From: "Narida Law" 
Date: Mon, 04 Sep 2000 20:27:37 PDT
Subject: Gradual Precipitation by Narida Law
Source: direct

TITLE: Gradual Precipitation
AUTHOR: Narida Law
E-MAIL ADDRESS: narida_law@hotmail.com
WEBSITE: http://www.angelfire.com/ms/naridalaw/
RATING: NC-17
CATEGORY: SRHA
SPOILERS: I'm not responsible for references made through "Brand X."
KEYWORDS: Post-episode for "Brand X"; MSR
DISTRIBUTION: *NO ARCHIVE* to Ephemeral, and please do not send to
Gossamer; I'll send myself.  Otherwise, okay for anywhere else as long
as these headers remain intact.
DISCLAIMER: If I say they belong to me, will that make it true?  Are
you sure?
FEEDBACK: I would love to hear from you.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Thanks to Alicia, Brandon, Diana, Lysandra and Trixie
for the red-ink duties.  More at the end.

SUMMARY: Mulder gets in hot water with an agitated Scully.


Gradual Precipitation
by Narida Law
*~*~*~*~*~*

A week ago, I was not having these kinds of problems.

Damn Mulder's apartment building.  Damn the building's management.
Damn Darryl Weaver.  Damn tobacco beetles.  Damn me, most of all.
Well, damn Mulder as well.  Might as well include him.

The rise and fall of his chest is mesmerizing.  I've never noticed how
erotic the act of breathing can be.

I'm trying to read this medical journal, I really am.  Unfortunately,
my brain keeps coming up with phrases and images more appropriate to a
paperback novel with half-naked people on the cover.  "Suddenly, he
strode to where she stood and tore the clothing from her body..."
"...teasing her unmercifully with his indifference..." "She was swept
up into his arms, his piercing gaze holding her hostage..."  "...pinned
by his long, bronzed male body..." -- that body currently happens to be
lounging on my couch and has my most riveted attention.

I've read the same sentence for the umpteenth time without fully
comprehending its meaning, so I'm just going to give up on this futile
effort.

I honestly don't know how much longer I can resist temptation.
Temptation -- a beckoning specter that dangled, when I was ten, cotton
candy at fairs; when I was in high school, stolen answers to a quiz on
contemporary American history; when I got my first paycheck, a plane
ticket to the Caribbean Islands (instead of the bill to outstanding
student loans); and, for the past few years, my partner.  So, being
that I spent most of my formative years resisting temptation, is it any
wonder now that I've started to lapse?  A person only has so much
willpower she can use during her lifetime, and I think mine is just
about gone.

Hey, it's a good theory.  It means that if I'd only given in to the
appeal of letting Tom Kissel feel me up behind the basketball courts in
eighth grade, my store of karmic willpower might not be so dangerously
depleted.

Having Mulder underfoot for the past few days has been nothing short of
teeth-clenching torture.  The man would try the chastity of a saint;
how am I supposed to fare any better?  Especially with the carrot
dangling right in front of my nose?  That's right, you're a giant, six-
foot vegetable, I berate him in my head.  With bare feet.  And hair
that sticks straight up.

I really should march over there and haul him, whining and grinning,
into my bedroom.  It wouldn't be the first time.  My reticence,
however, stems from the fact that he's recovering from some recent ill
health.  Having insects vacuumed from one's lungs is a pretty traumatic
event.  It's also pretty traumatic for the person who supervises said
vacuuming, and that would be me.  But even though I've gotten over my
own ordeal -- after all, I've had a lot of practice in coping with
near-death Mulder -- he hasn't yet gotten over his.

So I'm holding back.

Unfortunately, I don't deal very well with frustration, and that has
made me a rather moody house companion.  Sometimes I just need to get
away from him, especially when he starts to resemble a large ice cream
cone, like in the cartoons, and all I can think about is how I want to
lick the ice cream before it starts to drip ... and gee, it's starting
to melt pretty fast so I just kind of have to lick it everywhere...

I think you get the picture.

After we flew back from North Carolina, I drove Mulder to his
apartment, intending to tuck him into bed, write a long list of
instructions for the medication he was supposed to take; then I'd
return the next day to make sure that he had followed the directions,
as he has an irritatingly cavalier attitude toward medical advice.  But
as we stepped into the corridor, I noticed little yellow notices taped
onto some of the doors; some had fallen and slipped under the cracks.

In his medicated state, Mulder just looked at me idiotically while I
read the reminder notice from the management of the building that his
hallway was being repainted as part of some massive cosmetic
reconstruction.  This wouldn't have been a problem normally, but with
his compromised lungs, I didn't want Mulder exposed to the paint fumes.
I announced that he was coming home with me, and he didn't argue.  By
that point he'd been swaying on his feet; I don't even think he knew
who I was.

That was four nights ago, and he's been here ever since.

When we got to my apartment he promptly passed out on the couch, and I
didn't have the heart to wake him.  Well, all right, I tried, since I
had planned on giving him the bed, but he might as well have been a
solid stone statue for all that I could move him.  Mulder is normally
very easy with the way he carries himself, and treats me like an utter
equal.  I never fully realize what a large oaf he is until moments when
I try to force a six-foot, hundred-and-eighty-pound man to do something
when he isn't actively cooperating.

Mulder hasn't been a particularly troublesome houseguest, but his very
presence is a distraction.  Things have to be ... coordinated.  Take
bathing times.  That's not a problem in the morning, since he's usually
still sleeping when I leave for work.  But I've had to forego the baths
I like to take when I'm stressed or frustrated.  It's a catch-22: he's
the cause of the frustration, but it can't be alleviated as long as
he's around.  (Okay, it's probably not that big a deal.  It's not like
I can't shut the door.  But there's something about soaking in a hot
bath, with Mulder just in the next room, that's very ... clandestine.
And not in a sexy, mysterious way.  In a personal, I'd-be-mortified-if-
he-knew kind of way.  Because ... ahem ... soaking's not the only thing
going on.)

Mulder, of course, has no knowledge of my personal distress, which is
good.  He spends his days lying about, resting, as well he should -- in
fact, I'm surprised he's been so good about it -- and does absolutely
nothing to deliberately entice me.

That's the worst thing about all this.  Here I am getting all hot and
bothered, and the object of my lust wears sweats and a t-shirt all day,
hair resembling the body armor of a porcupine, and due to the trauma
inflicted on his trachea, remains pretty much silent.

Maybe it's the muteness that's so attractive.

But Mulder is gorgeous, there's no getting around it.  It just doesn't
hit me with quite the same force when he's espousing fantastic theories
about monsters, poltergeists, psycho kinesis, and other preternatural
mayhem.  My brain stops thinking about how much I'd like to get him in
the sack and starts wondering if he's really saying the things I'm
hearing.  Mulder is not what one would call the strong, silent type,
though he has his moments.  Usually he won't shut up.

And while work is utterly boring without Mulder, it's also stress-free;
I can't say the same for the situation at home.

This wouldn't be as bad if we hadn't already done more than just sleep
in a bed two times before.

One might think that since we've crossed that line, it would be easier
for us to do the deed whenever we felt like it.  You know, lock eyes
across the room, knock down furniture, engage in a passionate kiss,
then tumble to the floor with the certain knowledge that we'd be
fucking like Smurfs in no time.  (You KNOW those Smurfs get some on a
regular basis -- why do you think there are so many of them?  And yes,
I've already sworn to myself that I won't stay up with Mulder late into
the night watching cartoons anymore.)

Instead, when the time comes to retire for the night, I stand next to
the couch, mumbling a hopeful "good night" to the top of Mulder's head,
thinking that maybe THIS night, he'll elect to join me.  Unfortunately,
he's inevitably caught up in channel surfing, and answers "good night"
in automatic response -- I don't think he even realizes he's said it.

I've thought about it, and I'm pretty sure that if he insisted, I might
be able to toss aside my own reservations about engaging in sexual
activity while he's recovering, but damn it, he's shown no interest in
persuading me to have sex with him.

And I have absolutely no right to feel irritated, insulted or hurt by
this.  I feel utterly low when I realize I'm feeling any of those
things.  I know it's beneath me.  I shouldn't feel so disappointed.
He's recovering from an injury, for God's sake; of COURSE the only
thing on his mind is feeling better.  His health is all I should be
thinking about as well, and it IS ultimately my primary concern.  If it
wasn't, I would have shucked off his pants at the first opportunity --
consciousness or lack thereof be damned.

Since the first night he passed out there, he's insisted on taking the
couch, perhaps out of some antiquated sense of chivalry.  It's
ridiculous -- he's the one recovering from a physical ailment, and he
can barely fit himself onto the couch.  However, I believe I've
mentioned the difficulty of getting Mulder to do something he doesn't
want to do.

When I first suggested that he sleep in my room, he said, "I'm not
going to kick you out of your bed, Scully."  I almost blurted that it
was big enough for two.  That I was able to keep my mouth shut
reaffirmed my belief that there is a God.  Talk about neediness.

I'd really LIKE for us to share the same bed, even just to sleep, but
we're in an awkward place in our relationship right now.  We've only
had sex twice, and both times were the result of spontaneous passion.
Things just ... happened.  The first time was after I had "run off"
(his words) with a man I should have known better than to trust.  I
guess I had visions of saving the world, and on a lesser scale, of
saving myself.  I should have remembered who was offering those things.
I hadn't done it to get back at Mulder for the times HE'S run off
without me -- and I think he understands that now.  It took a sweaty,
all-night session in bed, but I finally managed to convince him of
that.  It's only the truth, after all.

The second time we did it is a little blurrier.  We'd had tea and a
long talk, and I rested my eyes for a few moments -- maybe I fell
asleep.  I woke when I felt him get up from the couch.  I grabbed his
hand, using it to help me up, then pulled him into his bedroom.  What
can I say -- the languorous quality of the late hour, the closeness I
felt as a result of having poured my heart out to him, and the relaxing
properties of the tea all helped supply a drugging ease about getting
some lovin' from my partner.

So there were outside factors involved on those two occasions.  If we
were to do anything now, though, it would be deliberate; a conscious
choice on both our parts, and I'm not sure if we're ready for that yet.
Besides, I don't quite know how to approach it.  What if I proposition
him and he says he's too exhausted, he can't right now, but thanks for
thinking of him?  It would only be the truth, but it'd be a mortifying
turndown nonetheless.  Better to wait it out until he's feeling better.
No need to be blamed for his continued ill health.

Right.  I can just see that.

Skinner: Why haven't you returned to work, Agent Mulder?

Mulder: It's Agent Scully, sir.  She won't leave me
alone ... I'll never recover at this rate, sir.  She's merciless ... I
tell her I can't but she makes me do it.  Help me, sir.

No way.  Mulder will let me know when he's ready to have sex.  After
all, he wants to get laid, doesn't he?  He's a man.  It's not like HE'S
holding back without a good reason; if he wanted to have sex, we'd be
having it.  So, I'm determined to wait for him to make the first move.

Of course, I had to wait seven years for him to kiss me, so that may
not be the soundest of plans.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Here's something not everyone knows: Scully has the most beautiful
smile in the world.  It's radiant, breathtaking and guileless all at
the same time.  When she smiles I can believe that the world is a
wonderful place.  She doesn't do it very often, so a lot of people
don't know.  But I know, and that's why I try to make her smile
whenever I can.

I haven't given her much to smile about in the last few days.

I know I can be a pain in the ass when I'm sick.  It used to exasperate
my mother when I was a kid.  I whine.  A lot.

To keep from going down this same disastrous path with Scully, I've
employed the simple tactic of keeping my mouth shut.  Which is good for
multiple reasons: one, I sound horrible when I try to talk, like I'm
rubbing two pieces of sandpaper together; and two, it hurts like a
bitch.  The pain's gotten progressively better, but it's still no cup
of tea.

Not talking to Scully is a lot harder than it sounds, though.  Just
don't TALK, right?  Well, that's the problem.  I LIKE talking to
Scully.  Want to know what my most treasured possession is?  My cell
phone.  And I'll give you one guess as to who's number one on my speed
dial.  Oh yes, I love my cell phone -- it means instant access to her.
I'm not afraid to abuse that power, either, as I'm sure she'll tell
you.

"Mulder, it's time for your medication."

I make a noncommittal sound, as no real response is required of me.
Those little pills will be forced on me, like it or not -- and
cooperation is the quickest and easiest way to satisfy her.  My
obedience doesn't make her smile, but it does keep her from badgering
me.

Normally, I have nothing against pills -- I'm not one of those people
who has difficulty swallowing them -- but since this whole ordeal with
the bugs and the vacuuming, they seem to get caught in my throat,
making it hurt when I try to get them down.  I wonder if the pain of
taking them is worth whatever it is that they're supposed to do for me.

But Scully is like a drill sergeant when it comes to this kind of
thing, and I'm too weak to put up much of a fight.  And it's a small
price to pay to have Scully taking care of me.

Taking the pills from her hand, I pop them into my mouth and wash them
down with some water.  She waits until she's sure I haven't hidden them
under my tongue to spit out later, then takes the glass away.  I go
back to staring at the TV.

I can tell that my being in her space is getting to her a little.

I try to be as unobtrusive as possible.  She seems to appreciate that,
and in the evening we usually watch TV or read.  We obviously don't
talk very much, because it's hard to carry on a conversation when only
one of us can actually speak.  We tried to have a conversation where I
wrote things down, but it was unbelievably lame.  The tedium of the
effort isn't worth the result -- conversations attempted by that method
are inevitably inane, and innuendo doesn't have the same effect on
paper.  It sure doesn't make Scully more responsive to them, that's for
sure.

At first I'd try to speak, but she got uptight about it, harping about
how I should follow medical advice for once, and did I want to be mute
for the rest of my life.  So as not to upset her, I haven't tried
talking much since -- maybe just short phrases here and there, which is
a good way to gauge if I'm getting better.  Not that I've shared that
theory with Scully.

My throat hurts a little less every day, but I still sound like a
scratched-up record, and she doesn't really believe me when I say that
I'm fine (irony can kiss my ass) and is more likely than not to give me
that glare or say simply, "be quiet."  It's making me kind of crazy.  I
really REALLY want to be able to talk to Scully again.

She's also been rigid about me recuperating during the day; she doesn't
want me doing anything that would tax me physically.  She would burst
an artery if she knew what I do after she goes to work.

What she doesn't know won't hurt her, right?  More importantly, what
she doesn't know won't make her hurt ME.

It's only been a couple of days, but already I have a sort of routine
going.  When the days go by as slowly as mine do, any repetition of an
event is considered routine.

I usually hear the door close when she leaves for work in the morning,
so that's when I get up and pad down to the bathroom where I take a
long, satisfying morning piss (making sure to put the toilet seat up
before I start, and down when I'm done).  Then comes my favorite part,
where I make my way into her bedroom and crawl into her bed.

Usually I wallow around for a bit like a kid in a pile of leaves.  Or
maybe it's more like a pig in mud.  I get fully under the covers and
sprawl my limbs in every direction.  I feel completely surrounded by
Scully that way; her scent is everywhere, and you would not believe how
soothing and comforting it is.  Then I sleep for another few hours.

I wake up just in time for Scully's take-your-medication-now call.
"Hello" is something I can say that won't earn a reprimand.  Sometimes,
I lay the hoarseness on real thick so that I can hear her say, "Oh,
Mulder!  You sound terrible," her voice full of sympathy.  Of course,
this is a case where I could be rightly accused of not being able to
see the forest for the trees, because the longer she thinks I'm sick,
the less tolerant she is of my doing anything that could jeopardize my
recovery -- which includes talking, eating solid foods, and partaking
in strenuous exercise, such as running, swimming, having sex ... I'm
mostly disappointed by this last one.

But Scully's visible -- or rather, audible -- demonstration of concern
for me is just as addictive as sex, and it's not like she wants to drag
me into her bed at the moment, anyway.

She's encouraged me to go outside, maybe take a short stroll around the
block, "but nothing too vigorous."

Nothing like taking walks down to Cissy & Sherman's for an everything
bagel with lox and herb schmear.  God, that's good.  Worth every
painful bite.  The trek makes me huff a little, but I figure it's good
for me, makes my lungs work.  I get to breathe in fresh air, which has
to be good for me, right?

I buy a paper, then sit down to enjoy my bagel and hot tea.  I'd never
really been into hot tea before, but recalling what happened the last
time I had it makes me think that there might be something in it that
makes the person who drinks it more attractive to the opposite sex.
Women are always attracted to British guys -- supposedly because of
their accents, but maybe it's really because of all the tea they drink.
Maybe tea inspires the act of satiating sexual urges.

So far, my theory hasn't panned out.  Doesn't mean I'll stop.  Matt
Phibbs, a basketball teammate from high school, used to put a quarter
in his sock before every game.  He was a great player, but like
everyone, had his share of not-so-great games.  But he had
substantially more good games than bad, and if his superstition had
anything to do with that, well then, what's the harm?  So I order hot
tea and hope that it'll work some of the same magic that it did a
couple of weeks ago.  Maybe the trick is to get HER to drink it.  Hmmm.

After going through the paper, I people-watch, because people are
fascinating.  One time I saw a couple with matching ear, nose, tongue
and belly rings, and probably had a few other hidden piercings, too.
I'm sure it was really romantic for them.  I'd like to get a matching
something with Scully, aside from badges and scars.  I suspect she'd
run far and wide from the idea, though, so it's just something I'll
keep to myself.

Anyway, it's the getting back to the apartment that's not so fun; it's
an uphill climb most of the way, and by the time I get back to Scully's
place, my lungs feel like they're about to explode, and my throat feels
like raw hamburger meat.

The thing is, it would probably take a lot less exertion if I let
myself slow down and take a grandfatherly pace.  But old habits die
hard, and even when I start out with small, measured steps, I fall back
into my usual rhythm once I stop paying attention.  And I'm usually in
a hurry, having gotten too caught up in my newspaper or people-
watching, and I don't have time to dawdle -- I have to make it back in
time for Scully's afternoon call.  So as I see it, it's really her
fault if I'm taxing my lungs, having to rush back to the apartment so
that if she calls I'll be there to answer.

I don't disobey orders just to aggravate Scully.  It's simply not
reasonable to expect a person to do nothing day in and day out.  I do
it to keep myself from going stir crazy.

The first day she went to work and I stayed home, I got on her computer
and started emailing her.  It was so freeing; I was TALKING!  I must
have sent a dozen messages within twenty minutes.  She replied to the
first two, then her third email said, "Mulder, you may not be at work,
but I am.  Read a book or something."  I responded with a smartass
reply, but heard nothing further. She called a couple of hours later,
feeling bad for blowing me off, and shot the breeze with me for a
little while.  It was so nice just to hear her voice and listen to her
talk, even if I couldn't say much in response.  But just as I had
settled comfortably onto the couch, she said abruptly, "Mulder, I have
to go," and hung up.

See, Scully has her orderly little ways, and I can usually hazard a
reasonable guess as to what she's doing and why.  For example.  She
waits until around lunchtime to make the first call, since she saw me
just hours ago and figures I could use the extra sleep -- which is
nice, because I can.

She wants to call a couple of hours later, because she doesn't trust me
to take my medication at the right time, but won't let herself because
again, I was fine two hours ago and she really shouldn't be using
office resources to check up on me.  Also, she thinks I would tease her
for calling so much.  Which I would, because I haven't yet mastered the
art of simply accepting her concern -- I think it's somehow ingrained
in me to crack jokes when confronted with genuine affection.  It's
quite unfathomable -- it's like the instincts I had in fourth grade to
yank on Linda McGraw's ponytail when she confessed, "Fox, I like you,"
are still with me.

Anyway, Scully waits it out until about three p.m., which is the call I
have to make it back for.  She doesn't always call exactly then, so I
have to give myself some leeway.  After the second call, she won't let
herself call me again, because it's too close to when she leaves the
office, and there's no good reason why whatever she might have to say
to me can't wait until she gets home.  I take this time to go and
neatly make up her bed, so she won't know that I've been sleeping in
it.  Sometimes I can't resist and crawl back in, just for a few
moments.

I normally wouldn't profile Scully, but it gets really boring around
here, and anyway, the kind of profiling I'm doing is harmless.  It's
like anyone who tries to guess at another person's motives, which
everyone does at some point or another; I just happen to be darned
accurate with my guessing.  Not my fault.

Back to the point.  The other thing is that I really, desperately want
to make love with her.  But I know she won't right now -- she won't
even let me TALK, for pete's sake, though I could assure her that not
much talking would be going on.  I fantasize about it constantly.  I
didn't think that when Scully and I started having sex I'd still
fantasize about it so much.  But circumstances being what they are, I
have no choice.  Usually, that's what I'm really doing when I'm
"watching TV," and a blanket nicely conceals the results of those
reveries.  Sometimes I don't even hear her say things to me, because my
ears are hearing "fuck me harder, Mulder," not "good night, Mulder."

But fantasies are what they'll have to remain for now.  I don't imagine
that she finds me particularly irresistible in my slob clothes.  Not to
mention, she witnessed every detail of what they did to me after my
run-in with unhealthier-than-usual secondhand smoke.  I didn't see what
happened in the operating room, but just knowing the specifics is
enough to make my stomach turn.  Yeah, that'd make a really great
proposition: "Hey Scully, I just had insect larvae sucked out of my
lungs and tobacco beetles coming out of my nose and mouth, but how
about a kiss, baby?"

I don't blame her for steering clear, and I just hope that in time, the
memories will fade for her.

Maybe tea will help.

*~*~*~*~*~*

"So what are you watching?"

I stand next to the couch after having refilled Mulder's water glass
and placing it on the coffee table.  It seems to be a simple enough
question, but apparently I'm mistaken.

Mulder looks blankly at the screen.  "Uhhh..."

It's embarrassing how even that slight sound is enough to make me
shiver.  I find that chafe in his voice extremely sexy.  I think that
subconsciously, this may be my primary reason for making him keep quiet
all the time.  But there IS a good medical reason why he shouldn't try
to talk -- it irritates the tissue that's trying to heal.  Besides, I
can barely trust myself around him as it is, and having him speak in a
voice that makes my knees go weak every time he uses it doesn't help.

But even without the annoyingly sexy rasp, Mulder's voice is somehow
different from other men's.  Male voices are usually even and smooth --
too smooth.  Mulder's baritone is ... volatile.  You never know where
it's going to go next.  When Mulder's feeling something, he gives
himself away in his voice.  People often make the mistake of listening
to his words and not his voice, and that's why he's such a mystery to
most people.  They're just not listening.

But he can't hide what he feels, especially not from me, and when he
tries, he's so very bad at it.  It's one of his most endearing traits.
After seven years, I think I've heard his voice convey almost every
form of emotion, and so it's on authority when I say I love it best
when it gets dark and low and throaty when we make love ... much like
he's been sounding recently, in fact.

His luscious lips scrunch together.  "I Love Lucy," he rasps
triumphantly, but I'm so riveted by those lips that it takes a moment
for his words to sink in.

"Oh," I say, and forcibly turn my attention to the TV set, which, at
the moment, is indeed showing a two-dimensional, black-and-white
Lucille Ball wailing about how Ricky has done her a grievous wrong.

Let me guess: maybe Ricky's kept himself tantalizingly out of reach
while keeping Lucy just this side of frustrated, with no recourse but
to gain sexual satisfaction from her bed sheets that happen to have his
scent all over them.

Oh yes -- my olfactory sense works just fine, thank you.  I know
perfectly well that when I go to work, he goes and sleeps in my bed.
I'm pretty sure he doesn't know I know, so I haven't said anything.  I
know that if I were to say something, he'd stop, and I just don't have
the heart to do that.  It would probably damage his pride if he thought
I knew about that "weakness."  It has nothing to do with how great my
sheets smell afterward.

No, the truth is, I don't want to begrudge him any shut-eye that he can
get.  My couch is a comfortable couch, but it doesn't make for a very
comfortable bed, especially not for a tall person like Mulder.  It's
amazing how you realize that even a man with a slim, athletic build is
really rather large when he's trying to fold himself onto what you
thought was a fairly roomy couch.  Or you realize it again, say, when
he's lying on top of you and you feel absolutely dwarfed by the
hardness of his chest, the power of his hips, and the glittering eyes
that make you forget your own name.

In any case, I feel bad that he undoubtedly sleeps poorly on the couch.
But he's been adamant about remaining there -- though I offer the bed
to him every night.  I'd wring his neck if I thought it would do any
good.

The first time I slept in my bed after Mulder had been in it, I had no
idea that he'd used it.  I did, however, wake in the middle of the
night to find a pillow between my legs, and I was rubbing against it
with undeniable purpose.  Now, this is not exactly what I would call an
unusual circumstance.  In fact, I am probably more intimately
acquainted with my pillow than most women ought to be with their
bedding.  It's what happens when you work with an attractive,
intelligent man who has no idea how potent he is, day in and day out,
with no relief for seven years.

There was an urgency that night -- something had compelled me to start
humping my pillow while I slept.  After climaxing, muffling my moans
into said bedding, I pondered this phenomenon while trying to catch my
breath.  Gulping down air, I finally realized what it was -- Mulder's
redolence was all over the sheets, and with him being in my apartment
all day, and because his scent is so familiar to me, I hadn't noticed
that I'd gone to sleep with it wrapped around me like the embrace of a
lover.

It's only been a few times now that this has happened, but already I'm
addicted.  I can't wait to get into bed tonight.  Even if the real man
isn't in the bed with me, it makes for a nice illusion.

Sad, isn't it?  And sad that even now, I'm admiring the lightly tanned
skin of his forearms and the way his biceps fill out the sleeve of his
t-shirt very nicely.  There's a blanket covering the lower half of his
body, but I can see a small, delectable patch of skin where his t-shirt
has ridden up a little.  I lick my lips, imagining being able to bend
down and flick my tongue against that bare line of skin, tasting his
salty-sweetness.  Then, I could slip my fingers into his waistband,
feeling the silky line of hair that begins there and promises more.
Much more.

Hearing my own shallow intake of breath, I realize I have to cool down,
and fast.  I think getting out of the apartment tonight is crucial,
unless I want Mulder to become acquainted with the sound of me spending
some quality time with my vibrator, which doesn't have a formal name of
its own, but for now, Ohgodyesmulder seems to work fine.  It comes when
I call it, and so do I.  Ha ha.

I don't know that I'm ready for Mulder to know that yet.  If ever.  I
try not to notice that his long, lean fingers have ventured to the area
I was just fantasizing about, that spot where t-shirt and sweatpants
part company, and those same fingers have started tracing lazy circles
on his skin.

Maybe I can go for a run.  I reject the idea as soon as it occurs to
me.  Mulder knows I never run this late, and might sense that there's
something not quite kosher going on.  I don't feel much like running,
anyway.  I could go to bed, but I don't feel at all tired, so that,
along with Mulder-scented sheets and this delectable image of him and
his disobedient t-shirt, spells trouble.

Suddenly, the answer hits me.  I can distract myself and get chores
done at the same time.  Laundry saves the day!

What makes this perfect is that I have to leave the building to do my
laundry.  My dryer has been broken for weeks, and I only recently got
around to alerting my landlord to the problem.  I'm away a lot, and
when I'm here I'm usually distracted by more important things, so I
kept putting it off.

Meanwhile, I've been going to a nearby laundromat, which is an easy
five minutes' drive, and do my washing there.  If I'm lazy, I'll wash
them here, then hang up my clothes all over the apartment and let them
air dry, but I don't do that very often -- some things after drying out
that way feel hard and abrasive to the touch.  Underwear, for instance,
tends to do that, and if there's anything that shouldn't be abrasive,
it's underwear.

If this seems like a pathetic excuse, that's because it IS a pathetic
excuse.  I just have to get away from this Mulderized apartment.  It's
torture.  There's just too much of him everywhere.  You give him an
inch and he takes a cross-country road trip.  I just need something
else to think about for a while, something so mundane that it will put
my hormones to sleep.  Something so boring that it will tire me out,
and I can come back home, go straight to bed and sleep like a log.

Yes, nothing like a little laundry to kill those pesky copulation
urges.

Leaving Mulder and his impromptu floorshow, I make my way to the
bathroom.  I gather up the towels Mulder and I have been using and
bring them to my bedroom, tossing the lot into the hamper.  I fling a
few other stray items into the basket, and I'm all set to go.  It's
been more than a week since my last trip to the laundromat, and I have
a decent load.  I consider my bed sheets for a moment, but decide to
let it go this time.  Freshly washed sheets have nothing on Mulder's
scent, and I ignore the niggling voice saying that it'd make more sense
to wash them.

I grab the big bottle of Cheer (with Color-Safe Bleach!) and some
fabric softener from the hallway closet, kicking the door shut.  The
noise apparently startles Mulder from his stupor on the couch.  His
gaze shoots toward me as I reenter the living room.

"What's going on?" he croaks.

"Laundry," I say brightly.

He sits up.  "But it's the middle of the night."  He takes in my
appearance.  "You're going out?"

I look down at my outfit, which I've been wearing since I got home -- a
comfortable long-sleeved shirt and shorts.  The only addition is my
tennis shoes, so that's what must have alerted him.  "Nothing gets by
you."  I smile a little, trying to think of anything else that might
need to be washed.  No sense in doing things halfway.  "It's only ten."

"Who does laundry at ten p.m.?"  Mulder looks from me to the TV to the
blanket on his lap.  He seems confused, as if he doesn't know what he's
supposed to do next.

I put him out of his misery.  "I'll be back in a bit."  I head toward
the table where I put my purse and keys.

"But ... wait."  He attempts to clear his throat, and winces.

I can see that I won't be able to get away without a little
elaboration, so I explain about my non-functioning appliance and how
I've put off telling my landlord about it, and that the laundromat is
the only place I can get my laundry done.

"You could come to my place," he says, and picks the glass up from the
coffee table, gulping down water.  When done, he wipes his mouth with
the back of his hand.  "Why haven't you?"

Why haven't I?  "Never thought about it," I mumble, which is the truth.
But I'm thinking about it now, and wonder why it has never occurred to
me to do laundry over at Mulder's.  Perhaps it's the intimacy of the
gesture -- not just the washing my unmentionables in the same place
Mulder washes his unmentionables, but the idea of bringing my laundry
over to his place...

Or maybe I put too much emphasis on minor details.

I suddenly notice that he's stuffing things into his duffel bag, and
realize that he's planning to come with me.

"Do you have things you need washed, Mulder?"  Damn that edge of
desperation to my voice.  "Here, why don't I just--"  I move over to
the couch, setting the laundry basket down in front of him.

Mulder's eyes twinkle.  "You want to wash my underwear for me, Scully?"

YES.  No.  No, I just can't have him coming with me ... the point of
this late-night laundry trip is to get away from him.

"I ... there's no sense in us both going," I say desperately.

"Why not?  I need to do laundry too, so we might as well go together,"
he rumbles reasonably.  "Besides, you look like you have a full load
right there."

What can I say?  He seems intent on going, and I have no good excuse to
deter him -- well, none that I can share with him, since I certainly
can't tell him the truth.  And even the most innocuous attempt to
dissuade him, or announcing that I don't want to go after all, would
now only garner suspicion.

"Okay," I sigh, resigned.

I'm probably worrying about nothing, actually.  We're going to the
LAUNDROMAT, for heaven's sake -- a more unromantic, unexciting place
can't be found.  If anything, seeing Mulder in such bad lighting will
likely kill all lingering traces of lust ... at least for tonight,
which is what I need.  This could actually be a blessing in disguise.

*~*~*~*~*~*

I think Scully is having an affair with someone at the laundromat.  Not
a literal affair, but maybe a kind of flirtation thing going on.  Why
else wouldn't she want me to come along?  And I know she didn't -- I
can read Scully like a book.  It has something to do with the fact that
she's a TERRIBLE LIAR.  Which, of course, only makes me more determined
to horn in with my unwanted presence.

I know I shouldn't be entertaining these thoughts.  Of course I don't
REALLY think Scully is having a laundromat affair -- how tawdry and
unScully would that be? -- but we're just new enough in the place we've
taken our relationship that I can't tease her about it and try to get
at the truth that way.

Scully would probably laugh if she knew what I was thinking.  Or clock
me.  Depending on what else I'd done to annoy her recently.

Even if Scully doesn't have ulterior motives, there are men who
deliberately scope out laundromats to pick up women.  I've known guys
who've done that, back in the day.  I don't imagine that they're too
different today ... randy college guys who would like nothing better
than to score with someone as gorgeous as Scully.  Some of the ones I
knew were even successful.

Not that I believe Scully would go for that kind of guy.  But there is
also the off chance that there might be a decent guy who's really only
there to do laundry, but he and Scully meet and bam! -- instant
attraction, like in the movies.  And I just think I should be there,
making sure that my presence douses any potential fireworks between
Scully and someone else.

Yes, I am this insecure.

She hasn't said a word to me since we left the apartment.  The
laundromat is on a relatively quiet street, and Scully pulls into a
space right out front.  I sling my duffel bag over my shoulder, then
take the detergent from her.  She lets me, which I'm thankful for --
I'm tired of being treated like an invalid.

Despite the late hour, there are a handful of people inside, at
different stages of the laundry cycle.  A heavyset woman is folding an
enormous pile of clothing and looks up when we enter.  We apparently
aren't interesting enough to hold her attention, and she briskly goes
back to her business.

"It's warm in here," Scully remarks, and my gaze immediately strays to
the little shorts she's got on.

She heads toward the nearest set of washing machines and starts lifting
lids, trying to find an empty machine.  The third one is a hit, as is
the fourth.  I hover over her, trying to be helpful by measuring out
detergent.

We start loading the machines -- one for her whites, the other for the
rest -- and it's clockwork.  Just like everything else we do together.
Unspoken needs and requests are communicated and responded to without
question or fail.  Is it odd to feel such a sense of satisfaction from
doing laundry?  I can't even recall another time when I did laundry
with another person.

I'm a little surprised she's allowing me to help as much as I am;
Scully usually becomes skittish when we cross certain lines of
intimacy.  Once we've jumped in the pool she's fine, but the initial
toe in the water isn't an easy thing for her to get past.

You would think that having been as physically intimate as two people
can be with one another would automatically grant other rights, but
there are many different kinds of space, and sex is not the backstage
pass to all of them.

So I feel a small sense of victory in tonight's little accomplishment.
I helped Scully sort her laundry.  I feel like a Boy Scout working up
to a merit badge.

Our rhythm is interrupted by the dissonant sound of a man's voice.

"Hey there."

I look up to find a thirty-ish male on the other side of our row of
washers looking at Scully.  It looks like he just got here, his basket
of laundry sitting on the machine that's back-to-back with one of ours.
I'm trying not to overreact, although I suspect it's already too late,
as my first thought was, I KNEW IT!  Jesus Christ, I didn't REALLY
think she'd know some guy at the laundromat.

Keep it cool, I tell myself.  There must be a perfectly reasonable
explanation why this guy is speaking to her.  Maybe he wants to borrow
detergent.  But as I'm the one holding the bottle of Cheer, and he
hasn't given me a single glance, I don't think he has anything quite so
pure on his mind.  But I'm not unreasonable.  I'll give him five
seconds to evacuate the premises, and we can forget the whole thing.

"Oh -- hi," Scully responds with surprise.

The awkward pause after her "hi" tells me that they don't know each
other's names, but they've obviously seen one another before -- perhaps
even had an incident that makes them memorable to each other.

Apparently unconcerned, she goes back to finishing up the loading
process; her basket is almost empty.

This leaves me time to contemplate.  I can't tell whether this guy is
attractive or not; women have strange taste in men, and most of the
time, guys don't know what makes another guy good-looking to a woman.
Women, on the other hand, can pretty much tell when a woman is
attractive to a man.  Oh, guys can tell that men like Brad Pitt and
that Calvin Klein underwear model are pretty.  But sometimes, women
find pretty men attractive, while at other times pretty men are TOO
pretty, and therefore not attractive.  Who can keep up?  Then there are
men like Harrison Ford, whom I wouldn't have thought could turn a
woman's head, but has quite a female following.  I've never met a woman
who didn't find Harrison Ford attractive.  So it's all just a big
mystery to me.

I don't know whether this is the type of guy that Scully would find
attractive -- he's not pretty, but he's not ugly, either (we can
usually tell the extremes).  All I know is that he has a full head of
hair, a full set of teeth, and no warts on his face, which gets him
past the "harmless" mark.  This would all be so much simpler if I
didn't have to control the base urge to send drastic and inappropriate
signals -- like plant a big, wet kiss on Scully, or maybe pee on her
leg.  Either of those would convey my message quite nicely.

The effect would probably be lost, however, when Scully subsequently
gave me two black eyes.

"It's funny that we keep bumping into each other," he says, smiling.

Oh, yeah.  It's real funny.  I'm laughing my ass off.  His teeth, I
notice, are an annoying shade of white.

I look at Scully, who smiles that close-lipped smile that she gives
when she's trying to be polite.  It makes me feel better.

"Yeah, it must be fate," she says.

Whoa, Nellie.  Fate?  It's not fate!  This is coincidence.  Why did she
say that?  If she's trying to be merely cordial, she's failing
miserably.  Any guy would take that as a come-on.

Maybe she IS coming on to him.  What do I know?  But right in front of
me?  Scully wouldn't do that.  Would she?  No, that's not Scully, and
especially not after we've gotten to a point in our relationship where
we've been physically intimate.  Right?  RIGHT??  Before, I wouldn't
have had the right to feel threatened by this exchange, though I would
have felt it anyway.  But now, I think I DO have the right to be
aggravated, and the fact that she hasn't acknowledged me at all doesn't
help.

I notice then that he has a bottle of Snuggles fabric softener -- just
like Scully's.  You know, the one promoted by that ratty teddy bear
that looks like you could rip it limb from limb with minimal effort.

"Mulder, would you get some quarters from the change machine?" Scully
asks, handing me a couple of dollar bills.

"Sure," I say, seeing that Mr. Snuggles has finally noticed my
presence.  I deliberately leave out Scully's name.  He's sure as hell
not going to learn it from me.

I gloat all the way over to the change machine located in the back of
the room.  Take that, Fabric Softener Guy.  I'm the one Scully asked to
get quarters for her.  I know her, you don't, and you never will.

But as I feed the machine, it suddenly occurs to me that perhaps Scully
sent me on this errand to get rid of me so she can talk to stupid
Fabric Softener Guy without me there.  I look back and sure enough,
they appear to be engaged in conversation.  The machine can't spit out
change fast enough to suit me, and I have to wait impatiently for the
clang-clang of the quarters falling out before making it back to her
side double-quick.

"You have great hair," Mr. Snuggles is saying.  "My last girlfriend had
red hair, but it was dyed.  I'm guessing yours is natural?"

"Yes.  Thanks," Scully answers, taking the quarters I hold out, which
is actually more of an effort than it should be, since my reflexes are
telling me to clench my hands into fists and introduce my knuckles to
Fabric Softener Guy's face.

You'll just have to take her word for it, buddy.  It IS natural, I only
just found that out for sure, and you never will -- in this lifetime or
any other.  If I knew that Scully wouldn't see right through me, I'd do
something at this point -- touch her, maybe, or whisper in her ear --
but I don't think she'd appreciate it.

"So your landlord hasn't fixed your dryer yet, huh?"

How does he know that?  I didn't know her dryer was broken until barely
an hour ago.  So they've had Discussions, I think ominously.

Scully expertly places the quarters into the slots.  "I just told him
about it, actually."  She glances at me.  "Things kept coming up, and
it slipped my mind."

"Maybe it's subconscious," Mr. Snuggles suggests with a grin.  "Maybe
you just can't get enough of the laundromat."  Oh, THAT'S subtle.
Prick.  Can't he see that I'm RIGHT HERE?  What kind of asshole hits on
a woman who's with another guy?  Am I really that non-threatening?
Okay, I'm kind of skinny and my eyes have been described as being
puppy-like (not exactly fear-inspiring), but I can and WILL kick his
ass if he leaves me no choice.

Scully laughs politely.  "Maybe."

I've seen and heard enough that I'm pretty sure Scully isn't interested
in this guy.  That doesn't mean that I'll sit idly by while he hits on
her, though -- and her damned politeness is giving off all the wrong
signals.  I'm a guy.  I know exactly what he's thinking.  I'm not a
threat because she's responded very nicely to his commentary; we
haven't done anything overtly to indicate that we're a couple, which
means I could just be a friend, or even a relative; and she hasn't
introduced us.

I think maybe Scully and I need to have a little talk.

After twisting the controls to the right settings, she slides the
quarters in, starting the machines.  She heads for the small sink next
to the change machine, and I follow.

"He's flirting with you."

She sighs.  "Mulder, he was not.  We've seen each other here a few
times, and he was making polite conversation."  She washes her hands
like a doctor.  Just had to point that out.

"I know when a guy is flirting, and he was flirting."

I can't see her face, but she sounds amused when she responds, "I
assume you're speaking from personal experience.  Have you had that
happen a lot?"  At my stony silence, she sighs, turning off the water
and grabbing some paper towels.  "Mulder, even if he was, so what?"
She tosses the used towels into a nearby trash can and turns to me,
arms crossed.

She is absolutely dismissive, and I am speechless for a moment.
Doesn't she realize what a grave insult to me this is?  "So..."  I take
a deep breath, needing the extra leverage for battle.  Unfortunately, I
forget that taking too deep a breath causes me to wheeze.  Which is
exactly what I do, taking the wind out of the sails of my outrage --
literally.  "I was standing right there!"  The indignant edge I was
striving for is lost due to the hoarseness of my voice.  Instead, it
sounds more like I'm about to cry.

Scully bites her lip, looking like she's trying not to laugh.  "Yeah,
and now you're standing in my way."  She maneuvers past me quick as a
rabbit, and I'm standing here feeling like the lumbering, slow-witted
giant from Jack and the Beanstalk.  I can't believe Scully sometimes.
Here I am, sounding like I'm about to cry, and she doesn't give a rat's
ass.  Doesn't matter that I'm not really going to cry.  She doesn't
know that.

I follow her back to the machines, which are making loud whirling
noises.  She's double-checking to make sure the settings are correct.
I stand right up next to her, so close that we're touching.  I know
this annoys her greatly.  Well, good.

"Don't pout, Mulder," she says.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mr. Snuggles looking up furtively as
he finishes loading his machine, as if it's not completely transparent
that he's really sneaking glances at Scully.  Not flirting, my ass.

Since HE is apparently heedless to my blistering glare, I have to
direct it at the stupid fuzzy bear on the label of that baby blue
bottle.  What kind of a man uses fabric softener, anyway?  A real man
would learn to live with abrasion.

Scully finally can't take my impression of a Siamese twin any longer
and says with exasperation, "Mulder, don't you have your own laundry to
do?"

She doesn't look at me.  Indignation doesn't even begin to describe
what I'm feeling right now.

If she wants to be left alone to do her laundry in peace, fine.  If she
doesn't care that some other guy is hitting on her, right in front of
me, fine.  Fine.  I am here to do laundry, after all, and I don't need
Scully to do THAT.

All I have to do is relocate my dirty clothes, and I'm well on my way.

*~*~*~*~*~*

A twinge of guilt stabs near the vicinity of my heart as Mulder finds
his abandoned duffel bag and its pathetically meager assortment of
clothing inside.  I know he probably invented things to wash because he
didn't want to be alone, wanted to come with me to keep each other
company.  Though I'd used laundry mainly as an excuse to escape my
apartment and to keep from jumping Mulder, I feel bad because he
doesn't know what's going on.  He doesn't know how much I want to
ravish him or how I'm trying to keep myself from doing it.

Of course, I'm GLAD he doesn't know about my internal conflicts.  Glad.

The laundromat is helping to temper my urges.  Somewhat.  Right now, he
has a sullen, hurt look on his face, and all I want is to run over
there as he's measuring out his detergent and put my arms around him.

But I won't.  Indulging Mulder when he's behaving like a child is just
asking for more of the same.  It's already bad because he's injured and
recuperating; he's getting away with more than he would if he were
completely fit and healthy.  If I give in now, it may take weeks to
undo the damage -- if it can even be undone.

Sick Mulder can take on two manifestations.  Either he'll behave like
nothing is wrong and doesn't want anyone within a hundred feet of him,
or he'll milk it for all it's worth.  Understand, now, that the first
manifestation deep down inside really does want to be cared for, even
if he's trying to put on a brave front.  The time he got his finger
broken during the Bremer case when he was working undercover comes to
mind.  God, even the memory of that still pisses me off.  If I had one
chance at the guy who did that to him ... the Gunmen and Ivan Martinez
have no IDEA what bloodthirst is.  In any case, he tried to be
standoffish with me, but I notice he didn't put up that much of a fight
when I started to administer the TLC.

I could have had him that night, too, but alas, I was self-sacrificing
(i.e., an idiot) and figured he had at least one broken finger and
would probably further injure himself if we were to engage in strenuous
physical activity.  It seems that I'm constantly having to keep my lust
in control because he's injured, being injured, or recovering from
being injured.

And maybe I was a little afraid of taking that last step.

But now that I've had him (twice, I might add, and those times were so
good that I get wet just thinking about them) it's getting more
difficult to exercise my willpower.  But exercise it I do, and if in
the process I'm a little more bitchy from frustration than usual, he'll
just have to live with it.  I'm doing it for him, after all.  It's not
MY health I'm worried about.  If it were, we wouldn't be here in the
first place.  We'd be in my bed ... or on the couch ... or in the
fucking bathtub -- wherever.  All I know is I'd be getting laid and in
much improved health.

While the machines are getting our clothes all nice and clean, Mulder
and I are looking anywhere but at each other.  After twenty minutes, I
can now tell you that there are eighteen washing machines, sixteen
dryers, approximately 680 tiles on the floor, six remaining patrons,
and one green lifesaver that is staring at me with its woeful "O,"
trapped on the floor between machines seven and eight.  I wonder what
Mulder now knows.

Once the washing machines have done their duty, we load our wet laundry
into dryers and I suggest that we go home.  Drying usually takes about
an hour and there's nothing to do here -- any attempt at conversation
would no doubt be useless.  The guy who'd been talking to me before
tries a few more times to start a conversation, but I respond with
monosyllabic answers and he finally gives up, leaving me to throw the
occasional furtive glance at Mulder's pouting profile.  A man has no
right to look that good when he's demonstrating just how immature he
can be.

The short trip back to the apartment is silent, mimicking the one to
the laundromat, only this time Mulder's the one in a bad mood.  My own
spirits have much improved -- doing laundry really did take the edge
off my lust, and if I can just keep this up for an hour, then all
that's left to be done is to retrieve our dry clothing and go to sleep.

However, the second we're back inside I feel my newfound resolve being
tested.  The scent that permeates the room is a mingling of Mulder and
me, and while it doesn't necessarily inspire an uncontrollable urge to
throw him down on the floor and have my way with him, it does provoke a
feeling of intimacy that makes me want to cry, it's so beautiful.  I
think it must be that time of the month.

He plops himself back onto the couch, not looking at me, and searches
for the remote.  I see it hiding behind my book on the coffee table, so
I pick it up and hand it to him.

"Thanks," he says briefly.  Our fingers touch during the hand-off, and
I suck in my breath at the feel of his warm dry skin.  He's not
affected, as far as I can tell.  Of course.

I sit on the couch, leaving a decent amount of space between us.
Turning the TV on, he starts surfing -- does he even see what he's
flipping past? -- and it makes me feel tired and dizzy.  I close my
eyes, resting my head against the back of the couch.

Mulder shifts around, trying to get comfortable.  In the process, the
cushions of the couch bob like we're in a rowboat, and it's strangely
soothing.  The noise from the TV, and Mulder's reassuring presence,
cause a rush of contentment to spread through my limbs, making them
feel heavy and far away.

I think I'm half asleep when I ask without opening my eyes, "Mulder,
how long are you going to be mad?"

It could be two seconds or two hours before he answers; I can't really
tell because it feels so nice to be drifting...

"Why?" he asks.

"Just trying to plan my week."  I yawn.

After awhile, I hear him softly say my name, and my eyes pop open to
look in his direction.  He's arranged himself so that his sock-clad
feet rest on the cushions, his back resting against the end of the
couch.  He pats the space between his legs.

My eyelids feel so heavy, and it only takes a heartbeat before I give
in.  I don't care if this undoes all my work this evening -- the idea
of resting against him, touching him, having him wrapped around me, is
too nice to pass up.

I scoot over, pressing myself against his chest, and it feels
unbelievably good to be in close contact with him.  His right arm
snakes solidly around my stomach, and I rest a hand over his wrist,
caressing the skin there.  We stay in this position as Mulder continues
to click the remote.  I'm beginning to think it's a compulsion.

Closing my eyes again, I think about how silly he was to be jealous of
that guy at the laundromat.  I'm sure Mulder wanted to know why I
hadn't introduced them.  I didn't because first of all, I don't know
his name and don't care to, and second, who is he that I should have to
introduce the most important person in my life to him?  In fact, by my
not introducing my companion, I was hoping the guy would take it as a
hint and quit talking to me.  Maybe men and women really do speak in
different languages.  That Mulder should have felt threatened is simply
ludicrous.  I'm so in love with my partner that I don't know how to be
attracted to anyone else anymore.

Uh oh, I think I'm falling asleep.  Resting against Mulder feels so
good, so relaxing, that I can't bring myself to stay awake.  I'm safe
and warm and there's no place else I'd rather be.  As long as I'm in
his arms I feel that nothing bad can happen.  Where can you buy
security like this?

I can feel Mulder's erection pressing against my back, but it doesn't
seem like he's going to do anything about it, and in fact it just adds
to the overall feeling of reassurance and peace that are fluidly making
their way into my pores.  I'm safe, Mulder wants me, and he's going to
hold me as long as I want him to.

*~*

Something wakes me and I blink, not knowing exactly where I am.  My
first thought is, oh shit, I forgot to set the alarm and I'm late.
Then I remember that I was just at the office and it was Friday, so now
it's the weekend.

I breathe deeply through my nose, and a delicious scent nearly
overwhelms my senses.  God, I wouldn't mind waking up to this everyday.
The scent is all Mulder, and the night's events come back to me in a
rush.

What's woken me is no doubt the commotion coming from the television --
some sitcom where the male character has put too much detergent in the
washing machine and it's going berserk, water and bubbles everywhere.

Washing machine ... laundry ... oh, crap!  What time is it?  I sit up,
dislodging Mulder's arm, in order to peer at the clock on the mantle.
He tugs me back down, and I twist around to look at him.  He returns my
gaze with sleepy eyes, his eyelids half open.  He's still sporting that
erection, and he rubs against me.

My eyes flutter shut, enjoying the sensation for a moment before I
feebly protest, "It's two a.m., Mulder.  I have to get our clothes."

"Leave 'em," he whispers, his fingers finding their way under my shirt.

I stop him before he can get me too excited; we both know he's not up
for this.  Well ... he is and he's not.

It's tempting to take his suggestion and just hit the sack, but the
laundromat is only five minutes away, and my neighborhood's safe -- just
not safe enough to trust my washables will still be there in the
morning.  I move to get up, but his arm stubbornly keeps me in place.
Eventually, he lets me go, not without grumbling.

"I'm coming with you," he says.

I hide my smile.  "I doubt that guy will still be there."  I sneak a
peek at Mulder, who is looking at me with a mix of consternation and
embarrassment.

"That's not why--"  He stops, sensing that I'm just teasing him, and
sighs.  "I'm coming with you," he repeats doggedly.  "It's late."

Ten minutes later, we're back at the now-deserted laundromat.  I head
directly for the dryers I used, emptying the contents into my basket.
It's been so long since it finished that the warmth from the dryer has
faded, and my clothes are room-temperature.

"Uhhh ... Scully?"

I know that tone of voice.  It's his please-don't-get-mad-but-I-did-
something-stupid voice.  "What, Mulder?"  I look over at him, where
he's got a dryer door open but not making a move to take anything out.
"Mulder?"

He reaches a hand in, apparently feeling around.

"Are we going to be reporting a case of clothes abduction or what?"
I'm getting impatient.

"My clothes aren't dry."

"What do you mean?"  I abandon what I'm doing, setting the basket on
top of a washing machine behind me, then walk over to him.  "If you
mean your jeans, that's okay, we can just hang those up; sometimes they
take awhile..."  But as I get there I know that's not the problem -- I
can tell that everything is still wet; a touch confirms it.

"You should have told me you didn't know how to operate a clothes
dryer," I say.

Mulder turns to me, insulted.  "I know how to use a dryer," he claims.
"It was working when we left."

"Then what happened?"

"I don't know."  He closes the door and presses the "start" button.
The machine stays silent.  "Shit."

My shoulders sag.  "Okay, well, let's get it started, and we'll just
wait for it.  The second it's done, we're out of here."  It's really
not feasible to do anything else at this point; it would probably take
as long to get hangers together and find places to hang up all of
Mulder's clothes around the apartment as it would to simply wait for
the dryer.

"You have any more quarters?"

I pause.  "I didn't bring money."

"Damn.  All I have is a twenty."  He pulls it out of his wallet.

"The change machine doesn't take twenties."

"I know.  Wouldn't want nineteen dollars in change, anyway," he says.

Okay, I give up.  We'll have to air dry Mulder's things.  He'll just
have to live with abrasive underwear.  Or none at all.

"There's a liquor store two blocks from here.  I'll be right back."

The door swings closed on his exit before I can even voice another
suggestion.

*~*~*~*~*~*

I don't know why these things always happen to me.  When I was ten,
some friends and I went to a carnival, and we wanted to compete in the
booth where they have waterguns.  You squirt water into a plastic
clown's mouth, hitting the lever that pumps air into the balloon right
behind the clown's head.  The first one to pop the balloon won.  The
prize was usually a stuffed animal or something, a stupid trinket that
none of us really wanted -- the true prize was being able to lord it
over the others by being the ultimate sharpshooter.

In the first round, my gun didn't work ... not a dribble of water,
nothing.  I switched positions.  There was something screwy with that
gun; it didn't have enough pressure to get the water all the way to the
clown.  Tommy Meecham graciously offered his position and working
watergun to me -- he'd been the winner the previous two times.  The
bell rang, I aimed, and water shot out with beautiful force, right into
the garish clown's open mouth.  It's just too bad that the balloon
they'd used to replace the one Tommy had burst had a hole in it and
wouldn't inflate.

I haven't played the watergun game since.  Even the sight of one of
those booths brings back the childhood trauma.  I don't have very good
luck; I'm no Henry Weems, that's for sure.  The only time I ever really
got lucky was when it was decided by a group of frightened old men that
a tiny, fresh-out-of-the-Academy, redheaded young woman would be the
best tool to take Fox Mulder down.

They don't know how right they were.  Scully simply chooses not to
exercise her power -- I don't think she's even aware that she has it.
I also count myself lucky that she's still with me after all the times
I've almost lost her ... and if that means that I have to be unlucky in
everything else for the rest of my life, well, I still got the better
end of the deal.

However, I wish my less-than-enviable luck wouldn't manifest itself at
such inopportune times.  How could the stupid dryer have malfunctioned?
This is definitely not helping my campaign to convince Scully I'm
currently worthy of doing a little mattress dancing with.  Tonight.  I
can't believe I kept from fondling her more than I did when we were on
the couch.  The smell of her hair, the feel of her soft body against
mine ... I think she fell asleep before she could take note that a
certain part of me was very happy to have her where she was.

Actually, despite my inevitable physical reaction to her closeness, sex
was pretty far from my mind.  It just felt good to hold her.

Now, though, making love to Scully and spending the night in her bed
are my top priorities.

You know, I think she's finally forgetting about the bug thing.  I had
her drowsy and open to suggestion, and then this had to happen, making
her tired and irritated again.  And not, let's-have-sex-and-go-
straight-to-sleep kind of tired, but I-have-a-headache-don't-even-
think-of-coming-near-me-with-that-thing tired.  If there is such a
thing as fate, it obviously has it in for me, which is why I elect not
to believe in it.

Joe's Liquor is a dank, dimly-lit establishment with a dull neon sign
in the window proclaiming that it's open 24 hours a day and that I can
buy lottery tickets here if I want.  The big guy behind the counter
gives me a strange look when I walk in huffing and puffing.  I
shouldn't have walked as quickly as I did, but giving Scully more time
to fan the flames of annoyance is the greater of two evils.

I'm guessing that the big guy's not Joe, but I'll call him that anyway.
I don't think Joe would take very kindly to my request for change, so I
think for a little bit, then get a great idea.  I just may win Scully
over yet.  Heading over to the freezer section, my eyes catch sight of
the perfect offering, and after grabbing it, I quickly stride to the
counter.

As Joe rings up my purchase, my gaze is almost unwillingly drawn to the
rows and rows of cigarettes right behind him.  The temptation to
purchase a pack is pretty strong.  It's been a while since my last
cigarette -- I never smoked enough to call it a habit, but I'm really
curious about how one would make me feel right about now.  Back then,
I'd never felt this kind of need.

Dr. Scully would definitely not approve.  She wouldn't have to know,
says White Lie Mulder.  She wouldn't want you to suffer like this,
reasons Craving Nicotine Mulder.  She's not the boss of you, argues
Adolescent Mulder.  She probably wouldn't want to kiss someone who
tastes like an ashtray, inserts Horny Mulder.  All right, no cigarettes
for me.

Joe sees me eyeing the packages, though, and asks, "Pack for you?"

"No, thanks, I don't smoke."

He smirks, hearing the gravelly sound of my voice.  "Sure.  Whatever
you say, buddy."

"Just give me my change."  And then I remember my true purpose for
being in this man's delightful company for the last five minutes.  "Oh,
and give me four quarters, would you?"

Scully's sitting on a washing machine, her arms crossed, when I return.
The heat of her glare would blister tar off pavement, but I think she
looks darned cute, her little legs dangling.

"Took you long enough," she says.  "You hurried, didn't you?  You're
out of breath!" she accuses with a sentiment that's in complete
contradiction to her initial greeting.

"Sorry," I say, setting my purchase onto a nearby washing machine -- I
never realized how versatile these things are -- not only do they wash
clothes, but they can also serve as chairs and tables!  Maybe even a
fun water ride for a small pet?

I move to start plunking quarters into the machine ... then notice that
my clothes are gone.

"I put them in another dryer, in case that one's malfunctioning,"
Scully explains.

Quite the intellectual giant, my Scully.  She's put everything in the
next machine over, so that's the one I pay and start the controls.  It
starts spinning very nicely.

"Now we wait fifty minutes," Scully sighs.

"We can go back..."

"No way.  We're staying right here."  The tone of her voice tells me
that we're going to see our laundry done TONIGHT, come hell or high
water.

"You can go back," I suggest, hoping she won't actually take me up on
it.  I can't imagine anything more boring than spending an hour by
myself at the laundromat, watching my socks have a better time than me.
Of course, I also know that she's tired, so I inject as much sincerity
into my tone as I can.

"No, we both stay," she says.

I grin, trying not to look TOO happy with her pronouncement.

Her head turns, and spots my purchase.  "What's that?" she asks, but is
already pouncing.

I beat her to it, grabbing it up in my hand.  Letting her get her hands
on the treat before I've sufficiently used it to my advantage is
definitely not allowed.

She frowns at me and is obviously suspicious of my motives.  Still, she
can't take her gaze from the silver-foiled package in my hand.
Regrettably, it's not the kind of silver-foiled package that promises
hanky-panky ... though perhaps in this case, it just might.

"It's a Matterhorn Cluster Cone," I announce.  "Ten ounces of a
crunchy, old fashion waffle cone filled with super-rich vanilla ice
cream with clusters of caramel and fudge, handcrafted and dipped in a
rich chocolate flavor and covered in peanuts."  I can barely contain my
grin as I read.  Scully's eyes are already glazed over in anticipation.

"Where's yours?" she demands, bluffing.

"That's pretty presumptuous for a person without an ice cream cone in
her hands."  I rip open the package, producing the truly enormous
confection.  I take a large bite, closing my eyes and making
exaggerated "yummy" noises.

"Give me that.  You're probably not used to handling something that
big," Scully says sweetly.

I choke on a peanut.  After a moment of effort, I successfully dodge
the bait, though my first gut reaction was to defend my manhood.  "Just
for that, I'm taking your turn."  I take another bite.

"It's half gone now!" she screeches.

"I'm sorry I don't take your little girly nibbles," I smirk through my
mouthful of ice cream.

"Give it to me."

"What?  This?"  I move closer to where she's perched, holding out the
cone again, just out of her reach.

"I'm telling you to hand it over."  There's ominous doom in her voice.

"What will you give me for it?"

"How about, I'll leave your manhood intact?"

"I asked what you would give ME for it," I leer.  "Besides, I don't
know where all your bravado is coming from.  I think I've got the upper
hand here."

"Then you haven't noticed how close certain ... sensitive parts ... of
you have gotten to my knee," she answers, and indeed, I've gotten
perilously close to a joint that could do some serious damage to Mr.
Happy.

"That wouldn't be doing either of us any favors," I say softly.  I
move, avoiding her knees by cleverly sliding between them.
"Checkmate."  Ah, I'm between Scully's legs.  Nice.  "I'll be a good
guy, and give you a little taste, though, Scully.  But you have to open
your mouth."

Her knees give my waist a little squeeze, and she looks at me with
distrust.  But then her gaze goes to the creamy mountain of ice cream,
topped with a thin layer of crunchy chocolate, and she concedes defeat,
opening her mouth.

Oh, the cherry-red lips ... the white teeth ... the little pink tongue
... the wet glisten of her saliva ... oh wait, the mouth is moving...

"Give me the damn ice cream, Mulder."

I take a small bite, a Scully-sized bite, and, without closing my eyes
as I get closer and closer to her, slide it into her waiting mouth.  My
tongue just brushes hers, a flicker of warmth against mine, and then
it's gone as I move away.  Her eyes drift shut, and I watch her savor
the sweetness in her mouth.

"Was that good?" I rasp, conscious that I'm getting really hard, really
fast.

She nods, opening her eyes again.

"Want more?"

"Yes."

"No more freebies.  What'll you give me?"  I hope I sound somewhat cool
and collected, even I'm trembling a little and inside, I feel like a
kid who's about to ride the bumper cars for the very first time.

She leans forward, and I lick my lips in anticipation of her kiss.
It's therefore a little disappointing when she bypasses my mouth and
makes a beeline for the ice cream cone in my hand.

I pull it just out of her reach, and she purses her lips, eyebrows
drawing together in consternation.  "Okay, what do you want, Mulder?"

Taking a moment to consider, I give the ice cream a casual lick.  "Tell
me a story.  About you."

Scully rolls her eyes.  "Mulder, you know everything about me," she
whines.

Oh, how I'd like to believe that.  But I know better -- Scully is a
thousand mysteries rolled into one woman.  She keeps me guessing all
the time.

"There must be something I don't know."  I dip my lips into the soft,
cold cream, then move forward and kiss her.  I can't be sure if the
sweetness on my tongue stems from the ice cream I just tasted, the
lingering remnants of it from her first and only taste, or what I would
really put my money on, the natural honey of her mouth.  In my
lifetime, I haven't kissed Scully nearly enough.  I must make up for
this oversight.

"A story, huh?"  It does my ego good to hear her sound a little
breathless when I finally break the kiss.  She licks the sugar off her
lips, and I'm drawn to that lovely tongue and what it's doing.  I want
to do that for her, but it sounds like she's really going to share
something, and I don't want to distract her.  Not even for another
kiss, which I want so badly that my teeth actually hurt.

Learning new things about Scully, while not always enjoyable in the
sense that the stories themselves bring any pleasure -- hearing her
share about Daniel, the man she considered spending her life with,
comes to mind -- is always precious.  The enjoyment stems from being
able to get to know her better.  I know all the most important things
about Scully -- that she is loyal, honest, strong, and a good partner
and friend.  But I treasure the small bits of knowledge that go beyond
those things, that allow me to fill in small blank spaces in her
overall portrait.  These things, I cherish.

If she knew she could dangle these small bits of information like a
bone for a dog, I'd never have reason to rise from a kneeling position
again.  This is an addiction I will never be able to wean myself off of
-- the hits are too irregular and too thrilling.

"I think I need some energy to get me going," she says, looking at me
with half-hooded eyes.  I concede, bringing the cone forward so that
she can take a generous bite.  "Any story will do?"

"Tell me something naughty," I whisper.  Hey, she asked.  Even the mere
suggestion of Scully being naughty causes more blood to rush below the
equator.

She takes her sweet time, finishing up her bite of Colossal Cone.  Then
she starts.  "One time, when I was younger, I was at my friend Susie's
house.  I used to go over to swim all the time," Scully begins, her
voice deliberately seductive.  "Susie had an older brother ... much
older than me.  He'd always tease me, using the freckles on my nose to
play 'connect-the-dots'; calling me 'lobster girl' because I never
tanned, I burned; untying the string on my bikini..."

Okay, maybe I shouldn't have asked for a story.  Do I really want to
hear about some punk who, first of all, got to see Scully's young,
nubile body in a bikini, and second of all, tried to strip her out of
it?  Even if I would have done the same thing given the opportunity,
it's different.  It just is.  But I'm also captivated against my will;
I have to know what happened.

"Then what?" I demand.  "What was his name?"  It seems imperative that
I have this knowledge.

"Bryant.  So one day--"

"That's a stupid name."

One red eyebrow shoots up.  "I'll keep that in mind, FOX.  Anyway, so
one day, I was over at Susie's to swim, and she had to leave for some
reason.  It was just me and Bryant."

I imagine that a tiny knot has formed in my stomach.  I'm not at all
sure that I want to hear this, yet I'm completely riveted.  Wild horses
couldn't keep me from listening to the rest of this story.

"We were both in the pool -- Bryant and I -- and I could tell that he
was planning to do something really dastardly this time.  He kept
treading water, getting closer and closer to me.  I wanted to move, but
I was frozen..."

I am utterly captivated.  This is like a car crash.

"...he was so close, close enough that he could have reached out a hand
and touched me..."

I'm hardly breathing.  I'm pretty certain I don't want to hear what's
coming next but I'm a masochist.

"...then I peed in the pool."

"What?"

"I said, I peed in the pool.  You should have seen the look on his face
when I told him what I'd done!  Priceless.  He couldn't get out of
there fast enough."  Scully takes advantage of my dumbfounded pose and
takes a healthy chunk out of the cone.

When I realize what has happened, I pull it away again.  "Hey!  You
don't get that.  You cheated."

She raises an eyebrow.  "You said 'tell a naughty story.'  That was
very naughty, Mulder.  Susie's parents had to drain the pool and
everything on Bryant's insistence.  I got in a lot of trouble with my
mom."

"You were what, ten?"

"Seven, actually.  He was thirteen.  Much older than me."

"You reneged on the SPIRIT of my request.  You know that wasn't the
kind of naughty I was talking about."  I am indignant.

Putting a hand on my chest, she breathes, "You wanted a dirty story,
Mulder?  A dirty story about me?  And some other guy?"

My lungs, already not functioning at full capacity, have now stopped
working altogether.  Her words cause a hot rush of blood to pump
directly into my brain, and I can feel it throbbing at my temple.
Wait, it can't be blood; all the blood in my body is concentrated
somewhere else.  I think it must be testosterone.  Hell, yes, I want to
hear some dirty Scully stories.  I suppose the "other guy" part is a
necessary evil.

"I don't think you could take it," she says, eyeing my face.

"I can take it," I insist.  Who knows if I really can or not, but I'll
die trying.  Obviously, she HAS dirty stories to tell ... which makes
me alternately pissed off and turned on.  I have to know.  There is no
other recourse.  If she puts me off now, there's no way I can forget
about it, and I will bug her at every opportunity.

I think she knows this, too, so she sighs.  "All right, one story.  But
I get the rest of the cone for this," she warns.

"Okay," I agree.  What cone?

"I was sixteen--"

Sixteen-year-old Scully ... oh God.  I can't do this.  Luckily my
throat doesn't support whimpers at the moment, or that's certainly what
would have escaped.

"Mulder, are you listening?"

"No.  Yes."

"Then open your eyes."

Oh, but then my image of sixteen-year-old Scully will disappear ... oh
fine.  I open my eyes.

Scully looks slightly annoyed.  "Anyway.  I was sixteen.  My
boyfriend's name was Richard -- he was a year older."

Dick.  I like how that name supports multiple meanings, all of which
I'm thinking right now.

"We'd been going out for maybe six months.  That was a long time for
kids our age, you know.  We'd done the usual kissing, petting, feeling-
up type stuff, but not much beyond that--"

"Did you have sex with him?" I blurt.  Say yes.  Say no.  Say you've
been waiting thirty-six years for the right man and up until we had sex
a few weeks ago you were a virgin.

"Are you going to keep interrupting me?"

"Did you?"

"I'm going to finish my story, Mulder.  Richard was a track star at
school--"

I can't help it.  I have to interrupt again.  "You have a thing for
runners, Scully?"

She lifts her legs, wrapping them around my waist, scooting closer so
that she's pressing right up against my crotch.  I groan, and have to
support myself on the washing machine, using the hand that's not
holding the stupid ice cream cone, which isn't looking quite as frozen
as it should.

"Yes," she answers, smiling a little.  "I like runners and swimmers.  I
like men who run AND swim, best."

Okay, forget the story, I'm ready for bed now.

But Scully has apparently gotten into her storytelling, and launches
back into it, not as affected as I am by the fact that I'm rubbing my
hard-on against her.  We have entirely too many layers of clothing on.

"One time, I was waiting for him after track practice, and he looked so
good in his track suit and still sweaty, that I could hardly wait until
we got back to his house where we would ... you know."

I swallow, assaulted by thoughts of sixteen-year-old Scully going back
to her young, randy, hormone-laden, seventeen-year-old boyfriend's
house to "you know."  Incidentally, I now envy Richard more than I've
envied anyone ever in my life.

"Sex," I say in a voice that probably most people would use to say
"mangled kitten."

"No ... but just about everything else.  Richard was Mormon ... his
parents would have had strokes just knowing that I was in their house
doing these things with their son.  He wasn't supposed to have sex
before he was married, and when he did have sex he wasn't supposed to
use protection.  So to avoid those sins, we just experimented with
other things..."  She trails off.  "Of course, that was the
rationalization of some pretty horny teenagers -- what we did WAS
sinful, we just ... Mulder, what's wrong?  Are you okay?"

Maybe if I could make the images that are swimming in front of my eyes
right now, of a Catholic girl and her Mormon boyfriend experimenting in
his bedroom, disappear; maybe if Scully wasn't such a sexy storyteller;
maybe if the subject matter didn't have the power to make me hard
enough to cut glass; maybe if my lungs were working properly and I
could get more oxygen to my brain; maybe if we stopped this
conversation right now ... I might be okay.  But since none of those
things are happening, I probably won't be able to control the urge that
is mounting with each passing second.

WHY did I have to use the word "mounting"???

She hasn't even gone into any details; my own imagination supplied more
than adequate information with thousands of my own past fantasies about
Scully and the firsthand knowledge that I have from two previous
encounters.

I realize that she's stopped talking.  "That's it?" I ask, and barely
recognize my own voice -- well, my voice as I'm used to hearing it
lately.  It seems even scratchier than usual.  "That's the naughtiest
thing you can think of?"

"Well ... yes."  She squirms.  "After Richard, sex was never quite the
taboo as it was then ... our respective upbringings, our youth, the
newness of it all, made it seem much more forbidden and thrilling.  My
other sexual experiences have been, well, within the boundaries of
decorum.  Even Daniel.  The sex was pretty pedestrian.  The situation
was 'forbidden,' but for me at that point, it wasn't exciting, it was
upsetting and ... inhibiting."  She looks thoughtful.  "It wasn't
'naughty' like you meant.  Richard ... Richard was naughty."  She
smiles.

Wait a minute.  If Richard was the last time she was naughty...  "So
sex with me is a generic, run-of-the-mill experience, is it?"  The idea
that I am but one on a list of "decorous" lovers for Scully is galling.

"Of course not, Mulder," she purrs, bringing a hand up to reach between
us and caress me through my pants.  I jump, nearly dropping the ice
cream.  She takes advantage of my reaction by deftly snatching the cone
from my hand, eating quickly.  I don't care about the stupid Colossal
Cone anymore -- my focus has been permanently converted to something a
little more primal than dessert.

She makes no attempt at being sincere, and all at once, I feel the need
to prove something.  I pull away from Scully, disentangling her legs
from around my waist, not bothering to hide the evidence of how much I
want her.  She looks at me with sparkling eyes, savoring her victory,
eating her prize and watching as I start going through her laundry.

"Mulder, have you been sniffing detergent?" she asks, sounding amused.

Boring ... within the boundaries of decorum ... generic ... run-of-the-
mill ... these and similar phrases run feverishly through my mind.  I
have a feeling I'm only being teased, but it's touched some kind of
nerve in me and now I can't let it go.

I pull a freshly laundered towel from Scully's basket and lay it out on
the washing machine next to her after closing the lid.

"Mulder...?"  She sounds more cautious now.

I go back to her and pull her unceremoniously from her perch, setting
her down on the towel I just laid out.  She yelps, hitting my
shoulders, but I barely feel it.

"What the hell are you doing?" she snaps in confusion.  She's still
hanging off my shoulders with one hand, the other holding the ice cream
cone that's been obliterated -- all that's left is the bottom
chocolate-filled portion.

Without answering, I yank her forward and slam my mouth on top of hers.
At first she struggles, thinking I've gone psycho, but then she melts
into the kiss.  I don't know why I feel this urgency to devour her, but
I'm biting her lips like a teething baby, stroking my tongue against
hers again and again until we're gasping into each other's mouths.

I take the last bit of cone that's left and dribble some of the melted
chocolate right into her cleavage ... I love these v-neck tops ... she
gasps and struggles against me, but I put the rest of the cone into her
mouth and she has no option but to eat it or spit it out, and I know
she won't waste the chocolate.  Lapping at her chest, I dip my tongue
right where her breasts meet, feeling the smooth slopes, first one
side, then the other.  I cup them in my hands, squeezing them together.
I kiss the wet spot that I've made.

Her hands are on my wrists, trying to pull them away from her.
"Mulder, stop," she whispers.  "We're in a laundromat, for God's sake."

"I'm putting 'naughty' back into your sexual repertoire," I whisper.

"You're--"  Her eyes darken as my meaning sinks in.  God, I love it
when her skin gets suffused with that pink glow.  She's aroused, but
shy.  I love that.  "Come on, Mulder."  She tries to laugh, but it
peters out when she sees that I'm utterly serious.  "Mulder..."  Her
voice trembles and I know I have her.  "What if someone walks in?"

"No one will walk in," I promise, even though I'm in no position to be
making any such assurances.  How do I know that someone won't decide to
do laundry at two-thirty in the morning?  I don't, of course, but
Scully knows that.  It was a token response, a last-ditch gesture of
caution.  She wants this as much as I do; I can see it in her eyes, in
the way she's stopped trying to remove my hands from her breasts, in
the way she's breathing in short, shallow pants.  She is definitely
aroused.

Apparently, aroused enough to consider doing this, though her brain is
calculating all the risks.  I have to move quickly, before her rational
side has a chance to take over.

Moving my hands to her waist, I kiss her again as I begin to deftly
undo the buttons on her shorts.

"We can't," she moans into my mouth, helping me slide her shorts and
panties down to the floor.  "I can't believe we're doing this."

"It's two-thirty in the morning.  What are the chances of someone
walking in here?  It's a quiet street, no cars have even passed by
since we got here.  If we had to PICK a time to do this, we couldn't
have chosen better..."  I mumble against her chest, which is where my
lips are again.  I can't help it -- they seem to gravitate there.

She groans.  "Mulder, shut up."

I will gladly give up speech for you, Scully.  I have to commit the
necessary evil of pulling away from her so that I can release my cock,
which is clamoring to be set free.  I pull my sweats and boxers down in
one movement, getting them past my hips and letting gravity do the
rest.  In the meantime, she slips out of her shirt enough to remove her
bra, then tugs the shirt back into place.

I'm about to move into position between her legs, but I have to savor
the sight before me for just a moment first.  Supremely straight-laced,
proper and professional Dana Scully in a public laundromat, sitting on
a towel on a washing machine, wearing nothing but her little tennis
shoes and a tight shirt.  Her legs are spread just enough to
accommodate me, her curls damp with arousal, her folds swollen with
desire.  All for me.

"Hurry, Mulder," she says, an edge of need to her voice.  She reaches
out for me.  Her newfound urgency causes her heels to bang against the
washing machine, creating a deep hollow sound that for some reason
makes my pulse jump.

I'm just as eager as she, probably more, and I don't need further
encouragement.  In a heartbeat I'm where I belong.  I only have a
second to appreciate the perfect height of these washing machines
before I'm sliding my aching cock into her hot, slick core, feeling her
clench around me and FUCK, I think I'm going to come right now.  If she
starts making those little sounds that she makes, I'm done for.

She wraps her legs around my waist, and I don't move for a long time,
burying my face in the side of her neck.  I have to get myself under
control or it will all be over much, much too soon.  Scully seems to
sense this and doesn't complain that I'm taking my sweet time.  She
wants it to last, too.  I suspect we're both caught between wanting to
get it over with quickly so that we won't be caught in flagrante
delicto by some middle-of-the-night laundromat goer, and making it last
forever, because who knows when we'll have the chance to do something
so risque and adventurous again?

Finally I think I have a semblance of control -- I believe I can make
it past a few strokes, at least.  I slide out, then forcefully push
back into her tight wetness, and Scully lets out her breath in an
explosion of air that tells me she's probably been holding it this
whole time.  This evidence that she's as close as I am nearly makes me
say 'fuck it' and start gunning for a home run.  But after thinking it
through, I realize this is proof that she wants it to last, and it
makes me more determined to keep this up for as long as she wants --
poorly functioning lungs be damned.  That, or I will expire trying.

I suckle at the skin of her neck -- it's right there, after all -- and
make my way up to her jaw ... then her soft, soft lips, and she's got
her hands in my hair and her tongue is in my mouth ... and it's all
manna from heaven.  She tastes like chocolate and caramel and that
Scully flavor that's sweeter than any candy.

I open my eyes, our mouths disconnect with a wet smack, and her sky-
blues are half-closed and smoky.  Her lips, swollen by kisses, curve
into a smile.

There's only one thing a person can do when confronted by this
breathtaking phenomenon.  I smile in return and bask in the brightness
of the glow.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Okay, I'm used to Mulder acting strange, but this is bizarre, even for
him.  I say that like I'm not enjoying myself, which is so far from the
truth as to be laughable.

It's not a dream.

This is confirmed by the fact that I've pinched myself a few times, and
it hurt.  I've also pinched Mulder once or twice, and judging by his
"Ow!  What the hell did you do that for?" it hurt him, too.  So this is
real.

I'm really half-lying on top of a washing machine in a public
laundromat, having sex with Mulder.  And why should this surprise me?
He's never done anything remotely predictable.  Who goes looking for a
haunted house on Christmas Eve?  Who believes in everything under the
sun but the two things I believe in, God and fate?  Who runs head-first
into a dangerous situation instead of away from it?  What Mulder needs
is one of those baby leashes that I can attach to his wrist and keep
him from going farther than what I deem reasonable.  If he whines all I
have to do is give a good tug, and he'll have to stay put.  I don't
care how many lights in the sky he sees.

He's not thinking about lights in the sky right now, though.  His
attention is all on me, and I love it.  I can't believe he got me to do
this.  I can't believe I let him persuade me.  I can't believe that
instead of pushing him away I'm raising my hips so he can sink deeper
inside.

It's odd, but what I thought was an awkward position has him hitting
all the right spots in entirely new ways for me, and the feeling is
indescribable.  I want to tell him that, want to communicate how much
I'm loving his hard, thrusting cock, but the fact that I'm actually
having much longed-for sex has apparently created a meltdown in things
that are supposed to work -- like my brain and my vocal chords.  All I
can manage at the moment are moans and gasps, and the sounds I'm making
are turning ME on.

I reach under Mulder's shirt and slide my hands over the smooth expanse
of his back ... it's a bit sticky at the moment, as he's engaged in an
activity that would make anyone sweat (if they're doing it right, and oh
yes, Mulder is definitely doing it right).  I love the long valley of
his spine, and trail my fingers down that long column to the slight dip
right above his ass, and just caress him there for a moment.  Even with
the uncomfortable metal of the washing machine control panel against the
back of my head, I'm pretty content.  In fact, in a weird way that I
don't want to examine too closely, it actually adds to the erotic nature
of our situation.

My body adapts to Mulder's welcome invasion as he continues to open me
up, again and again.  At first my body resisted a little, being as how
he'd been wonderfully frantic and needy, and I had to consciously force
my muscles to relax.  But the fluids fast lubricating me made it easy
to adjust, and now I am feeling nothing but goooooood.

The washing machine under me is making loud clanking noises as he
pushes into me harder and harder -- he seems to think that if he just
tries hard enough, he'll be able to join us permanently -- and I begin
to worry that these machines aren't as sturdy as they look.  Sure, they
can get the toughest stains out of your clothes, but has anyone ever
tested them for two horny adults?  I'd like to see THAT report.

"Lift up your shirt," Mulder says, and I hurry to comply.  I barely get
the material up over my breasts before his head dips down to capture
one of my nipples in his mouth, pulling it between his teeth.  His arms
now rest on either side of me, and I grab them for leverage as I arch
my back, trying to maximize contact.

Mulder sucks me greedily, and through the haze of pleasure I wonder if
I always knew he was a breast man.  He gives me a little nip, then
soothes it with a lapping tongue.  He turns his attention to its twin,
until it too is throbbing from his ministrations.  Despite his
concentrated attention on my chest, his hips are still pumping
rhythmically, and my legs have long ago wrapped themselves high on his
back.  Have I ever mentioned that Mulder is a great multi-tasker?

He also sounds like a locomotive that's about to run out of steam, and
I'm afraid that our exertions have taxed his poor lungs.  God, I'm an
unforgivable nymphomaniac.  Even now, I would find it impossible to ask
him to stop.  How awful is that?  Apparently, I can't deny my sexual
urges even for the sake of my partner's health.  If he dies it'll be
all my fault.  But hey, Clyde Bruckman predicted Mulder's demise would
be the result of something like this, didn't he?  So maybe I can safely
chalk it up to fate.  But unfortunately, Mulder doesn't believe in
fate, so he'll blame me.

Damn, can't have that.  So I grip his pumping hips with my thighs, and
gasp -- my own respiratory system isn't doing so hot, and I wasn't the
one who had two lungfuls of insects sucked out of me recently.  "Hey
... hey, take it easy, Mulder."

"Don't wanna *gasp* take *gasp* it *gasp* easy ... *wheeze*," he says.

Suddenly I start to giggle; I can't help it, I think it's so funny.
"Mulder, I feel like I'm having sex with an 80-year-old man."

He doesn't even break his rhythm.  "That's not for a while yet,
Scully," he answers, gasping.  "When you have sex with an 80-year-old
man, you'll be ... uh ... 77 years, 7 months, and 20 days ... old."

It takes me a while to realize that he's figured the difference in our
ages, and that the 80-year-old man he's referring to is himself.  I
can't be sure if he's done his math right -- at the moment, my brain is
barely functioning -- but I think this is alternately the most romantic
and the silliest thing he's ever said to me.  All in a fit of passion
... he probably won't even remember he said it later.  Though now I
have proof that he knows exactly when my birthday is, even if he's
denied it in the past.

And how sad is it that I find that fact -- that he came up with that
figure in the short space of time between when I made my comment and
when he answered -- extremely arousing?  Mulder's intelligence has
always been a turn-on, and apparently it still is, even when he's using
it to spout inane trivia.

A random thought pops into my head: only our third time having sex and
we're already using mechanical assistance.  I nearly start to giggle,
but am deterred when Mulder suddenly starts to swivel his hips in a
circular motion, causing me to see bright spots of light, and I wonder
if it's from the inevitable short-circuiting of my brain.

"Oh!  Ohmygod, Muuuuulder..."

"Spin cycle," he cracks, and I don't know if our simultaneous groan is
from the extremely bad pun or because what he's doing feels so
incredibly good.

I grab his ass with both hands, as his frantic motions are presenting
the threat that he'll just pop right out of me, and we certainly don't
want that.  Mulder has a great ass, in pants and out of them, and it's
unbelievably erotic to feel the hardness of his muscles flexing under
my hands, and know that it's from the effort of giving us both
scandalous amounts of pleasure.

Turning my head to the side to look out the laundromat's windows, I
nearly have an aneurysm when I see the headlights of a car on the
blackened street outside, then the car itself as it drives by.  Good
Lord, what if the occupants had turned their heads and seen us through
the window?  The street isn't THAT far away...

"Probably just gave some college kids a thrill," Mulder rasps, and his
words actually arouse me further.  He's obviously not disturbed by the
prospect of having been seen; he's gleeful, in fact, if the bright
twinkle in his eyes is anything to go by.

I feel a primitive surge of lust as the last of my inhibitions fall
away.  Mulder's attitude is the way to go -- who cares if someone I
don't know, and am likely never to meet, sees me fucking the man I
love?  What do I have to hide?  Now, if this were a private moment
between Mulder and me and we hadn't gone into it with our eyes open
about the inherent dangers of having sex in a public place, then maybe
it'd be something to get upset over.  And maybe if someone were to walk
in on us right now it'd be a little embarrassing.  But it'd still be
worth it, and that's the most telling realization of all.

Mulder slips his hand in between us, rubbing my very swollen, very
sensitive clitoris, and I know I'm going to come soon if he keeps that
up.

And he is so beautiful, his eyes dark and intense with desire, his face
damp with perspiration.  I know that I want to be fully conscious and
able to appreciate what I'm seeing when he comes.

"Let's try something else," he suggests out of the blue, halting his
movements, then slides out of me completely.  I might have to kill him,
but not until I make him give me my orgasm.

He pulls me forward, off of the washing machine, setting me on my feet.
My wobbly legs can barely support me, and it doesn't help that there's
a deep throbbing ache between my legs.  I do the only thing I can think
of; I grab his erection, and it's hard and slippery from being inside
me.  This knowledge finishes the job of turning my legs into noodles,
and I nearly collapse to the floor.  He's got a firm grip around my
waist, however, and uses his advantage to turn me around so that I'm
facing the washing machine on which I'd so recently been getting it but
good.

The towel has slid to the floor, and I think of this other plus to
having sex on a washing machine -- no wet spots to sleep on.  Use a
towel, and afterward, conveniently lift up the lid and toss the
terrycloth in the machine to get it washed.  Ingenious.

Mulder slides his hands down my arms and I lean against him, feeling
his hardness against my back.  His hands reach mine and lift them,
placing them on the cool metal surface of the washing machine, then
slide them forward.  His feet step into the space between mine and then
push outward, forcing me to spread my legs as he's spreading his.  This
allows him to insinuate himself closer to me, closer to where I want
him to be.  He lifts me up a little and whispers in my ear to grab the
control panel, which I do.  My feet are now dangling a few inches from
the floor, my weight supported by my upper body on the washing machine
and by Mulder's hands gripping my waist.

In one sure, unrelenting thrust, he is back inside me, and my inner
muscles clutch his cock convulsively.  He feels amazing, his rhythm
hard and deep, and if I weren't clutching this control panel in a death
grip to keep in place, I'd have been over on the machine on the other
side with his second thrust.  As it is, the force of his movements are
causing my hips to press hard against the smooth metal, and my clit is
rubbing up against the unyielding machine.  With every thrust, Mulder
opens me up, stimulating me inside and inadvertently pressing the
throbbing bundle of nerves between my legs against the surface of the
washing machine, creating an unbelievable amount of friction that feels
so good it's almost painful.

Mulder's fucking me from behind, the washing machine is fucking me from
the front, and suddenly it's all just too much and the tension relieves
itself in a sudden burst of white-hot pleasure that has me jerking like
an overloaded washer against him.  Fireworks dance in front of my eyes.
Four more quarters, please.  I think we need a new machine; this one is
kaput.

As I'm coming down from the cloud of sexual euphoria I feel Mulder
coming right behind me, his wetness jetting out of him and into me in
hot, deep spurts.  I can feel him straining as it happens, his fingers
clutching me so tightly I know I'll have bruises, which I'll consider
emblems of valor.

It takes about ten years for us to get our breathing under control.  I
recover faster, but I'm content to stay here like this, Mulder's heavy
weight collapsed on top of me, my flushed face resting against the cool
surface of the washing machine, until he regains his strength.  If I
didn't know what he'd just done, I'd be concerned with the wheezing and
gasping that I hear, and if it doesn't stop in a reasonable amount of
time, perhaps I still may freak out.  But he doesn't seem concerned, so
I won't do that just yet.

"You're going to kill me one day, Scully.  My death will be forever on
your conscience."  His words are croaked into my ear.

"You'd like to think so," I murmur contentedly.

Pause.

"I'm wounded."

"You're heavy."

A few moments later, he rolls off of me with a loud groan.  "I think I
might be too old for this."  He grins widely when I also groan, my
stiff and aching joints making loud internal complaints as I wipe
myself off with another towel, then locate a fresh pair of panties from
my laundry basket and slip into them.  Plain white cotton, thank you
very much.  "But oh SCULLY -- what a way to go."

I ignore him as he moves to get to a fresh towel.  The timer dings on
Mulder's dryer just as he's finished cleaning himself up and pulled on
his sweats.  Well, what do you know--

"Perfect timing.  Now we know how to pass the long, dull hours, don't
we, Scully?" he says lazily.  Smirking, he begins to fill his duffel
bag with his dry clothes.

"Mmm," I answer, noncommittal.

In seconds, we're ready, and Mulder holds the door open while I sidle
past, shivering a little as the air of a cool April night hits my
heated skin.  I carefully keep my voice neutral.  "Mulder?"

"Huh?  Yeah?"

"I was just thinking ... it doesn't seem fair that I shared intimate
knowledge about myself and you didn't reciprocate in kind."

He stumbles and I grab his elbow, tugging him down to me.  My voice is
smooth as silk and deliberately low, my lips grazing his earlobe as he
shivers.  "That's right.  Let's hear something naughty, laundry-boy."


=End


9/3/00

AUTHOR'S NOTES: I know we were all being kept awake at night wondering
just what had gone on between our intrepid duo before Mulder returned
to work at the end of Brand X, so I had to try to fill in the blanks.
  Ah, what can I say.  Mulder's hoarse and sexy voice would not leave
me alone, so I had to write a whole story about it.  Apologies for the
laundromat; I know I can't be the first person to have played with the
idea of Moose and Squirrel doing the horizontal -- or in this case,
trapezoidal -- tango on this particular appliance, so I'm sorry to
those whose toes I've tread.

Beta thanks to Diana and Alicia, wonderful friends and editors -- oh,
what would I do without you??  To Lysandra, who seemed hell-bent on
torturing me with incremental beta, but did her usual fabulous job AND
helped with the ending and summary (while ill!), so how can I even
begin to complain?  And to Brandon and Trixie, fallen angels who make
the blistering heat of our surroundings feel quite nice and toasty.
Oh, and they're not shabby beta readers, either. 

Thanks also to the Matterhorn Company, which makes the delicious
Cluster Cone (yes, that much sin is REAL).  I ripped off the
description of the truly enormous treat and put it in Mulder's mouth.
(Read that label again, Raspy!Mulder!!)

PRECIPITATION: "Characterized by unthinking boldness and haste: brash,
foolhardy, hasty, headlong, hotheaded, ill-considered, impetuous,
improvident, impulsive, incautious, madcap, rash, reckless,
temerarious, unconsidered."  If THAT doesn't describe the act of having
sex in a laundromat, I don't know what does.

**Feedback welcomed and cherished at narida_law@hotmail.com**

Well, that's all.  Hope you enjoyed it!  Thank you for reading!!

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