Pretensioner Author: Diana Battis Distribution: OK for Gossamer. Anywhere else, just ask. I usually say yes. Classification: S, MSR Rating: NC-17 Spoilers: None Summary: Sequel to Catalytic Converter, a woman from the past further complicates Mulder's life. Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never have, never will, damn it! Author's Comments: Thanks, Kristy, for the beta and the friendship. I never realized criticism could be so much fun! Music may be the food of love, but I live for feedback! E-mail me -- All4Mulder@aol.com http://www.oocities.org/Area51/Vault/4090/TheXFilesFic.html ****** Part One ****** Do you know what it's like to be stuck in a basement office with a bored Fox Mulder? It's hell. That was how things were this week. Sheer hell. We had no new cases to investigate, nothing interesting to sink our teeth into. No UFO sightings, alien autopsies, or other unexplained phenomena. Just boring paperwork. Finishing field notes from our last two cases, filing, and the worst of all -- filling out those damned expense reports. I never thought I'd miss hearing Mulder's enthusiastic 'Hey, Scully, look at this!', his normal prelude to one of our unconventional case files, but I do. Of course, he's not the only one who feels that way. I spent the better part of the week fighting boredom too, and losing the battle. I mean, how much paperwork can you handle and still retain your sanity? The first two days were difficult. And by the third I could actually feel my skin start to crawl at the sight of government forms. We should have talked and come to some agreement about the equitable distribution of the work. But for whatever reason, we didn't. Now it's Friday, and my frustration level has risen to an all time high. Add that to the boredom and you have a volatile situation that could escalate into all out war. Take the expense reports. They're fairly simple. You would think that two people with our educational background could fill them out quickly. Piece of cake, right? Wrong. Can you imagine it? Something as simple as recording receipts and tallying the charges seems to be beyond the capabilities of two relatively sane adults. I mean, we've faced demons both real and imagined without cracking. We've been shot, kidnapped, forcibly separated from the X-Files and one another, and managed to survive. Yet we are completely reduced to quivering cowards at the sight of a credit card receipt. Never mind the calculator. We'd put off this particular chore. Only postponing the inevitable, but why do today what you can put off until tomorrow? Except tomorrow always comes. So, it's time to pay the piper, or rather, account to the accountant. Mulder glances over at the receipts spread out in front of me as though he expects them to spontaneously combust, and is somewhat disappointed when they don't. But he continues to sit at his desk and makes no move to help me work on the report. Instead, he sighs, fidgets, spits sunflower shells in the general direction of the wastebasket, misses, and sighs again. He's no help at all. No, I'm the one who spends hours sitting at my desk checking and cross-checking figures. The damned thing just won't balance. So I start over, re-listing all the receipts, tallying the charges, and coming up with another total. Also wrong. Finally, after spending too much time trying to find seven dollars and change, I take the easy way out -- I fudge the damned thing. I look again at the pile of receipts. They have been sorted, logged in, and tallied, not without considerable effort on my part. The report is finished, and so is my patience. Sighing, I tuck my hair back behind my ears before closing the folder containing the completed report. I look up in time to catch Mulder staring at me. He's got a speculative look in his eyes, and I know I'm going to hate myself for asking, but. . . "What?" I sound belligerent. I feel that way, too. I'm exhausted by this, and frankly ticked off by his selfish assumption that I would take care of it alone. "Scully, did anyone ever tell you you're beautiful when you're angry?" I see a mocking grin flash across his face before he can suppress it. That bastard's laughing at me! He knows exactly what I'm thinking, and it doesn't bother him one bit. Well, why should it? Again Mulder's gotten his way, and at my expense. There's no hiding my fury. I can feel the tide of color rise in my face, heating my cheeks to the same temperature as my anger. "I'm glad you find this amusing, Mulder. Enjoy the joke. It'll give you something to do this weekend." I deliver these words with cold clarity. There can be no mistaking my meaning. It gets his attention. His brow wrinkles, and I can practically see him mentally cataloguing what that means. No breakfast in bed, no long soaks together in my large, claw-footed tub, no cuddling beneath the down quilt after some great, make that exceptional, sex. All lost, because of his negligence, though I doubt he even realizes he's to blame. He rises and walks over to stand behind me. His hands rest on my shoulders, fingers digging into my flesh, massaging the muscles that are tight with tension. And without thinking, I lean into him, allowing my head to rest against him as his hands continue their magic. I can feel the stress melting away, along with my initial anger. His touch is mesmerizing, the cool, talented fingers stroking away my cares, making me forget for a moment where I am. His body, solid and dependable, supports me as I allow my thoughts to drift. I am floating, surrounded by the spicy scent of his cologne and the safety of his arms, in a world where nothing can harm me. "So, what should I bring for dinner?" His lips are hovering over my ear, the whispered words caressing me. I shiver, concentrating more on the feelings those words generate than on their actual meaning. And then I realize what he's asked me. . . Pulling away from him, I shove my chair backwards, slamming it into his body. I turn to look at him, so angry I can barely catch my breath. "Don't bother. I want to be alone." He steps backwards, hands settling on his hips as he takes in my words. "You channeling Garbo, Scully?" He raises his eyebrows, a strange light in his eyes as his teeth clamp down on his bottom lip. The son of a bitch is still laughing at me. I want to slap that look right off his face, but I fold my arms instead. He can't try to make a fool out of me and get away with it. Sighing in annoyance, I prepare to tell him off, in the nicest possible way, of course. I'll use that disdainful little voice that really grates on his nerves. That should wipe the amused look right off his face. Staring him straight in the eye, I wet my lips, preparing to give him a piece of my mind. His sharp intake of breath surprises me, until I notice his eyes are focused on my mouth. Interesting. I slip my tongue out again, and notice his amused look has been replaced by one of desire. It doesn't take much to arouse Mulder, and despite my anger I can't help feeling slightly smug at the effect I have on him. It also gives me ideas, ones that I should be ashamed of even considering, but he asked for it. I'm about to teach Mulder a lesson. Crossing over to him, I rest my palm against his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath my hand. Moving it caressingly over the starched whiteness of his shirt, I can feel his heartbeat accelerate. His tie is already pulled loose, the first two buttons of his shirt undone, and I let my fingers trail across the hair roughened skin exposed by this opening. His breathing quickens at my touch, and I lean forward to press a kiss where my fingers had been. My tongue traces slowly over the small area of flesh, tasting his slightly salty tang. His voice is hoarse, and he holds his body stiff as though fighting his response. "Scully, what brought this on? You *do* remember where we are?" "Are you complaining?" I look into hazel eyes that are brimming with desire. "Hell, no! I was. . .surprised. You seemed a bit disturbed just a minute ago." The tension is draining from his body as I stroke over his shoulders, slipping my fingers beneath the collar of his shirt to touch the warmth of his skin. His head rolls back, resting against my hands for a moment as his eyes close in pleasure. Standing on tiptoe, my lips find his throat. I nip my way along his neck, suckling lightly until I reach the sweet little spot behind his earlobe. I dip my tongue into that hollow before moving to blow lightly in his ear. He shivers, moaning softly. Smiling at his reaction, I whisper seductively, "I think I may have been a little harsh. This is just my way of showing some. . .appreciation for all you've done today. You can't tell me you haven't fantasized about doing this here -- I have." A muffled cry escapes him, deep and nearly tortured. I look at his face, almost surprised to see his flushed skin and the little beads of perspiration dotting his forehead. He's so caught up in this that I start to feel guilty. But I can't stop now. "Mmm. This is nice." I rub my cheek over his heart as my arms drop to wrap around his waist. My voice is low, a husky note designed to further stoke the heat of his passion. His hands, no longer on his hips but on mine, pull me closer. I can feel his erection pressing against me, begging for my touch, and a wave of longing sweeps through me. Suddenly, I am wondering which one of us is being taught that lesson. Though it takes all my willpower, I move my body slightly away from him. My eyes seek his, which are nothing more than narrow slits in a face taut with desire. Reaching down, I grab one of his hands from my waist, linking our fingers. Turning, I lead him over to his desk. "Mulder, sit." I push him down in his chair, watching his body as it collapses into the seat. Good boy, I laugh to myself. He reaches for me, and I know he intends to pull me into his lap and finish what I so brazenly started a few moments ago. But, much as I want it now, that wasn't my original plan. This is about power, I remind myself. We're supposed to be equal in this relationship, both in and out of the office. Yet at times, like today, he is too ready to revert back to the primitive roles of the sexes in the workplace. I really resent being stuck doing the 'secretarial' work while he sits there checking his e-mail, surfing the net, and just idling away the hours. And he seems to think that the offer of a take-out dinner is enough to appease me. Now he'll know differently. Swiftly backing away from him, I reach my desk, and stop only to grab my briefcase and coat. I glance back over my shoulder, and see the stunned look of realization cross his face as I open the door. "Good night, Mulder. Have a good weekend." And I speed over the threshold, hearing his groan of frustration follow me. He's not the only one frustrated. This hasn't been my finest hour. I acted immature, I know. But after all that's happened today, I refuse to feel guilty. He's gotten exactly what he deserves. Somehow, I make it home. Snapping on the lights, I automatically check my answering machine, expecting a message from Mulder, and fight a wave of disappointment when I see the unblinking light. Well, why am I so upset? Damn it, I wanted to be alone, didn't I? Didn't I? ****** It's crowded in The Blarney Stone, the air thick with smoke and heated discussions. This place, like most of the buildings in my neighborhood, is a bit past its prime. The mirror behind the bar reflects the dingy walls and faded prints of a bygone era. Only the big screen color tv, tuned to the hockey game, is a concession to the present. This place isn't for casual drinkers, and women are not encouraged to drop in. Normally, that would piss me off, but not tonight. I've had enough of females for one day. Especially one in particular. Now, I just want to get drunk. Enough alcohol and I can forget. For a while, anyway. I manage to elbow my way to the bar. McDaniels, the bartender, sets a double shot of Stoli in front of me, grunting out a grudging hello. Though it's been months since I've felt the need to visit this place, he still remembers what I like. Throwing back the vodka, I relish the smooth slide of liquid down my throat, and the warmth it spawns in my gut. Slamming the glass back on the bar I gesture for another. I need it. I need to feel the temporary oblivion that alcohol can provide. "S'matter, Mulder? Woman trouble?" McDaniels refills my glass, his pleasantly ugly face smiling at my suffering. Grabbing it, I down it in one gulp before replying. "Is there any other kind?" Putting out the glass for more, I notice his eyes widen slightly before pouring me another double. Got to slow down, take my time with this one, don't know how many more he'll serve me. "Wanna talk about it?" Must be a slow news night, because he actually seems interested. But I can't talk about it, to him or anyone. I just can't. How can I explain it to him when I don't understand what happened myself? Talk about it? Hell, maybe that's something Scully and I should have done days ago, before things reached the boiling point. I guess it just didn't strike me as that important. The dynamics of our partnership seemed to make it unnecessary. At least, that's what I'd thought. . . Scully is normally a very fair person. She wouldn't dream of expecting special treatment from anyone where work is concerned. I rarely have to cover for her. She is always prepared to do her share, and hardly ever complains about it. So I don't mind too much if she occasionally has an off day. Like today. She put me through the wringer, and it wasn't easy to keep my cool. Even though I was willing to overlook her lack of cooperation and enthusiasm where the work was concerned, apparently it wasn't enough. I should be furious with her, but I'm not. Instead, I'm hurt and frustrated as hell. I still can't believe it. She left me, just like that. One minute she was seducing me, right in the office, and the next thing I knew she was rushing out the door. Only the lingering scent of her perfume and the tightness of my trousers were left as proof of her actions. I'm still not sure what caused her to act that way. It couldn't have been anything I said or did. I'd been a saint all week, which wasn't easy considering I was bored out of my mind. We had nothing new to work on. I'd checked all my sources, tried to find some cases to reopen, and even perused the tabloids for something worth investigating, with no luck. Instead, we spent our time tying up the loose ends from our last few cases. Paperwork isn't one of my favorite things to do, but I know it's necessary, and I managed to muster up some enthusiasm for the job. Scully, on the other hand, did nothing all day. While I slaved over those fucking notes, trying to decipher her chicken scratch and translate it into something approaching coherency, she sat there, doodling and daydreaming. She filled page after page, the tip of her tongue showing between her teeth as she concentrated on her designs and inspected her handiwork. In the past, I've rescued some of the finished pieces from her trash can. Scully's quite creative. She can cover reams of paper with these unbelievably complicated patterns, whorls and shapes reminiscent of some biological cell heretofore unknown to humanity. Too bad she didn't put that creativity to use by doing some work today. As for me, I'm stuck finishing the field report using my usual torturous two fingered typing system. It happened to be one of the long, more technical reports, too. I'm not sure if the phrasing or even the spelling was correct, as a few of the medical terms were beyond me. But one look at her face, intently focused on the page before her, kept me from asking for her help. I just muddled through it the best I could. Hell, Skinner wouldn't know the difference anyway. Shifting, I tried to get comfortable in my chair. My ass was numb, and my back was stiff from sitting there for so long. Stretching, I felt my vertebrae crack. Much better. I shifted my legs, crossing my ankles as I leaned back and resting my weight on my heels to take some of the pressure off my tailbone. Didn't work, and I shifted again, determined to ease my aching body. But how many ways are there to sit in a desk chair? Not many, and I'd tried them all before finally giving up. Reaching across the desk, I snagged my bag of sunflower seeds. Popping one into my mouth, I worked the flesh loose, spitting the shell into the wastebasket. Ha! Three points! The seeds managed to occupy me for about five minutes, before I buckled down and got back to work. I finally finished the goddamned report and shoved it in my out basket. Looking over at Scully, I could see she was still concentrating, her forehead wrinkled and her teeth worrying her bottom lip. I wondered if she knew how hot it made me when she did that. I love looking at her. I could spend all day doing that. I used to do it all the time, before we were together. One of my secret little vices, and I was careful not to get caught. Now it didn't matter. I was able to gaze to my heart's content. She sighed, shoved some papers into a folder, and looked up, catching me staring. "What?" She wasn't a happy camper. Even angry, she was still gorgeous. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled, their blue gray color reminiscent of stormy seas. She looked so goddamned sexy it was all I could do to keep myself from grabbing her, throwing her across my desk, and fucking her senseless. Tamping down my desires, I said the first thing that came into my head. "Scully, did anyone ever tell you you're beautiful when you're angry?" I meant that as a compliment, but it didn't strike her that way. Instead, she told me to enjoy my little joke, because that was all I'd have to laugh about this weekend. Things deteriorated quickly from that point. It had been an impossible week, and we were both so damned frustrated by the lack of activity. To add to the unhealthy emotional mix, there was now an undercurrent of tension in the room, emanating from Scully's corner. The air fairly hummed with it. I wanted to do something for Scully, something to relax her. A little massage, I thought, just the thing to work out some of the kinks and relieve the tension. I'd thought she was weakening when I gave her that back rub, but as usual I did something that managed to piss her off again. I was sure she was ready to serve me my balls on a silver platter when, suddenly, her whole demeanor changed again. She came on to me. Uttering words in a breathless little voice designed to seduce. Pressing herself against me, touching me for Christ's sake with those cool capable hands, doing all the little things she knows drives me wild. Leading me on, only to leave me hanging and hard while she blithely skipped out the door. Wishing me a good weekend. I had to sit in my office for half an hour before my erection subsided. And by that time the only thing I wanted was a good stiff drink or two. Or more. So I headed here, this male bastion of booze and bullshit. The alcohol is doing its job. I can feel my muscles slacken as the tension drains away. Though I feel a little lightheaded, I don't think it will make my walk home a problem. And at least I'll be able to sleep. Alone. Shit! This will be the first weekend without Scully in over a month. Suddenly, I'm no where near drunk enough to get through this. Waving to McDaniels, I order another one. Yeah, one for the road -- the road to oblivion. Staggering into the elevator a half hour later, I'm beginning to regret my indulgences. It takes three tries before I manage to hit the right floor button. Once the elevator is in motion, I feel as I should ride back down again to get my stomach. Holding on to the wall, I make my way down the hallway, stopping before my door. Finding my keys takes a while, and once in hand, the right one eludes my search. I miss the lock more times than my addled brain can count. For some reason, my mind latches on to the punchline of a dirty joke I heard tonight -- 'put a little hair around it and you can't miss'. That strikes me as so funny, until I start thinking about red hair. . . At last, I finally get the door open and stumble inside. The hall is brightly lit for some reason, and I can hear movement in the other room. Fuck! Someone's in my apartment. My heart starts pounding, adrenaline kicking in to fuel my alarm. With unsteady hands I draw my weapon, realizing too late that my fumbling attempts at entry have already broadcast my presence. Trying to proceed with caution, I enter my living room, only tripping over my feet once before confronting the intruder. . . Oh, Shit! "Fox! I thought you'd never get here." She threw herself in my arms, nearly knocking me over in the process. Her long, dark hair flies in my face as she sobs on my shoulder. "I'm in trouble. You have to help me! There's no one else I can turn to. I don't know what I'm going to do if you won't." I try to push her away, but she's all over me, blanketing me with her cloying scent. Trying to escape her embrace is like trying to get away from an octopus. She seems to have eight arms, and all of them are wound around me. I don't remember her being this clingy before. How the fuck did she get in here, anyway? Oh, hell! Scully, where are you when I really need you? ****** I'm soaking in the tub, the aroma of lavender filling the room. Candles are strategically placed around the tub, the flickering glow creating a grotto-like effect. Sipping at a glass of Merlot, I sigh with pleasure. This is what I need, the heat of the water burning away the tension and soaking into my body. I just settle back, allowing the clouds of fragrant steam to soothe my senses, when I hear the phone ring. Of course! Now that selfish bastard calls me. I'd promised myself I wouldn't answer it, purposely left the cordless in the living room, but I can't seem to help myself. The ringing is driving me crazy. And anyway, maybe he's calling to apologize. . . Grabbing a towel, I hastily wrap it around me as I pad into the bedroom. The air is chilly on my wet, exposed skin, and I can feel the goosebumps forming. Shivering, I reach for the phone. "What!" I snarl into the receiver. "Dana? Honey, is that you?" The tentative whisper of my mother's voice greets me, and I can feel my face flame in reaction. "Oh, hi Mom." Terrific. If I hadn't been so eager to give Mulder hell, I'd have let the machine get it. Thinking wistfully of my cooling bath water, I sit on the side of the bed, hitching my towel more securely around me. This could take a while. "Is everything okay?" No, Mom, nothing is okay. I'm here alone, cold, wet, and miserable. I want Mulder, but I'm pissed off at him, too. I don't know how to give in, and I want you to hang up so I can go back to feeling sorry for myself. Shivering, I stand to tug the quilt off the bed and drape it around me. I'm grateful for its warmth over my chilled flesh. If only warming my heart were this easy. "I'm fine. Surprised to hear from you, though. I thought you were going away on retreat this weekend?" Mom had been so excited about the retreat, and had tried very hard to get me to go too. But I didn't want to spend the weekend on my knees. At least, not in prayer. . . Mulder, where are you when I really need you? "Oh, I decided not to go. I'm coming down with a cold, and the thought of a strange bed just made me feel worse. Honestly, Dana, I don't know how you and Fox can stand it, staying in all those hotels and motels. It would drive me crazy." Mom, you'd be surprised at what I'm able to do if Mulder is with me. And it does drive me crazy. For a second, I thought I'd uttered the words, but then I realize my mom is still waiting for me to reply. "Well, it's part of the job." Taking a few deep breaths, I try to get the slight tremor out of my voice. And fail. "It's really not that bad, Mom, relatively speaking. At least I'm not stuck in those places alone." Like tonight, I think, biting my lip in frustration. Hell, he's the one being punished. So how come it feels more like I'm the one paying the penalty? "Well, I won't keep you, honey. I know you must be tired. I just wanted to let you know I'm home this weekend, and was wondering if you wanted me to pick you up for church on Sunday." I can hear the hesitant note in her voice. I haven't been to Mass in weeks, unwilling to give up my time with Mulder. Looks like that won't be a problem this weekend. "Um, I'll let you know. Are you sure you're all right?" I've been so wrapped up in my clash with Mulder that I haven't really paid attention to my mother. Now I have guilt to contend with as well as anger. I probably will be going to Mass with her on Sunday. She sighs in irritation. "Don't fuss! Yes, it's only a cold, and I have some Nyquil. I'll make a cup of tea, take the medicine and sleep. I'll be fine, Dana." "Okay, then. Night, Mom." "Good night, Dana. Love you." She hangs up, and I sit there for a moment, shivering under the quilt, the dial tone buzzing in my ear. I'm glad someone loves me. . . Stop it! Slamming the phone back on its cradle with unleashed violence, I feel the anger course through me again, heating my previously cold body and causing me to drop the quilt from my shoulders. I called the shots today. If I'm unhappy with the results, there's no one to blame but myself. I stomp my way back to my bath. Of course, the water is cold, and the idea of waiting for the tub to fill again doesn't appeal to me at all. Sighing, I reach down and pull the plug, listening to the gurgling sound of the water as it drains from the tub, leaving the porcelain cold and white and empty. Like me. Brushing my teeth takes no time. Next, I slather cream over my face, leaving it on to soak into my skin. Not getting any younger, Dana old girl, I tell my reflection. Got to protect that complexion. Leaning closer to the mirror, I take inventory. I see a woman, no longer in the first blush of womanhood, but holding up well for her age. Clear skin, a few of summer's freckles lingering to dot the aquiline nose. Blue eyes that seem a little clouded, and there's a certain dejected droop to the mouth. Nice hair, a little curly, but good color. And not from a bottle. Yet. A few more days like this one and that will no longer be true. Is this all that Mulder sees when he looks at me? Does he ever try to get below the surface? To 'see' the real Dana Scully? Does he love me, or that woman in the mirror? The boundaries of our relationship shifted so damned fast. One minute we're friends, the next we're lovers, with no chance to become accustomed to the idea of a deeper relationship. No, we plunge right into the deep end, over our heads as usual, with no idea if we'll sink or swim. . . I know I love him. There's not a doubt in my mind. It may have taken me a while to recognize the symptoms, but once I did it was easy to make a diagnosis. I love everything about him. His mind, that agile organ capable of making leaps no ordinary human being could. Quirky, off-the-wall theories that turn out to be right more times than I care to admit. And that face, with those beautiful, ever-changing eyes that see so much and give away so little. The proud nose, a strong feature that on a lesser man would look ridiculous. And those full and sensuous lips. Lips that do such wonderful things to me. . . I love his long, lithe body, the construction of skin and muscle over skeleton, a work of art and proof to me at least, of a supreme being. Looking at Mulder, the words 'made in His image' can be nothing but the truth. God help me, I even find his bad habits intriguing. I love his loud ties, his bad haircuts, his corny jokes -- everything. I'm a sappy, sodden mass of emotions where that man is concerned. So, if I love that son of a bitch so much, why am I here alone? Good question, Dana. So, what are you going to do about it? Squaring my shoulders, I reach for the box of tissues, and grab a few to wipe the cream off my face. I have someplace to go. I'm nearly dressed when I hear the phone ringing. Snatching up the receiver, I cradle it between shoulder and ear as I finish buttoning my jeans. "Hello?" "Scully?" Heavy breathing accompanies the voice, and if I hadn't recognized it as Mulder's, I would have thought it was an obscene phone call. "Mulder, what's wrong?" "Please, I need you. Come over, fast as you can. It. . .it's important, very important." His harsh whisper sends a wave of fear through me. The hairs on my neck prickle in reaction. "Tell me what's wrong! Please, Mulder, you're scaring me." My voice rises in panic, sounding shrill and discordant in the calm atmosphere of my bedroom. "I really can't talk now. I'll tell you when you get here. Don't think about this afternoon. It's now that really matters. Please, Scully, please. I need you." He's begging, and that scares me even more. This is not the Mulder I know. Snapping back to the matter at hand, I fire out questions. "Are you hurt? Do you need backup? Should I call Skinner, or the police? Work with me, Mulder. Are you in danger?" I am under control now, though anxiety isn't far from the surface. "No, it's nothing like that. It's. . .just hurry, god, please hurry, Scully. I need you, only you." And he breaks the connection. Hitting his number on the speed dial, I hear the rhythmic beep of a busy signal taunting me. I hang up, and quickly finish dressing. Grabbing my jacket and keys, I head for the door. No, not yet. Turning, I re-enter my bedroom and get my gun. Now, I'm ready. ****** End of Part One Go to Part Two -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Feedback is appreciated -- E-mail All4Mulder@aol.com -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Back to the Series Page -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Back to main fic page
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