didn't go as you'd planned," she said very softly.

He didn't respond at once, but let his eyes rove over the expanse of
empty beach spread out below them. "Wasn't a bad day," he said at
last, turning in place and looking at her. "I could have done without
running into Skinner, but .... other than that, I wouldn't change a
thing." He caught her scowl and smiled. "Really."

She nodded thoughtfully as she crossed her arms before her. "'kay." 

"What about you?" he asked, stepping close and gentling her arms
apart again so he could step into them. "Good day?"

She raised her chin and looked up at him. "Hmm. Lemme think."
Thoughtfully, she watched her hands play up his shirtfront, and she
smiled when his breath caught in his chest. "Sun, fun, good food,
and a stuffed horse to go with that Mustang of yours ...." His hands
rose and cradled her head, gently impelling her to look at him again.
"Mmm, I really can't think of anything to complain about." 

He lowered his head and found her mouth with his. The first kiss
was soft and brief. The next was neither. Strange, she thought as
her arms found their way around him, how just this simple contact
can precipitate so many physical changes. Already she could feel
her pulse beginning to climb; could feel the warmth spreading
through her body. Gooseflesh rose, and she felt her nipples go hard.
His mouth was warm as it slanted across hers, soft and inviting. Her
eyes fell closed as he molded her to him. Breath mingled. Tongues
met, circled, seduced. Bodies prepared for a dance as old as the
ages. 

They paused to put out the lights, but left the patio door open. In
time the breeze would probably be too cool, but for the moment it
felt wonderful washing over their heated bodies, cooling sweat and
drying saliva from tender bites. Before she was quite aware, his
shirt was gone. How and where, she didn't really care. All that
mattered now was his warm flesh, pale and bare and hers. Hers to
touch, to taste. 

Hers.

Twice, they had been there. Now there was no awkwardness, no
first-time nervousness or fumbling, although even on that first night
there'd been precious little of *that*. He held her now with special
care, not because he wasn't sure what she wanted, but rather
because he *was* sure.

A few nudges with his hips and hands guided her backwards toward
the bed. Warm fingers joined hers in a slow dance with buttons. Six
on the shirt, one for the jeans, and a slow, deliberate waltz with her
zipper. Hushed whispers and deep kisses that made her knees weak
and her head spin. She made no protest as he settled her on the bed
and lowered himself over her.

More wet kisses, this time to her throat, the round of her shoulder,
the top of her breasts. A whimper escaped her as he found a tender
landmark in a nipple, nudged it with his nose, then claimed it with
teeth and tongue. An hour, a day, a week later - she could not say
for sure - warm, steady fingers joined in the seduction, imploring
her to open, to accept him in. Not the instrument she truly longed
for, but nothing to complain about; in no time at all those tools,
teeth and tongue and blessedly nimble fingers, all conspired
together to drive her to madness. As her climax swelled and then
broke over her, sending all thoughts flying out into space like so
many sparks, she flung her head back and cried out to the very
heavens.

Awareness returned with a delicious rush. She opened her eyes to
find him propped on an elbow over her, watching her. "That," he
purred, drawing himself back up her body and nuzzling as he went,
"was without a doubt the sexiest thing I've ever seen."

Her arms rose as he glided up over her, holding him fast. He
smelled of sun and sweat, of carnivals and delicious seafood and
home-spun cotton-candy; the essence beneath it, however, of the
man she had for years called friend and now, thankfully, could call
lover, was enough to make her eyes fall closed and her body grow
soft in anticipation. How perfectly he complemented her, she
mused; though different in so many ways, they were now drawing
together in the ultimate unity, possible only because of those
differences. Physically, emotionally, spiritually, he was her perfect
opposite.

Voices echoed hollowly around them, vague and indistinct. High
and rushed, full of juvenile enthusiasm. Children. She smiled to
herself as she cradled her partner in her arms and made love to his
mouth. Some lucky neighbor had their patio door open, and was at
this very moment probably explaining to their kids or grandkids that
not every scream was in response to a gut-wrenching turn on the
roller coaster. After all, not all thrills rides could be found on the
Midway.

She heard a soft chuckle then. Mulder drew back a little and looked
at her with laughter in his eyes. "Don't be embarrassed," he
whispered, "but some kid just got one hell of a primer in sex-ed."

She gave a girlish laugh. "Just so long as they check out before we
do, I couldn't care less if they had a stethoscope pressed to the wall
so they could listen in."

His lips pursed and delight lit his whole face. "Ooo, Agent Scully,
the image that brings to mind."

She caught a handful of hair and drew his head down again. "Shut
up and kiss me."

He grunted softly and chuckled again, though whether from
surprise or appreciation, she couldn't say. "Mmm, yes, ma'am," he
managed from one corner of his mouth. "Anything else?"

She gasped when his fingers found and gently toyed with her
nipple. Her eyes clamped shut, and she saw fireworks explode
behind her closed eyelids. "Mm, just make it up as you go," she
whispered, her words rushed and muffled by his seeking mouth. A
second roll of her nipple, and she could not contain a long, low
moan of approval.

"Uncle Walt, what was *that*?"

Scully bit back a breathless laugh. "I think we have a captive
audience next door."

He gave a heartfelt groan. "Mmm, yeah. And since they probably
don't have a stethoscope, I vote we make as much noise as possible
so they don't miss anything." Another kiss, longer this time. "Call it
doing our part to help out the public school system back home.
Wherever *home* happens to be for that kid, anyway."

"You're all heart, Mulder."

He groaned and pressed himself into her soft belly for emphasis.
"No, I'm all *hard*. There's a difference." He hissed when she
grasped his cock and pumped him slowly. Down and up. Down and
up. A pearl of fluid appeared at the slit on top - a preview of
coming attractions, Scully thought with an inward snort of laughter.
Thoughtfully she captured the pearl on her finger and gently drew
that finger into her mouth.

This time his groan was helpless. And loud. "God, you're killing
me."

"Is that a movie they're watchin'?" The voice was clearer this time,
and much closer. Just beyond the open door, maybe. Scully could
just imagine some inquisitive five-year-old hovering on one of the
neighboring patios, perhaps to the sides, perhaps below them,
looking around at the darkness and wondering what movie could
possibly be playing where grown men sounded like werewolves. All
joking aside, the two of them were going to have to keep it down.
All they needed was the manager coming around again, this time
asking them to turn the volume down only to find the television was
the only thing in the room *not* turned on.

Mulder snorted softly as he shimmied the head of his cock up and
down in her slickness, clearly ready and eager to take the game to
the next level. Apparently not even blind lust could cut the mental
connection between them; he rolled his eyes skyward and muttered,
"If we don't watch it, we're gonna have Santa Wannabe sniffing
around, trying to find that cat we keep torturing."

Another voice abruptly barked out an order, drowning out her
riposte. "Billy, get off that railing!" 

A deep voice. A loud voice.

A familiar voice.

Mulder's eyes, which had fallen closed in anticipation of finally,
finally, *finally* seeing a little action, suddenly snapped full open.
Scully saw realization, recognition, and a good amount of horror in
them. She also knew without doubt that he could read the same in
her own expression. "Oh, shit," he whispered, tensing as if
preparing for a physical blow. "That's .... that's ...."

She shushed him with a hand over his mouth. He didn't struggle,
didn't resist at all, just hung there over her, listening and no doubt
praying, Now of all times, let me be wrong!

As if.

Loud footsteps pounded next door, across the room and to the
patio. "Billy, I told you climbing up there's dangerous. Someone's
watching T.V., that's all. It's a movie. I can't be sure, but I'd
hazard a guess it's not one your mother would approve of you
seeing. Or hearing, for that matter. Now, get back on the bed and
watch that Disney P.O.S., or I'll lock the door up for the night and
it'll be lights-out for you."

Tiny feet jumped up and down. The voice sounded high and
excited. High was right, Scully mused; after a day of sunlight and
sugar, the kid was practically in the stratosphere. "Uncle Walt,
what's P.O.S. mean?"

They heard an irritated sigh, one so familiar that she had no trouble
envisioning the scowl that unquestionably accompanied it. "P.O.S.
is short for piece of .... never mind. Forget I said it. Christ, if that
mother of yours doesn't get back but fast, I'm gonna blow a fuse."
Another impatient sigh, this one accompanied by muttered
obscenities. Then a bark. "Billy, for God's sake, stop bouncing on
the bed!"

"But Momma *always* lets me bounce on the bed!"

"Well, she's not here. She left me in charge so she could go back to
work, and I say no bouncing. So knock it off!"

A tiny thud and more footsteps. Running. Scully could just imagine
the child leaping to the floor and scuttling past the bulking Marine
in search of new mischief. "Where'd Momma go? When's she
gonna be back?"

A harried sigh. "Billy, I told you. She got called into work. You
know that. And before you ask again, I don't know when she'll be
back. The hospital's really busy tonight, and they needed a kid's
doctor."

"I don't hear the movie no more. D'ya think they turned the TV
off?"

Scully cupped her free hand over her mouth to muffle a snort of
laughter. Envisioning Walter Skinner as an uncle was amusing
enough, but to see him in the role of babysitter as well was almost
more than she could process without hysterical laughter ensuing.
She looked up at Mulder, sure that he would find the image at least
as amusing as she did.

Only he wasn't laughing. In fact, he looked like he was trying not to
cry, and he wasn't having all that much success with it. "I don't
believe this," he whispered, his voice choked and hoarse. "I don't
fucking believe this." With a snort of utter disgust, he flung himself
away from her onto his back and lay there, glaring at the ceiling.
His mouth was a thin, angry line, his eyes narrowed and flinty-hard.
"We're jinxed. That's it. We're God-damned jinxed. How many
near-misses have we had today? Okay, so sex wasn't the only thing
on my mind when I called this morning. I guess you could even say
it wasn't the most important issue of the day .... but this has gone
way past ridiculous. This could be an X-file all by itself. *He's*
gonna blow a fuse? What about me? My balls are so blue now, they
could pass for sapphires." He threw an arm over his face. A deep
sigh shook his whole frame; then he was still. When he spoke, he
sounded weary and defeated. "Forget it. Forget the whole thing.
We should have just stayed at home. I could have come over with a
pizza or Thai, and we could have watched Fried Sneezed Tomatoes
or some other estrogen-drenched flick ...."

Scully rolled up on one arm and looked down at him. "Are you
finished? Is that the end of the diatribe?"

He snorted softly and peered at her from beneath his forearm. "I
give up. That's the end. This is the last straw." He closed his eyes
tight, clearing endeavoring to shut out fractious boys and lurking
bosses and bitter, bitter disappointment. "Go to sleep, Scully. I'm
gonna get up and go get some ice for my nuts, and then I'll just
watch TV or something. We can try again tomorrow. Maybe take a
shower together. It's .... it's just not gonna work tonight."

She favored his delicates with an appraising look. It wasn't
working? Long and dark and engorged with blood, slick from her
secretions as well as his own fluids .... She honestly didn't think
things could get any more ready. Clearly this sudden change of
heart wasn't reflective of flesh, but of spirit.

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. If she could find a way to re-
engage the flesh, and quickly before time and gravity took their
hold, then surely the spirit would follow suit.

Without preamble, she quickly gathered herself and, with one
smooth motion, flung her leg up and over his hips. He flinched and
grunted in obvious surprise. Shock and irritation competed with
something more feral in his expression as he looked at her in
disbelief. "I appreciate the offer, Scully, but you really don't have to
-"

"I know I don't have to," she murmured, cutting him off. She
carefully folded herself over him, taking care to just brush his warm
chest with her nipples. "I'm not doing you a favor. And I'm not
doing anything I don't want to do." Despite his protests, he made
no move to dislodge her. His eyes held hers, endlessly gray-green,
like the Spanish moss growing in neighborhood trees when she was
a young, lusty schoolgirl. She slid up and down over his hips,
sandwiching his erection between her body and his. Muscles in his
jaw rippled as he clenched his teeth, and his hands settled firmly on
her hips, permitting her freedom to move, but not to withdraw.

Faces inches apart. Bodies, hot and wet. How long would he last,
she wondered. It'd been such a built-up, the pay-off was probably
going to half-drown them both. 

He swallowed hard and let his eyes close. "Why're you doing this?"
he breathed.

She brushed her lips over his. "I could have fellated you," she
whispered, eliciting a soft groan from him. "But I want you inside
me when you come." Another kiss. "But you have to be quiet.
Deal?"

His face drew up as if in pain, and a crease appeared between his
brows. He nodded spastically. How similar the appearances of
pleasure and its polar opposite, she noted distantly. A roll of her
hips and his cock twitched, eager and impatient. "Scully, in case
you missed it .... our boss is about four, maybe five paces away ...."

"Shh," she crooned, dropping kiss after kiss on his upturned face.
Nose. Cheeks. Forehead. Time to bring the curtain down, so to
speak. She gave his lips a glancing touch with hers. "Don't move,"
she whispered. A slight lift, a gentle roll of her hips, and he glided
home inside her.

"Ahh ...." he breathed, kicking one leg out futily. His eyes closed as
his arms tightened around her, squeezing her closer. His heart was
throbbing, she could feel it hammering against her ribs, beating in
syncopated counterpoint to her own. His head rolled to the side,
and she could see the fluttering of the pulse point in his throat, just
below his ear. She could feel it deep within her, too, throbbing and
full and very, very good.

Slowly she drew herself up and back down, impaling herself ever so
slowly. He gasped, and the tension in his expression ratcheted up
even higher. "You're killing me," he whispered. His hands fluttered
and danced over her back, begging, driving her. "Go faster, God,
please, go faster ...."

She sped up. She slowed down. She drew herself up until she was
all but empty of him, then with a soft grunt took him in again, this
time so deep her pelvis all but creaked in protest; she could feel him
in her abdomen, in her very heart. Another slow-motion lunge, and
he whimpered softly. Time and again she took him to that edge,
danced with him upon it, then carefully eased him back again, using
words and kisses and her own body's tempo to prolong the drama,
to distract him when passions threatened to carom out of control.
Until the end, when there was no more ebb and flow, but a sharp
upheaval that signaled the impending finale, and she knew the dance
was about to come to a very wet end.

She watched it take him. Consume him. He arched high beneath
her, digging in his heels and lifting them both off the bed, pressing
higher and harder, so much so that she was surprised where was no
pain. One arm held her and the other was flung out to the side, the
long, graceful fingers clenched and knotted around great folds of
bedcovers. The fine lines around his eyes, which she normally
noticed only when he laughed, became deeper and more
pronounced with his grimace. One long, slow plunge of his hips led
to another, then a third, each accompanied by a shudder and a soft,
choked cry that she did her best to trap with her own mouth. With
each groan, she felt the wetness within her expand.

Abruptly he slumped beneath her and lay very still. Gently she
nuzzled his face. "Hey, are you still in there?"

Chest heaving, he cracked one eye open and looked at her.
"Where'd .... you learn .... to do that?" he gasped. "God .... I must
have .... come .... a gallon."

Smiling, she reached up and gently brushed the sweat from his face.
The eye studying her was bright with mirth, but also looming
exhaustion. "Chalk it up to seven years of foreplay," she murmured.
"And it was probably just an ounce or so. Just felt like a gallon."

He laughed breathlessly. "Felt like a baseball. Hurt, but in a good
way." As she watched, the eye slowly closed again. "Sorry to leave
you hanging. Gimme a minute to rest .... I'll see if I can return the
favor ...."

She kissed his lax mouth. Already she could feel twitches beginning
deep in his over-taxed muscles. "Later," she breathed. "It's all right,
Mulder. Sleep."

To move would mean breaking the seal their bodies still had on one
another, and that would mean on hell of a wet spot. Besides, as
long as he stayed where he was, she could pretend there was a
chance for conception. Carefully she lowered her head to his
shoulder and closed her eyes. It wasn't the most comfortable way
to sleep, but after seven years of stake-outs and crappy motel beds,
it wasn't the worst, either. 

*****M*****

Mulder practically danced to the front office. Scully had
volunteered to trudge the bags down to the car, and as soon as he
dropped off the key, they were out of there. No phone calls to
charge to the room. No pay-per-view movies, either. Just a night of
body-quaking sex, with a few hours' sleep thrown in to break up
any possible monotony. Yeah, like *that* could ever happen. Then,
after they finally dragged their asses out of bed for good, a long,
hot shower that began with washing his partner's hair - something
he'd recently learned to love even more than she loved having it
done - led to another session of coitus maximus, right there against
the wall in the shower stall.

Wow. His back was sore, his legs were sore - hell, even his dick
was sore .... and he wasn't about to complain. It all made for a
*very* good day.

A glance over his shoulder assured him she was waiting at the car
for him. Good. No chance of raised eyebrows should he encounter
.... well, *anyone*. After all, Skinner wasn't the only guest who
might have overheard their primitive mating ritual last night.

The manager was busy with customers when Mulder burst into the
office. The couple at the counter was apparently disputing some of
the charges on their bill. Probably didn't want to cop to ordering
that soft-porn they'd tried on for size, he thought with a smile. A
family place like this wasn't going to offer first-rate hard-core,
*that* he was sure of. Not that it mattered to him if it did or not.
He'd had his own private screening. 

Sometimes just watching did not compare.

A coffee pot was sitting on a table not far from the desk. A half-
dozen pieces of fruit and some pastries constituted the
management's idea of a "continental breakfast". Mulder waved the
key in front of the manager's face and pointedly dropped it on the
desk when the old man nodded distractedly. Then he turned and
took full stock of the breakfast offerings. Coffee was a must. It
wouldn't be as strong as Scully normally took it .... the stuff she
drank in the morning tended to take the finish off silverware and
could eat through plastic spoons like acid .... but it was black and
hot, and she certainly wouldn't turn her nose up at it. He stuffed a
banana in a front pocket, wedged an apple between his teeth, and
balanced a danish over each steaming cup - lemon for him, one
some sort of crŠme filling for her. Carefully he picked everything
up, careful not to splash hot coffee over his hands, then turned
slowly on his heel ....

.... and found himself face to face with Walter Skinner. Or rather,
face to apple.

The AD looked terrible. Dark circles cradled both eyes, his glasses
were slightly askew, the fringe of hair above his ears was mussed
and unkempt, and his clothes looked as though he'd slept in them.
For an instant Mulder couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy
for him. The man who had survived Viet Nam and countless
skirmishes in both law enforcement AND the Bureau was clearly
out of his depth when it came to working with children.

"Agent Mulder," Skinner said, not sounding quite as brusque as
usual. Mulder suspected he just didn't have the energy. He eyed the
cups in Mulder's hands almost longingly. "Heading out, I see."

"Yesh, shir." Okay, talking around an apple was a challenge, but at
least his answer was clear enough to make out. Hastily he set down
one of the cups and danishes, and dropped the apple into his open
hand. "You look .... uh, rested." Skinner snorted softly at that. "Are
you on your way back to the city?"

Skinner nodded almost imperceptibly. "Just as soon as I can get rid
of .... I mean, as soon as my sister makes it back from the hospital.
She's a surgeon. Got called in to work last night. A kid with
appendicitis, I guess, and then some sort of traffic accident .... one
thing after another and she couldn't get away. I'm gonna to try to
get the management to drop the charge for her room since no one
used it." His eyes narrowed a little. "Speaking of rooms .... you
didn't happen to hear the show last night, did you?"

Panic stuck in Mulder's throat. He swallowed hard, thankful he
hadn't taken a bite out of that danish like he'd been considering,
because he almost certainly would have choked on it. "Show? No,
not that I recall."

"You and .... your *friend* didn't hear those two idiots making the
wallpaper peel?"

A casual shrug. Fox Mulder, master actor. "I don't know about her,
but I couldn't hear it from my room."

"You had separate rooms?" 

Slow nod of the head. Expression carefully blank. "Yes, of course."

Skinner snorted softly. "Well, if you managed to sleep through it,
you're the only one who did. Oh, they were quiet enough after the
first act, but they must have had their sliding door open all damn
night. I'd like to have a buck for every time they .... woke me up."
He looked at Mulder, eyes narrowed. "It must have been a couple
college kids feeling their oats." His sigh was more than a little
harried. "Jesus, weekends like this remind me just why I'm happy
keeping goldfish."

Wow. Skinner had fish, too? Interesting. Mulder nodded as he
wedged the apple under his arm and reached for the cup again,
eager to be on his way. "I am in full agreement with you there, Sir."
He nodded pointedly to the door. "Uh, would you .... ? Someone I
know is dying for this coffee."

For a few seconds Skinner didn't move to comply, just stood with
hands on hips, staring at him with a fixed gaze. Mulder could
practically hear the thoughts racing behind those dark, assessing
eyes: How much of the truth am I hearing? Is his 'friend' who I
think it is? Were they the ones copulating like rabbits all night
long? And perhaps most importantly, do I really want to know
about any of this?

Was it just Mulder's imagination, or was that an amused little gleam
he saw lurking behind those wireless Gucci frames?

At last Skinner took a step back and opened the door. Mulder
nodded thanks, though when he tried to brush past him, a hand
caught his shoulder and stopped him in his tracks. Their eyes met
and held for a beat; then to his surprise, Skinner smiled ever-so
slightly. Humor. Definitely humor. "Give my best to .... your
friend."

Scully was leaning against the Mustang's fender, face tipped up to
the morning sun. Unfettered with make-up, she was rosy-cheeked
from sunburn, a hot shower, and recent sex. Hearing him approach,
she turned and flashed him a grin. "Never guess who I just saw,"
she offered, taking the cup and danish he offered her, then very
slowly reached into his pocket and extracted the banana. He felt a
delicious tingle at the near-miss, and in the depth of his jeans, his
weary cock twitched hopefully.

"Lemme guess," he replied, leaning through the open door and
carefully nestling the Styrofoam cup in the console's cup holder.
"Big guy, not a lot of hair, even less of a smile ...."

"On the contrary." She stowed her coffee in a similar manner, then
settled in the seat and reached behind her for the belt. She was
battling back a grin. "Big smile. BIG smile. I just about crawled
into the trunk trying to avoid eye contact. Not exactly hiding .... I
just didn't want to make it any easier for him." 

Mulder shrugged as he stuffed half the lemon danish in his mouth. It
was tart and sweet, and it tasted wonderful with a slurp of coffee.
"Dudn't matter. I told him we had separate rooms. He seemed
good with that."

She eyed him as she peeled the banana. "Oh? You two guys just
happened to discuss our accommodations?"

He nodded, for some reason not quite able to look directly at her.
Skinner, smiling? THAT was a little disquieting. "Uh, yeah. He
asked if we'd heard anything during the night. I told him I hadn't,
but that we'd had separate rooms."

Her eyebrows were creeping toward her hairline. "I see."

He nodded again, silently cursing his inability to shut the hell up.
"He thinks it was a couple college swells who disturbed his beauty
sleep. I didn't see much point in correcting him."

She smiled behind her crŠme danish. "He may have *said* that,
Mulder," she said, giving her head a shake. "You and I both know,
saying and believing are entirely different notions, especially when it
comes to Walter Skinner."

He shrugged as he turned the key in the ignition, and the engine
roared to life. "Even if that's true, and I'm not saying it is, all it
does is serve to underscore one major difference between the two
of us."

She looked at him expectantly. "That would be ...? And don't say
the hair. That's a gimme."

He leaned a little closer and looked at her with smoldering eyes.
"One of us still dreams of sleeping with the enigmatic Dr. Scully ....
and one of us has already had the pleasure."

At that, she flushed crimson. "You're full of shit. Skinner does
NOT think about me like that." When he didn't reply, didn't
respond at all except to blink at her, she swatted his arm and
nodded toward the street before them. "C'mon, let's get out of
here."

He grinned as he stomped on the gas and squealed out of the
parking lot. They hadn't gone far when she shot him a hard look.
"Fried *Sneezed* Tomatoes, Mulder?" she half-whined, as if his
earlier comment had just registered. "What, may I ask, is wrong
with my taste in movies? Just because there're no explosions or gun
battles, or .... or body parts flying across the screen .... I get enough
of that stuff on the job, quite frankly."

He gave a bark of laughter. After this weekend, after Homer and
Emma and several hours of mind-blowing, perhaps even life-
altering sex with the woman he happened to adore, he was pretty
sure he could make it through just about any movie she could think
to inflict on him, even if it was the antithesis of anything *he'd*
choose. Roman Holiday, maybe, or some silly Jane Austen thing.
Even .... God help him .... Shakespeare in Love. Maybe even
Titanic.

He gave a mental shrug. Okay, maybe not Shakespeare in Love.
After all, a guy had to have standards.




~*~*~ I'm sick and tired of being patient and understanding! ~*~*~




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