TITLE: X Post Facto
AUTHOR: Flynn
CLASSIFICATION: MSR, wild RST, major PWP
DATE: April 27, 2003
E-Mail: flyn121@yahoo.com
ARCHIVING: Unlike Surferboy, I was taught to share my toys.
Please keep author and headers attached, and let me know where to
visit.
Website: www.geocities.com/cratkinsonflynn/
FEEDBACK: Better than Mountain Dew. <sigh>  All right, not
QUITE as good as Mountain Dew, but just as addictive.
RATING: NC-17. *MAJOR* NC-17
SPOILERS: all things; brief nod to Chimera and X-Cops

PLEASE NOTE: RAMPANT SILLINESS ABOUNDS. YOU'VE
BEEN WARNED.

DISCLAIMER: Archetypes belong to Carter. Besides, you know
what they say about the sincerest form of flattery, right?

Scribbler's note: I'm having serious S-7 flashback.  Bear with me -
I'm sure it'll pass, but hopefully not for a year or two. <insert big
silly grin here> Hey, the writer's block is gone and I'm feeling good.
Forgive me.

Thanks to Christine for putting up with whinings about writer's
block <see above paragraph>, and to my cats for being nice to me
even after I slammed the door in their little hairy faces for the
hundredth time.


~~~~~~~~~~~~
X Post Facto
by Flynn
~~~~~~~~~~~~

M~*~M~*~M

Hell. It had to be. Not that it had flames or anything. Or the Devil,
per se. Actually, it was dull and boring. In fact, it looked a *lot*
like the office of Assistant Director Walter Skinner. The chairs
were upholstered in leather-wannabe. The people sitting around the
conference table looked a great deal like corpses: pale, motionless,
their expressions strangely blank. Even Skinner himself, sitting just
a little sideways in his seat, his chin propped up against his balled
fist, eyes not-quite-fixed and *almost* glazed, looked like he'd
rather be somewhere else. Or more accurately, *anywhere* else. 

No doubt about it. This was hell on earth, and Mulder was stuck in
it.
 
It wasn't just that he was jet-lagged as shit, although that certainly
wasn't helping matters a whole lot. It wasn't *merely* that he'd
been bulldozed into this quarterly departmental meeting at literally
the last minute, though he'd sooner have had a root canal than
voluntarily subject himself to the hours of sawdust-chewing,
clapping-with-one-hand boredom that such events usually subjected
him to. It wasn't even because he was getting hungry and was in
desperate need of fresh coffee, to say nothing of a fast trip to the
men's room.

Oh, yeah. Compared to this, sitting for hours in that soggy field in
England had been a piece of cake.

Mostly it was hell because of Scully. Not that she'd done anything
particularly hellish lately. Well, except maybe for wearing that shirt,
which if they were alone together in the basement would look
fantastic, but since they were surrounded by a bunch of no-neck,
no-personality department heads .... and male, don't forget male ....
well, Mulder would just as soon the damned shirt wasn't
almost-but-not-quite-opaque, with maybe a little less flesh visible
around her throat. 

Her throat.

It was pale and slender, and he knew what it smelled like up close.
He knew what it tasted like. He knew what *she* tasted like, there
and in all sorts of places. That tender flesh inside her wrist. The
hollow between her shoulder blades. The gentle sweep of her hip
bone, the back of her right knee, the stretch of skin between her
navel and her .... yeah, right there. Sweet and salt, musk and spice
and vanilla cream, all rolled up in one delicious package. And the
sounds she'd made as he .... as they ....

Just the thought made his balls ache and his dick twitch in
anticipation.

No, that wasn't what was hellish. Neither was the fact that he'd
awoken alone in his big bed. That part hadn't even surprised him,
really. Disappointed, sure, but it didn't surprise him. The surprise
would have been if she *had* still been there beside him when he
finally managed to pry his eyelids open and hammer the screaming
alarm clock into silence. 

For the record, *any* alarm going off at that hour following a
fourteen hour flight constitutes Hell in his book, but that part wasn't
her fault.

No, hell began for him when she marched into Skinner's office just
that morning, nodded a polite greeting to everyone in the room ....
*even him!* .... and sat down as if they hadn't just spent the better
part of the night making each other's toes curl.

And since the meeting started two hundred and seventy-nine years
.... no, make that one hour and fifty-three minutes ago .... not one
furtive smile. Not so much as a stolen glance. Her attention was
either on the various speakers or her own notes. Hell, she hadn't
even taken the seat beside him as she usually did, but practically
fought Gillman for the chair *across the fucking table.* Like she
didn't want to touch him. Like she didn't want to even be near him.

Hell. Hell was ....

Hell was not being able to touch her. Not even by accident. No
chance brushing of a sleeve against her arm. No gentle shoulder
nudge, which in their own silent dialect could convey so many
things. Boredom. Shared frustration. His own personal favorite -
humor.

Blah blah blah. Mulder managed with great restraint not to roll his
eyes or sigh impatiently. He wanted to leave. Just get up, grab his
partner's hand, and drag her down to the basement where they
belonged. No one would mind. No one would even care. It was
well known throughout the boys' club known as the Bureau that the
two of them generally didn't mix well with others. Besides, what
they were hearing this morning definitely was not worth sitting
through. 

Nothing to look at. Shades were drawn against the cloud-choked
morning sky. The cup before him was half-empty, and what coffee
there was in it was beyond tepid. Out of desperation he looked
across at his partner. For a full ten seconds he allowed himself the
luxury of studying her. He wondered about the distance she'd put
between them. It didn't make a whole lot of sense. After all, it
hadn't even been twelve hours since she'd crawled, naked, into his
bed. Since she'd rolled with him, under him, taking his weight and
his love as naturally as if she'd been doing it all her adult life. As
naturally as breathing, really. 

He must have done something wrong. That had to be it. Mulder
pursed his lips as he slouched back in his chair. Maybe he'd said
something in his sleep. Maybe he'd called her Diana. Cripes, that
couldn't be it. Surely that neurotic, immature part of his brain had
been walled off years ago. He might not be the most disciplined of
individuals, granted, but he did have *some* self-control. Besides,
that thing with Diana never happened, right? That was his policy
nowadays, particularly when it came to certain people: Deny
everything, especially to himself. To hell with the psychology of it.
Self-examination never got him anywhere but in trouble anyway.

So that couldn't be it, he decided with an inward shrug. Trouble
was, he couldn't think of anything else that it *could* be. Had he
left the toilet seat up in the night? Was the mess in his bathroom
particularly repulsive? What about the fact that he hadn't picked up
a little something for her in England? 

No, she didn't care about things like that. Toilet seats were common
male blind spots and she knew it. An untidy apartment was
probably more specific to him, but in all the years she'd been
coming over she'd certainly seen worse. And that gift thing ....
Scully just wasn't all that comfortable receiving presents. Personal
experience had taught him that. 

To his left, Neufield was droning on about federal stats of recidivist
offenders. At the head of the conference table, Skinner looked like
he had perfected the art of sleeping with his eyes open. Probably
something you learned in middle-management, Mulder thought with
an inward snort. Across the table, Scully was jotting down note
after note on her tablet, employing abbreviations and the different
symbols that Mulder had come to regard as her own style of
shorthand. No one could read it, not even him. What she was
thinking and what she was writing.... and feeling.... were mysteries.

Probably her request for a transfer, he thought glumly, plopping his
pen down on his own tablet - blank, of course - and folding his
arms across his chest with a soft grunt. =Dear Sir, I can't take it any
longer. My partner is immature, bull-headed, and sucks in bed. He
ditches me whenever the whim strikes him, then leaves me pedantic
clues so I can scurry after him and bail his skinny ass out of
whatever fire he's managed to get himself into. Besides, he makes
lousy coffee. I need a change. Respectfully, Dana Scully, M.D.=

A forlorn sigh escaped him. *Jesus, it sucks to be me.*


S~*~S~*~S

Mulder was pouting.

She didn't dare look up at him again, but she didn't have to see his
face to know that. She couldn't actually look *at* him for another
fifty-two seconds - she was timing it on her watch. Her left arm was
placed ever so casually before her so she could track the sweep of
the second hand without moving her head. The last time she'd
glanced at him he'd been staring at Skinner like the answer to
today's jumble puzzle in the Times could be found on the man's
forehead. Expansive though it was, it just wasn't going to give up
any clues, to life or anything else.

She glanced at Skinner. Asleep with his eyes open. Is that why he
called these meetings, she wondered; to give him time to catch up
on his catnaps? 

She'd filled three pages of her legal pad with absolute nonsense.
Shopping and errands lists. Things she needed from the grocer,
from the deli. Her name was represented here and there by a B. No
particular reason, except that any of her three initials were dead
giveaways. Having brothers and a snooping older sister had taught
her caution. 

P stood for Partner. M would have been too obvious, and F was
almost insulting. Mulder hated his first name. Just from the heckling
she'd witnessed the past seven years, she didn't blame him. She
could just imagine what it was like, growing up with the burden of
that name. What had his parents been thinking? He'd told her once
that he'd tried to go by his middle name once upon a time, but never
could learn to answer to William. People must have thought he was
deaf, he'd joked. Fox may have been a stupid name, but it was *his*
stupid name. He was stuck with it.

Thirty-eight seconds.

Jesus, Neufield was boring. She'd known corpses that were more
interesting. She supposed it *was* important to know how many
men returned to the federal penitentiary system between the years
of 1965 and 1995, but at the moment she couldn't think of one
good reason to give a damn.

She reread her last paragraph. *Clean out fridge.*Iron curtains in
back door.*Pick up silk suit from cleaners.*Repot rubber tree in
living room.*B loves P.* Glance at Skinner. Glance around the
room. Twelve drowsy agents. Glance at Neufield. Yadda yadda
yadda. 

Ten seconds. Nine.

She cheated at six. She couldn't help it .... even with that frown
pinching his brows and the lower lip that was threatening to topple
him, face-down, on the fine oak table, Mulder was far too enjoyable
to look at.

God, the things she planned to do to that lip. The things she'd
*already* done. Cheeks burning, fingers tingling, she dropped her
gaze back to her tablet.

She remembered what he'd looked like as she stood and watched
him sleep last night. As he stirred beneath the blankets and opened
his eyes. As he looked at her and realized she was wearing her
pendant and not much else. 

Finally, a way to render him speechless. Well, for a while at least.

The black thong had been a nice declaration of her intent, but it
certainly was a brief one. She'd been lucky to find it that morning,
scrambling around in the dark as she was, trying to locate her
clothes and get dressed without waking him. It was a good bet that
Mulder would not have minded in the least if she'd had to borrow a
pair of his shorts, but the boxers would have absolutely wrecked
the snug lines of that black skirt.

She chanced another glance well before its scheduled time. He was
looking down at his hands now. So solemn. What was he thinking?
He clearly was upset by her choice of seats. No doubt he wanted
her in the chair right next to him. Ah, but that might have resulted
in an embarrassing scene, because one errant brush of his hand, as
he was so wont to do, and she might well have ended up in his lap,
latched onto his mouth like a red-haired moray eel in silk. No no
no. That little drought in her sex life, the one that had spanned
some seven years, was definitely over. Not that she wasn't still
thirsty, but this was neither the time nor place. All he had to do was
smile at her and the proverbial clouds would gather in a flash. She
certainly wouldn't mind getting wet and hot with him again, but
she'd just as soon it didn't happen in Skinner's office and with quite
so many witnesses. 

Another soft sigh from him. If he didn't watch it, he was going to
hyperventilate. 

No, he was looking way too miserable. She felt a warm little flutter
in her chest, and a considerably stronger one a little farther south.
Clearly he didn't have a clue as to *why* she'd chosen the seat she
had. He probably thinks I'm angry about something, she mused.
After all, she *had* taken off that morning without so much as
leaving a note. *Not* that it would hurt to keep him on his toes a
little - she didn't want him getting complaisant about anything - but
his neuroses could be a little too overactive for her own peace of
mind. Not much fun to fantasize about someone who looked like he
was waiting to have a vasectomy. It was time to do something
about that pout before he did something to hurt himself. After all,
she *did* have plans for that lip. To say nothing of the rest of him.

Slowly, carefully, she slipped one foot out of its leather pump ....


M~*~M~*~M

God, I'm depressed. I am *so* depressed. What did I do? How can
I make it right? What if she doesn't want to see me anymore? What
if she *does* ask to be transferred?

He felt something touch his shin and then skitter away. Probably
someone had shifted in their seat and their shoe had inadvertently
brushed his pant leg. It happened sometimes, so he ignored it. A
moment later there was another touch, this time to the middle of his
shin. Enough with the accidents, he thought with a stab of
annoyance; no one liked shoe prints all over their damned pants,
and he was no exception. He looked around, a silent challenge at
the ready, but no one moved or so much as looked at him. Sighing,
he slumped back in his chair again. Cold coffee, a full bladder, an
aching heart, and now some insensitive ass was wiping their feet all
over him. What else could go wrong?

Something brushed his ankle then, square between pant cuff and the
top edge of his wingtip. Something small and soft. Across from
him, Scully was scribbling away furiously at her tablet, but
something about the set of her head .... the way she tilted her chin
for just an instant .... 

She was smiling. 

He sucked in a quick breath and sat up sharply, and only years of
practice kept any further reaction out of his expression. His panic
face, Scully would call it. Well, so be it. Better that than a
victorious, my-partner-still-likes-me expression, which under the
circumstances would look rather dopey and no doubt a little
suspicious.

"Agent Mulder, you have something to add?" 

Now, why would Skinner ask him that? Oh hell, everyone was
looking at him. Shit. When did that happen? Guess that little gasp
of his hadn't gone totally unnoticed. Neufield had paused and was
looking at him. Not good. Not good at all. Mulder quickly assumed
a self-effacing grimace, which under the circumstances wasn't much
of a stretch. "No, sir. Just a touch of sciatica this morning. I'm sorry
for the interruption ..... please continue, Agent Neufield."

Yack yack yack. The man's words were lost in a rush of sensation
and giddy emotion, and Mulder was hard pressed not to react again
when the foot once again found his leg under the table. This time it
moved slowly, meandering up the inner line of his calf and tucking
itself into the fold of his knee. He closed his eyes as heat flashed
through him, starting at the contact point and settling nicely in his
groin. Mulder quashed an overly-exuberant rush of lust. Slowly,
carefully, he trailed his left hand across his lap, eased it down his
thigh, and brushed a fingertip over the smooth, warm foot nestled
against his leg.

Clearly Dana Scully hadn't spent the better part of a decade in the
company of prying eyes without learning something about
self-control. There was no reaction in her expression, no change in
the tempo of her respirations, but he felt the foot give a slight but
definite twitch. 

Two could definitely play at this game. Carefully he played one
finger down the length of the foot, starting high near her ankle,
edging his way down the ball, returning up the curved plane of her
instep. He didn't dare look at her, but this time he clearly heard her
sharp intake of breath. He was neither disappointed nor surprised
when the foot abruptly withdrew, leaving a cool spot under his
thigh and a decidedly warm spot dead center in his lap.

For a full two minutes neither of them moved. When Neufield
wrapped up his presentation and took his seat, Scully delicately
cleared her throat and, with a subtle, graceful move, edged her
chair minutely closer to the table. The hard edge was practically
cutting her in two at the waist now, and Mulder couldn't help but
wonder how comfortable such a position could be. Still, he mused,
the human body is resilient, particularly when that body is intent on
something and will brook no interference in getting it. She was up
to something, and he couldn't wait to find out what.

Yee-hahh! He bit back a startled exclamation and covered his shock
with a totally fake sneeze. The contrivance conveniently allowed
him the chance to blow off a little tension while also serving to
press his crotch that much closer to the firm pressure of her
stockinged foot. He covered his mouth with his fist and faked a
cough this time, shooting her a startled look over his knuckles as he
did. She was looking at him intently, her brow wrinkled, her gaze
warm and full of concern. *Are you okay?* she silently mouthed.

He narrowed his eyes and scowled fiercely. A quick glance around
the room ascertained their continued privacy - no one was looking
at them. Evidently no one had noticed her gently nudge his balls up
into the small of his back. In fact, half the people arranged around
them had that same blankness of expression Skinner himself had
demonstrated but a moment before. 

Which was a good thing, really. If everyone was asleep at the
switch, then maybe no one would notice Mr. Happy, who at that
moment was standing tall and proud and very, very stiff in the front
of his Armanis. 

At that moment the door to the front office opened and the slim
redhead who worked out there stuck her head in the room. Skinner
gave a little start at her intrusion. The foot abruptly withdrew from
Mulder's crotch, and he could just imagine his partner's mad
scramble to get her shoe back on. "Sir, the coffee service you had
me order is here. Where shall they set up?"

Skinner seemed to give himself a little shake. Maybe he really
*had* been asleep with his eyes open. "Oh, uh .... out there, I
suppose. This is probably as good a time as any for a break." He
glanced at his watch, then looked around at the slumberous agents.
"Let's take ten, ladies and gentlemen. Help yourself to the
refreshments, but please .... try not to spill on the carpet this time."

There were a few comments and a yawn or two as the agents
pushed their chairs back and got their feet under them. As badly as
he needed some fresh coffee and a trip to the can, Mulder thought it
wise to remain where he was until he could get his erection
camouflaged. No need to fan the flames of gossip that raged around
him and his partner. Besides, to stand up now would be difficult, to
say nothing of uncomfortable.

Across from him, Scully had capped her pen and was pushing her
chair back. Her expression was carefully neutral as she regarded
him. "Sciatica acting up this morning, Mulder? I'm sorry to hear
that. Maybe you over-did it this weekend."

He eyed her as he gingerly pushed himself to his feet. That she
could still hold a straight face at this point was just one more reason
to love her. "Might have something to do with the way I slept last
night," he replied. "You do too many things right before you go to
bed and anything can happen. Well, you're the doctor - you know
how it is."

Her mouth quirked in the promise of a smile. "Okay, why don't you
go stretch those sore muscles while I get us some coffee." 

He blinked. Coffee? Who said anything about coffee? He wanted
sex, and *soon.* Janitor's closet would do just fine. All he had to
do was talk her into it without using any immediately recognizable
terms. Hmm. Tough, but not impossible. Okay, so maybe he wasn't
thinking all that clearly at the moment. What of it? Probably had
something to do with oxygen deprivation, what with all his blood
thundering south of the border. 

He stepped around the table, and his hand settled practically of its
own accord at the small of her back. At least he was touching her
now. Trouble was, it was like caressing a live current, and his
erection twitched with growing impatience. "Actually, I have to go
downstairs for a minute. There's a folder I left in the office this
morning .... we really should have it for this meeting. I'm not sure
just where I left it, though. Care to accompany me and we'll look
for it together? Two heads are better than one, you know."

Amusement flashed in her eyes. "Time is a factor here, Mulder. Ten
minutes, the man said. The clock is running."

He glanced around at the other agents, but they were already lined
up around the refreshments cart parked in front of Kim's desk. No
one cared if he was even in the room, let alone what he happened to
be saying to his partner. He leaned a little closer to her and gave her
a smoldering look. "I can do ten minutes," he whispered. "Five
minutes, even .... That's okay by me."

Her expression remained stoic, but her eyes were laughing. "Maybe
you didn't realize it," she whispered back, "but most women
wouldn't consider that a selling point." 

"You wouldn't last five minutes."

One chiseled eyebrow arched proudly. The very portrait of dignity.
Quite unlike the writhing, panting figure that had clung to him
through the small hours of the morning. "Is that a challenge?"

"A fact."

Her chin rose. "And you know this .... how?"

God, how he wanted to kiss her. Right here, right in front of
Skinner and everyone. Well, actually it would be *behind* them,
since everyone was eagerly piling their little paper plates with
whatever treats the Man had thoughtfully provided. Her face was
mere inches from his .... it was *so* tempting. 

Still, a kiss would give away too much. Best to keep their secret to
themselves. Besides, waiting would only make it better. He bent a
little closer and whispered, "I have my ways, Agent Scully. I *am*
an investigator by training, yes?" He tipped his head to one side and
pretended to just notice a faint blemish on her neck. "Oh, my. You
have something right there, did you know that? It looks a little like
.... oh, never mind." 

In a heartbeat, anxiety completely replaced dignity in her
expression. Her hand darted to her throat and she nervously
brushed her fingers over the tender skin beneath her jaw. "Is it
visible? Dammit, I though I'd put enough concealer on it." She shot
him a hard look. "That was dirty pool, you know. You and your
oral fixation. Why couldn't you have .... I mean .... where it
wouldn't show?"

He quirked his brows at her. "Where's the fun in that?"

Ooo, blue ice. What Agent Bartholemew once called The Look.
Actually, he'd asked Mulder how he kept his balls from withering
up into raisins every time she flashed that expression on him.
Raisins, indeed .... too much more of that particular expression and
he'd end up splitting the front panel right out of his dress slacks,
Skinner and company notwithstanding.

She held the look for a moment, then turned on her heel. "Go get
some air, Mulder. And take some ibuprofen for that pain in your
backside. I'll get coffee for me and mine." 


S~*~S~*~S

Oral fixation. Damn Mulder anyway. She was sitting in a quarterly
meeting in her AD's office, and she had a hickey on her neck.

The meeting was interminable. The data she had to relate to the
other departments were basically limited to lab stats, which made
her almost as interesting as Neufield. Mulder then reported on the
findings of their current cases, which to date included a murderous,
shape-shifting psychotic housewife, an apparently invisible but
nonetheless deadly "fear-monster" which not only managed to elude
them through the streets of Los Angeles, it also made them look
like idiots on the Fox network, and a cross-dressing, Bible-quoting
fundamentalist who used his feminine wiles to persuade
crack-addicted hookers to try the straight life on for size.

He gave his report while sitting. No one said anything.

Small wonder, Scully thought to herself. She herself could barely
move .... hell, she could hardly *breathe*, he was sitting so damned
close. He'd come back from the men's room sporting a counterfeit
limp - his sciatica being irritated by prolonged sitting by that point,
no doubt - and unceremoniously plunked himself into the chair
beside her while its rightful occupant, Agent Margaret Farrell from
Domestics, was in the restroom. And before the meeting finally
concluded after a record-breaking six years and eleven months,
Mulder had successfully stepped on his partner's foot countless
times, trapped her sleeve between the table and the arm of his chair
with his incessant fidgeting not once but twice, spilled the dregs of
his coffee across her notepad - thus rendering it useless for mindless
doodling - and surreptitiously caressed her knee more times than
she could remember. It was a campaign, of course, the sole purpose
of which was to wear her down, to drive her to distraction, and
make her *his.* 

She was so rattled she could kill him. After she fucked him
senseless, of course. 

At last the meeting broke up. Skinner didn't yawn and stretch as he
excused them, but he might just as well have; his eyes were
bloodshot and bleary, and Scully couldn't help but wonder how
long it would be before his door was locked and his assistant
ordered to field calls while he was "in conference" on one of the
sofas under the framed head shots of Bill Clinton and Janet Reno.

Mulder wasted no time exchanging pleasantries with anyone in the
outer office or in the hall as some of the other agents did, but clung
to Scully like a shadow all the way to the elevator. She eyed him
sourly as they boarded with a half-dozen others, trying without
success to put at least a *little* distance between them. One step
forward, two steps back; no matter where she went, he seemed to
end up just a little bit closer. 

After two stops they were alone and on their way to the basement,
and she knew without question that the ante was about to be
upped.

He said nothing as the car came to a gentle stop and the doors
breezed open, but fell into step behind her with all the precision of a
drum major in a military band. She could feel the heat radiating
from him, could practically taste the pheromones rolling off him in
waves as she searched her pockets for the key to the office. Speed
was her only ally; get the door open, and find some refuge behind
the glass partition in the lab portion of the office, the space
designated as hers. Surely he wouldn't pursue her there. This was a
puerile jest, nothing more. Okay, so they'd made love. She was
pretty damned sure they would again, probably sometime soon.
Right now he was just overwhelmed with affection and sexual
desire. All right, lust. But none of that mattered when they were at
work. *Work.* Their search for the truth .... that came first, right?

She knew he was close, could feel his breath stirring the hair on the
back of her head. She started to bridle when she felt his hands rise
to her shoulders. To her surprise, they hovered there as though
drawn to her and yet repelled at the same time, like magnets.
Positive and negative. Polar opposites. 

Her breath caught. Where was that damned key? And why were her
fingers shaking so badly?

"Scully," he breathed at last, and she fought back a shiver. His
mouth .... that deliciously talented mouth ..... was hovering just
over her ear. She could feel the warmth of his expelled breath on
the side of her face. On her neck. Her throat. Her eyes sagged
closed. His hands settled on her shoulders, resting so lightly she
could barely feel them. Ah, but that was the point, wasn't it? To
persuade without coercion. To take without force by making her
*want* to give. Pleasure ran hot and liquid through her body, and
this time she couldn't help but shiver.

"What is it, Mulder?" she replied, trying with all the strength she
had left to sound abrupt and distant. It was a good plan, but a futile
attempt; her voice was high and breathless, in no way resembling
the tough-as-nails federal agent she spent most of her time
portraying.

His hands trailed slowly down her arms. She could feel his lips now,
grazing the curve of her ear, nuzzling her temple, opening to
encompass the curve of her browbone in a tender kiss. This time the
shiver was sharp, and she felt her nipples draw up tight and hard
under her shirt. What color was her bra? She couldn't remember.
Hell, with his mouth doing that, nuzzling and kissing as it explored,
it was a wonder she could even remember her own name.

Or his. "Mmm .... ul ...." Hell, that was a moan. The bastard made
her moan and he was barely even touching her yet. Try that again.
She managed to turn her face away. "Give me your key - I can't find
mine. C'mon, I want to go in. We h-have work to do."

He smiled against her cheek and made no move to comply. "Sh ....
have something better in mind."

Uh oh. She knew how his mind worked. Whatever he had planned,
work probably wasn't involved. She gave her head a little shake.
"N-no. Office. Now."

His arms were finding their way around her. He was holding her
from behind, and as she tried to turn she felt the strength and length
of a very considerable erection pressing eagerly into her lower
back. Oh, he has got to be kidding, she thought blearily, pushing at
the arms locked in place around her. It was hopeless, of course - he
had her and he knew it.

He began rocking very slowly from side to side, and she wasn't
particularly surprised to find herself being maneuvered away from
the office, down the hallway and toward the restroom around the
corner from the elevator. It was unisex, converted to accommodate
women as well as men, and had the added feature of being equipped
with handicapped facilities. The Bureau had definitely covered the
bases with this one. 

He caught her shoulders and suddenly spun her to face him. She
found herself engulfed in a tangle of limbs and lips that smelled and
tasted so good, she could barely think to protest. "Wait .... what if
someone comes down ...."

Mulder snorted softly. "Yeah, we get *so* many visitors down
here." He pressed her gently against the wall and kissed her, long
and deep. Shit shit shit. How did he do that? How could he make
her react without thinking, whether it was a case they were working
on or a kiss they were sharing? Tongues swirled and danced in a
joyous bout, and it wasn't long before she found her arms around
his neck and her fingers digging with happy abandon in the thick
softness of his hair. 

"C'mon," he breathed, drawing her with him away from the wall and
toward the restroom once again. His lips were shiny with saliva.

Lust was addling her brain, but common sense was slow to die.
"We shouldn't. They might be watching." She tried to pull away.

He didn't let her go. "If they are, we're only showing them what
they've suspected all along." 

"But why the restroom?"

She suddenly realized his fingers were working on her buttons and
had the her shirt half open. "It's such an obvious place, I'm betting
they've already decided it would be wasted effort. Seven years of
watching us pee. Not even Buttman would care about that."

She realized with a start that the fingers working on his pants
weren't his, but hers. Oh, the drought was over and she was
*thirsty*. That must be it .... that must be why she'd lost all reason.
Mulder finally had driven her around the bend. What the hell .... it
wasn't like she'd actually be able to accomplish anything today,
*especially* with him accosting her at every turn ....

They staggered into the restroom and somehow managed to get the
door locked. 

Then he was on his knees ....

..... her shirt was gone ....

Long fingers wasted no time in unraveling the mystery of the front
clasp. He caught his arms around her waist and trailed his lips over
her belly and to a breast. A tentative lap with the flat of his tongue
made her gasp and roll her head from side to side against the cool
tile. "Do it," she breathed. *Please, yes, do it do it do it ....*

The first suckle almost dragged her to her knees. She bit her lips
when a languid moan tried to escape. His hands were not idle, but
had found the zipper of her dress slacks and were making short
work of that as well. Without so much as a thought toward the
pressing her silk trousers would need, she quickly shimmied free
and kicked them aside. Her skimpy underwear, which judging from
her partner's rapt expression were just as appealing as that black
thong had been, posed no real obstacle to progress; without
hesitation he nudged the strip of material away and carefully slipped
two fingers into her.

Delicate tissues, only recently reacquainted with such intimacies,
stung at the intrusion. She swallowed her protests, fearing that he
would stop if he knew or even suspected he was hurting her. The
fingers slid in and out, generating and spreading moisture and
setting a nice rhythm guaranteed to drive her out of her mind. The
mouth continued its seduction of her breast, and a humming had
started deep in his chest. Something else had started too, an ache
and twitch signaling her rapidly approaching climax, a sensation
amplified by the careful touch of his thumb to the tiny, pulsing knot
just above his dive-bombing fingers. Her head fell back and her
mouth dropped open, and distantly she knew that, were it not for
his hold on her, to say nothing of her own hands which were caught
up in fists in his hair, she would either drop to the ground in a heap
or else explode into flight.

Instead, she exploded.


M~*~M~*~M

Mulder had, in his twenty-odd years as an adult, witnessed a hell of
a lot. Nothing, however, could he quantify as more beautiful or in
fact more extraordinary than this. Her release was, by extension,
his. Well, sort of. True, his balls were just about to split and his
dick couldn't possibly get any harder, and he *knew* the orgasm
coming his way would be one for the record books. Still, to hold
this woman and taste and smell and watch as her climax ripped her
apart was without doubt one of the high points of his life.

He would like to have taken his time at this point, were he not on
his knees on a cold concrete floor, and if they were anyplace other
than the Hoover. He'd like to lavish more attention on those
breasts, then maybe spend a little more time letting his mouth get to
know the neighborhood his fingers had just visited. He'd done a
little of that the night before, but other activities had taken
precedence and he'd had to go with the flow. 

As things stood, time was not particularly a luxury, and for more
than one reason. First and most pressingly, he was about to come a
river in his shorts. Not the ideal place for that to happen. Also, and
perhaps equally as important, she'd made an excellent point about
the notion of surprise visitors. Stranger things had happened in the
basement. On the whole, chances were great that no one would
really care if the news of their relationship were to get out; but if
they happened to be discovered doing the deed there at work,
*and* on government time .... well, that wasn't a scenario he was
too eager to see play out in real time.

That meant he had to get on with it. Which, all things considered,
wasn't such a bad option.

Logistics had to be reckoned with. He'd like to have had the
janitor's step stool for her to stand on, but neither of them were
dressed for the brief sprint down the hall to the closet to retrieve it.
So he did the next best thing: he caught his hands under her ass and
hoisted her up, pinning her body against the wall. Her eyes and legs
both opened wide, and as her knees gripped his hips, his turgid
cock slid home in the deep, hot recess of her body. 

The pressure was exquisite. The two of them hung there for a beat,
motionless, silently taking in the sensations and the knowledge of
what was happening. Her eyes closed for a moment and then
opened again, and his heart sang with joy when she smiled at him.
Rushed, yes; physically pressed, all right; but she wasn't sorry to be
there, not at all. He kissed her, long and deep, and when she
responded and the tight heat of her body gripping his became even
wetter, his hips began the age-old dance of thrust and retreat. The
angle was wrong and he couldn't get much depth with his strokes,
but even *that* was all right because she wanted him to be in her
and he was, he was, and it was hot and slick and she was using
some cool female thing to tighten up around him, caressing and
quivering and licking the head of his cock with her .... with her .... 

Words were tumbling out of him, carried on pants and grunts, and
it wasn't long at all before she went rigid again, writhing and
gasping as he ground that magical spot of hers with his pubic bone.
Liquid was pooling up between them and beginning to trickle down
his thighs, and though he wouldn't be anywhere else in the world at
that moment, he also would have given just about anything in the
world to be able to see and taste that elixir, which was proof
positive of her need for him. 

Her head came back up and her gaze locked with his, and he
*knew* she could see it in his eyes, just a few more strokes and
he'd be gone. He grimaced, desperate to stave off the inevitable and
yet desperate to let it happen. His cock was expanding in her, a sure
sign that the end was in sight, and he grunted as he bounced her
against him, using physics and gravity to add the final touch to his
torture.

One stroke. Two. Three and the ending began, a hot spurt that
quickly became a gush. Fire lived in him, in his heart and his blood
and especially his cock, and he bit down hard on his lip to swallow
the roar as insanity tore him apart.

When reality asserted itself around them again, he realized his legs
were shaking so hard, he could barely stand. God but they were
wet. He gracelessly bent at the knees, allowing her to find the
ground with her feet, and his dick left a slick trail across her belly as
it slithered free and hung, thick and dark and subsiding rapidly in
the cool air of the restroom. He leaned one hand on the wall over
her shoulder, catching his head on his arm and wiping the sweat
from his face with his sleeve. "I'm getting too old for this," he
whispered hoarsely.

Scully was wasting no time, using a length of toilet paper to catch
what spilled out at his withdrawal.  "Impressive," she murmured,
depositing the wad in the trash can and then readjusting her
underwear with a quick swivel of her hips. He looked at her blankly
for a second, and she flashed him a quick smile. "You recover very
quickly. That was a hell of a lot of semen for a guy who's had four
orgasms in the past twelve hours."

He smiled breathlessly. "Didn't know I had it in me, did you?"

"Oh, I've always known you were full of it." She stepped close and
gently helped reposition his shorts around him. His dick, lethargic
and sated, nonetheless warmed again at her touch. She smiled again
as he zipped his pants and buttoned his jacket neatly. Somehow
she'd already retrieved her slacks and shirt and had them back on.
They were a little wrinkled from their brief stint in the corner, but
were largely unscathed. "Let's get one thing straight right now," she
said, her firm tone somewhat at odds with the smile flirting around
her eyes. She'd turned and was washing her hands in the sink. He
grunted as he joined her. The soap was warm and slick in his hands,
and he felt another twitch from below. Damn greedy thing. She
eyed him through the untidy fall of her hair. "This is a one-time
shot. From now on, we visit this restroom *one* at a time. No
exceptions."

He felt his lip begin to stick out. She better than anyone knew that
he didn't like being thwarted.  "Well .... what if I need help in here?"

She gave him the Look. Funny, but his balls *still* didn't feel like
raisins. Big and mushy and very, very happy, yes. Definitely not
raisins. "Mulder, I don't even want to contemplate what you'd be
doing in here that you might need *my* help."

That's the trouble with having a perpetually dirty mind, he told
himself with an inward grin: even when he meant something totally
harmless, his words would be taken at face value and largely used
against him. "That's not what I mean, Scully. I mean .... I mean .....
what if I get a bad cut and I need you to help clean it up? *That*
would be okay, wouldn't it?"

Her stony look softened, and to his delight, she kissed him briefly
on the cheek. "Mulder, if you *ever* need a wound dressed or a
burn soaked or a .... a booboo kissed better, I'll always be there for
you."

He grinned wickedly. "Really?" He gestured to the bulge of his
dozing cock. "Because I have this strange pain .... right about here
...." 

She turned on her heel, but not before he caught a glimpse of the
smile that tugged at her mouth. "In your dreams. C'mon."

He smiled as he wadded his paper towel and tossed it in the general
direction of the trash, then turned to follow her back out into the
hall. "Hey, Scully, do you have the time?"

She glanced at her watch. "Yeah, it's ten minutes past three. Why?"

He gave her a sideways glance and allowed a hint of smugness into
his tone. "So, we were in there, what ..... about five minutes, wasn't
it?"

She didn't even look at him. "Shut up, Mulder."


~~~~
end
~~~~


Silly, wasn't it? Like it? Hate it? Lemme know!



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