MIGHTY WORKINGS

Title: "Mighty Workings" (1/1)

Author: Plausible Deniability

Address: pdeniability@hotmail.com

Category: S, a little H

Rating: *NC-17* (sexual situations, mature language)

Spoilers: none

Keywords: real UST (of a very awkward sort); unreal RST (of a very strange
sort)

Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the television program "The X
Files" are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox Broadcasting, and
Ten-Thirteen Productions, and have been used without permission. No
copyright infringement is intended.

Summary: Paper-thin motel walls pose a problem for Agent Mulder.

THANKS to my cyber-Goddess, the talented Dasha K., for her inspiration and
advice, and to Becky for her wisdom and her red pen.

------

Hear ye not the hum

Of mighty workings?

John Keats, "Addressed to Haydon: Sonnet x"

****

"You want the last slice?" I ask Scully, opening the lid of the pizza box
invitingly.

"No, thanks. You take it."

I lift the wedge of Little Caesar's finest and shovel it into my mouth. A
piece of sausage drops onto the bedspread, and I quickly pick it off and eat
it before Scully notices. It's my room, but I don't want her thinking I'm a
slob.

"I'll take the receipts from 1995 to mid-1997," she suggests with a yawn,
dividing the file folders on the motel room desk into two neat piles. "You
can take mid-97 to the present."

"Okay," I agree from my comfortable position on the bed -- only my mouth is
still full, and it comes out sounding a bit more like "Ogha." We are staying
in the sort of cheap motel that the FBI number-crunchers seem to love. The
bed has no headboard, and so I am slouched with my back against the wall.

She carries one of the two stacks of folders over to me, and drops it
summarily into my lap.

"Thanks."

She returns to her seat at the desk and I open the first folder. We are
looking for some connection between the local pet shop and a series of
grisly murders. All of the victims owned reptiles -- snakes, iguanas,
miniature alligators. The pet store employees have already been cleared, but
Scully and I are wondering if there might still be some link between the
shop and the murders: something strange the victims bought, perhaps, or a
supplier their pets had in common.

We are quiet for a while, both of us poring over the shop's chaotic records.
Then I hear it -- a faint, distant moan comes floating through the wall
behind me. I raise my head for a second, alert. Is someone ill? Has someone
perhaps been injured?

A beat passes, and then another moan follows. Only this time it is crystal
clear that the sound has nothing to do with sickness or trauma. I have heard
this same moan many times before -- but rarely outside of adult movies.

As if to confirm my suspicions, a muffled female voice groans, "Oh, yeah,
baby. Right there. Yeah, that feels so good..."

I look in alarm toward Scully. Did she hear that?

But she remains working in unconcern at the spartan little desk, flipping
steadily through her first folder of receipts. I let my breath out slowly in
relief. It would certainly be...awkward, if my proper and self-possessed
female partner were to hear something so uncomfortably erotic. Particularly
since I am sitting not ten feet away from her in a seedy motel room,
sprawled on a king-size bed.

I go back to puzzling over the pet shop paperwork. Maybe the victims all
visited the store on the same date. Perhaps I can find some sort of pattern.

More low moans waft in from the other side of the wall. I look over my
shoulder nervously. Jesus, Scully's going to hear it if they don't keep it
down.

She looks so collected and professional, working there at the desk. She has
her hair tucked behind her ears in that cute, no-nonsense way she has. She's
mostly turned away from me, but I can still see enough of her face to tell
that she is thinking very seriously about the case. The desk lamp sheds a
warm glow on her pensive profile. She looks reassuringly *pure*.

But the moans are getting harder to mistake.

"I see a lot of receipts for dog food," I say loudly.

She turns, and gives me a questioning look. "Is that significant for some
reason?"

"Not really significant," I answer, hoping to cover up the sounds. "Just
interesting. Don't you think that's interesting? I thought people mostly
bought dog food at grocery stores."

"Mulder, why are you shouting?"

"I'm not shouting."

She eyes me critically. "If you say so..."

She turns back, and resumes her search through the pile of receipts. From
behind the wall, a long low moan rises and falls. "Oh, that feels good," a
feminine voice enthuses. "Oh, yes, give me that great big cock of yours."

Ignore it, I order myself. Ignore it, ignore it, ignore it.

Then the rhythmic squeak of bedsprings begins: EE-ee-EE-ee-EE-ee.

"Scully," I blurt desperately, "you want to go somewhere?"

She turns again and stares at me. "Go somewhere...?"

"Yeah, you know. Get some fresh air, maybe grab a bite to eat."

"Mulder, we just ate a whole pizza."

She has a point. But I have to get her out of this room. Sooner or later she
is bound to notice that there is a funky Love Connection taking place on the
other side of the wall. The noises are growing louder by the minute.

"Well, let's walk our dinner off, then," I insist. "Clear our heads."

"Mulder, we have work to do." She turns her back to me again, and
methodically begins sorting her sheaf of receipts into a series of little
stacks. Apparently she has hit on some sort of system. A stack for cat
receipts, maybe, and another stack for parakeets.

On the other side of the wall, the sound of bedsprings intensifies. "Oh,
god, that's good!" the man hollers. "Fuck, you're hot!"

Okay, Scully had to have heard *that*. Helen Keller could have heard that.
The circa-1970 light fixture on the wall beside me is actually rattling. I
look over at her, my forehead creased with trepidation.

But she just keeps working quietly.

And then it hits me: of course she heard it. She's probably heard all of the
sounds just as clearly as I have. The little hypocrite! She's not deaf,
she's just a very impressive actress. She's pretending she hasn't noticed
what's going on.

For some reason, this bothers me. It bothers me even more than my previous
apprehension did. Now I know that she's aware of the happenings on the other
side of the wall. That means I have to wonder what she's thinking, and
whether it might even be turning her on. Not only that, but I have to sit
here and try to equal her pretense of obliviousness with a matching
performance of my own.

"Give it to me harder," the mystery woman cries on the other side of the
wall. "Oh, God, I love the way your big cock feels!"

Scully doesn't even bat an eye. What a consummate little fraud.

Well, two can play at that game. I make an ostentatious show of sorting my
receipts into piles the same way she is doing. One potato, two potato, three
potato, four... I have no idea what my piles are supposed to signify, but at
least it looks like I am working diligently.

"Oh, baby, I'm gonna make you come so hard!" the man bellows.

Scully's hand never hesitates for an instant. She is a robot, an automaton,
a paper-shuffling machine. I can't help but marvel at her concentration.
What is going on inside that inscrutable head of hers?

I know what's going on in my head: How the hell can they make so much
*noise*? I thought stuff like that only happened in porn movies. I've
certainly never had any woman scream about my cock that way. And how can
Scully pretend there's nothing odd about that?

Unless maybe I just haven't been doing it right all these years...

EE-ee-EE-ee-EE-ee-EE-ee.

God, I can't stand it. This is like watching an X-rated movie with my mother
in the room.

I force myself to continue sorting. Yes, the receipts with blue ink in this
pile, the ones with black ink in that one. One has a coffee stain, so I
decide that deserves a pile of its own. A special pile for coffee stains;
let's see Scully match that sort of productivity.

I glance over at her. She must have ice water in her veins. She just keeps
working, as if it is perfectly normal to conduct an investigation over the
din of vigorous sex. The paint is practically flaking off the ceiling, and
it isn't fazing her at all.

The moaning escalates in pitch and volume. "Yes!" sobs the woman's voice
ecstatically. "Oh, God, yes -- like that! Fuck me!"

All right, that tears it. I can't take it anymore. Maintaining the polite
impervious mask that Scully seems to expect is too much of a strain. I have
to say something.

I clear my throat. "Jeez, it sounds like somebody's getting a real one-gun
salute next door..."

Scully's head turns slowly, and she freezes me with a look. "Mulder, I
hardly think that's any of our business."

I can't believe it -- I'm just trying to break the tension here, and she's
*lecturing* me? "I know it's none of our business. That's why I find it odd
that we're just sitting here working meekly, as if nothing the least bit out
of place is going on."

She doesn't answer.

"I mean, some things I can pretend. I can pretend I don't see it when
someone has a piece of spinach in his teeth, and I can pretend there is
nothing uncomfortable about watching tampon ads on TV. But I cannot pretend
I don't hear it when two people with exceptionally strong lungs are having
torrid sex not two feet from the spot where I am sitting."

From next door, as if in chorus with my words, comes another volley of noise
-- an orgasmic female shriek rises over the rhythmic squawk of bedsprings.

"Hey!" I yell in frustration, pounding on the wall with my fist. "Keep it
down in there!"

Scully's eyes widen in horror. "Mulder! Don't let them know you can hear
them -- !"

Oh, yes, I think. God forbid I should offend their delicate sensibilities.

Sometimes Scully makes me wonder whether we even belong to the same species.

****

I am having the strangest dream. Scully is trying to seduce me, only I am
afraid to give in. In my dream world, it is against FBI regulations to make
noise while having sex.

"C'mere," she says, stepping squarely in front of me and unbuttoning my
shirt. "Let's see that big cock of yours."

"Scully, I have dog food receipts to read."

"Oh, no, Mulder. You're going to make love to me. You know you want to."

And it's true, I do want to. Scully is wearing nothing but a black silk bra
and panties, and as she unbuttons my shirt she kisses her way down my
sternum. I want her so much that I'm already pale, trembling, and
glassy-eyed. I would love to throw her on the bed -- we are in the office,
but there is a big gold heart-shaped bed right in the middle of it -- and
fuck her lovely brains out.

I can't, though. I might moan or something, and FBI agents aren't supposed
to make noise. It's the one rule we're not allowed to break, like the Prime
Directive on Star Trek.

"Please," she whispers. "Please do this one thing for me, Mulder." She
pushes my shirt off my shoulders, and it drops to the floor. "Please make me
come."

"Scully, I can't," I whine. "Let's just get a pizza instead. You like pizza,
don't you?"

She lifts my hand and puts it on her breast. "No, not now I don't. I just
want to have sex with you. I want you to give me your big cock."

"Scully, you don't really want that..."

"A gentleman never contradicts a lady, Fox," comes a familiar voice from the
corner of the office.

I wheel around. My mother is sitting demurely on the edge of my desk, ankles
crossed, watching Scully and me.

"Mom!" I exclaim.

"Share with the nice girl, the way you're supposed to," my mother prods.

I tip my head to one side. "You know, I really don't think I can, Mom, if
you're going to watch the whole thing."

Obligingly, she shimmers and disappears.

"There now, that's better, isn't it?" Scully asks, as I breathe an enormous
sigh of relief. I hear the rasp of metal, and look down to see her lowering
my zipper. She slips her hand inside the open waistband of my pants.

Oh, god. This is not going to be easy. How can I help responding when she is
being so aggressive? She shoves me back against the office wall, so roughly
that the circa-1970 light fixture above us actually rattles.

"Scully, don't," I beg.

"Don't fight it, Mulder."

I can't help it -- I'm hard. She wraps her hand around my erection.

"But, Scully, we can't," I pant weakly. "What about the noise? What about my
job?"

In answer, she tightens her fingers around me.

Oh, God. Already I am a sweating, trembling wreck, and she is a cool,
triumphant beauty in black silk lingerie. No way I am going to come out the
winner in this encounter. I hold my breath, and stare down fearfully at her
creamy breasts.

And then somehow our clothes have magically vanished, and I am lying on my
back on the bed, blinking up at her. "Oh, baby, I'm going to make you come
so hard," she growls, leaning over me, her burnished hair spilling down.

"No, please," I squeak. Rules are rules.

She straddles my hips, and I shiver with rapture as she lowers herself onto
my erection.

I bite down hard on my bottom lip. I can't make noise. I can't.

She closes her eyes, throws her head back, and begins to move slowly. Her
hands rest flat on my chest, fingers spread. "Oh, yeah, baby. Right there.
Yeah, that feels so good..." she says, rocking up and down.

My teeth are going to draw blood, I know they are, but biting my lip seems
to be the only way that I can hold back the moan that is building inside me.
Scully feels so damn good. No noise, I remind myself; no noise.

"Give it to me harder," she breathes, undulating above me. "I love the way
your big cock feels. Oh, yeah."

God -- I can't help it. I moan.

Oh great, I think despairingly. Now I am going to be drummed out of the FBI.
What am I going to tell my mother when she demands to know what happened to
my career? Twelve years of government service down the drain.

But Scully is certainly doing her best to make the crime worth the
punishment. She drives herself down on my throbbing erection. Her hot depths
are like the promise of salvation. It strikes me that I've already blown the
Special Agent gig, and so have nothing much to lose. I moan again.

"That's good, Mulder," she encourages.

It certainly is. I am really beginning to get into this. I reach up and set
my hands on her hips. "Unnh," I groan, forcing her into the rhythm of my
choosing.

She seems to approve. "Oh, God, yes -- like that."

"Oh, yes," I agree, thrusting up into her.

"Fuck me!" Scully urges ecstatically.

I am certainly doing my best. I am moaning to beat the band now, too. Jesus,
this is amazing.

"Yes!" Scully rhapsodizes. "Yes!"

There seems no correct answer to this except -- another moan. My
enthusiastic vocalization is followed by an inexplicable thud. I look up at
Scully questioningly. She smiles down at me. Another thud. My brow wrinkles
in confusion.

THUD THUD THUD

I open my eyes reluctantly, to look in bewilderment around my dark motel
room. Shit. The thudding continues. I struggle up onto my elbows. Someone is
pounding angrily on the wall over my bed.

I reach over and switch on the bedside lamp. The sudden brilliance blinds
me. "Ow -- fuck," I mutter, shielding my eyes with one hastily-lifted
forearm.

"For the last time," an irate voice booms from the other side of the wall,
"would you shut the hell up in there? Some people are trying to sleep!"

****

I have to wonder why Scully keeps looking at me strangely the next morning.
Then, halfway through an unpromising interview with an alligator breeder, it
finally dawns on me: she had the room against the other wall.

Apparently the sound of moans really carries in cheap motels.

****

END

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