From: "Susanne Barringer" 
Date: Sun, 24 Jan 1999 13:28:44 -0500
Subject: Hot Shower (1/1) by Susanne Barringer

TITLE:  Hot Shower
AUTHOR:  Susanne Barringer
EMAIL:  sbarringer@usa.net
ARCHIVE: Anywhere okay with these headers attached.
CATEGORY:  SR
KEYWORDS:  Mulder/Scully Romance
RATING:   R for lascivious thoughts 
SPOILERS:  Inspired by the rumored scene in the upcoming "One Son,"
although it's a pretty sure bet it won't play out this way in the
episode!  :)
SUMMARY:  Mulder and Scully get decontaminated, among other things.
DISCLAIMER:  Not my characters.  They belong to Chris Carter, 1013,
and Fox.  No money being made, etc. 


The idea for this story came from a challenge posted by ENeternity on
ATXC last week, even though my story ended up going a totally
different direction and not exactly meeting the challenge. 

THANK YOU to Suzanne Schramm for beta-reading and for my daily
recommended dosage of confidence boosting.   :)


________________


Hot Shower
by Susanne Barringer


My skin is burning with the chemicals.  I can feel them seeping
through my clothing, into my pores, scalding my cells and destroying
me layer by layer.  Mulder and I have been doused with something
that's eating away at us, and it's not wasting any time about it
either.  What will save us is the decontamination unit temporarily
set up on the scene and on full alert for just this possibility.

We are hustled to the shower area where two technicians wait with
hoses.  I'm already half stripped down by the time we get there.  The
longer my soaked clothes stay near my skin, the more serious the
burns will be, and the searing of the chemicals is already almost
more than I can stand.  The pain radiates through me in a way that
makes me clench my teeth with the force of it.  The last thing I see
before I turn around to face the technician is Mulder peeling off his
trousers.  There's not an ounce of privacy in the decontamination
area, and no time to worry about it either.  We have to go through
the procedure together.  

I am not by nature an excessively modest person, but it is rather
disconcerting to strip down to nothing in front of a bunch of
strangers who are covered from head to toe in decontamination suits,
gloves, and masks.  Not an inch of their skin is showing while I'm
displayed in all my glory.  The blistering pain, however, kills dead
any speck of modesty I have remaining.  

Even more disconcerting than my current state of undress, however, is
my awareness of my partner, no doubt equally naked, standing just two
feet behind me.  I can feel his presence, as I always can, although I
can't say that we've ever been in quite this situation before. 

The technician hoses me down with enough water pressure to nearly
knock me backwards.  I can tell by the ruckus behind me that Mulder
is being treated equivalently, the water from the two hoses bouncing
off our bodies and onto each other.  I try not to think about the
fact that there's something distinctly erotic about this whole
scenario.  

After the initial rinsing, one technician begins to scrub me with
neutralizer while the technician with the hose continues to spray a
light flow of water over me.  Although my skin still burns from the
chemicals which must be scrubbed away, I'm not convinced that the
neutralizing is any better.  It feels like I'm being sanded, and the
harshness rips at my skin leaving a tingling feeling that mixes with
the burn in a sensation that is bordering on torture. 

I try to think about something else.  Mulder.  Standing behind me. 
Naked.  I can't seem to shake the image.  Of course, I've seen him
naked before, but those were in times of emergency and I was,
obviously, too distracted to pay much attention.  I should be
distracted now.  Acid is eating into my skin, and there are other
things to be worried about.  I should be concerned about Mulder's
condition, how badly he's burned, whether he is in as much pain as I
am.  But, no, instead all I can think about is just how naked he is. 
My timing has never been very good.

The situation is not helped when the technician brushing my stomach
suddenly intensifies her strokes and I momentary lose my balance from
the change in rhythm.  I'm forced to step back to regain my
equilibrium and in doing so I graze against Mulder.  It is just a
fleeting collision, stopped almost before it can register, for I
quickly step forward again.  My heart rate picks up and my skin
tingles from where I came into contact with him.  I'm honestly not
sure how long I'll be able to stand this.  

It takes several minutes for the technician to scrub every part of my
front side, the close scrutiny gradually becoming more and more
uncomfortable.  Then, she makes a little circular motion with her
finger to signal me to turn around.  So I do.

I come face to face with Mulder's back, which stretches before me,
tanned and smooth, like expensive leather.  The broad expanse of
muscles rests over his frame perfectly.  I want to reach out and
touch him, to touch the places where the water beads across his skin,
but, of course, that's out of the question.  So I find something else
to do.  I check out his ass.  It's right there in front of me.  How
can I not look? 

I must say Mulder has a fine ass.  It's one of those perfectly
rounded ones that you rarely see.  The skin looks silky and soft, and
I'm fascinated by the way the water flows over his buttocks like a
waterfall, cascading to the floor.  I have a strong temptation to
reach out and touch the small dimple on the right side, to run my
finger over its smooth indentation.  I have a momentary flash of
digging my fingernails into his ass as he thrusts into me, but I
shake that as quickly as possible.  I'm very aware that we are far
from being alone, and this is not the time to be playing with
fantasies.

I'm too involved in studying Mulder's anatomy to notice his
technician signaling him to turn.  He reels around so quickly that I
barely have time to shoot my gaze up so that it meets his face and
not his groin.  His eyes latch onto mine in surprise at our current
position, but he does not look away.  A slight grin plays about the
corners of his mouth.  Nobody in the room seems to realize how
incredibly awkward this could be.  The technicians keep scrubbing
away like it's no big deal that two naked partners of the opposite
sex are standing face to face.  

We look at each other, neither of us willing to break the eye
contact.  Neither of us turns away either, for that matter.  I see
the challenge in his eyes, reinforced by a quick lifting of his
brows.  The message is clear.  Which one of us is going to be the
first to give in and look down?  A range of emotions crosses his
face, teasing, flirting, challenging.  Despite my promise to myself
that I won't be the first to give in, I seem unable to stop my eyes
as they make a quick excursion.  I study his mouth, then his chin,
reveling in their familiarity; I know them as well as I know my own
name.  Then I pay close attention to the way his neck arches in just
that way, a way to which I've become accustomed over the years, his
neck being one part of him that I can study regularly without being
excessively obvious.  I slowly journey down his shoulder to just the
upper part of his chest, where the water beads over him like
diamonds, his skin pink from the scrubbing he has just received.  It
is a quick pilgrimage, then I return to his eyes.  Just a tease,
nothing more.  Nothing questionable about it.  Totally professional. 
Mostly.  

When I meet Mulder's eyes again, he is laughing at me.  Not out loud,
but I can read him.  He dares me with his eyes.  He dares me to look,
to travel past my present mark.  To go all the way. His eyes tell me
to take a chance.  I hesitate a moment, just to make him wonder, and
then I accept the dare.  The technician is scrubbing my back, having
finished with my shoulders and arms, meticulously working her way
down my body.  There isn't time to waste.  I've got a deadline.

I allow my eyes to wander freely over Mulder's chest, over the
expanse of water flowing across skin.  It is mesmerizing, this
cascade.  The water falls in rivulets over his muscles, gluing the
tufts of hair to his chest, creating a mosaic of dark and reddened
skin like some vision of modern art.  The movement of the technicians
behind Mulder, which I see only out of the corner of my eye, reminds
me where I am, but I'm unable to tear my gaze from the view in front
of me.  I trace over his curves and muscles, wondering what it would
be like to touch him, wondering what he would do if I did.  I want to
lean forward and take onto my tongue the quivering drop of water that
hovers on the bottom curve of his breast; it struggles between
clinging to the beauty of him and the inevitable gravity that pulls
it toward the floor.  

I watch as the drop finally lets go and swims down Mulder's torso in
a rambling path.  I follow it to his abdomen, unbelievably toned and
tight, as I have always remembered from the few times I have seen him
shirtless.  It is an image that has played in my mind for as long as
I have known him, this beautiful torso that sings to me a serenade of
skin and heat and silky smoothness.

I see Mulder draw in a deep breath, his chest expanding with it.  I
feel his stare on my face, and I know that his eyes haven't moved. 
He is watching me look at him.  I hope he isn't uncomfortable with my
thorough scrutiny.  There's no way I'm going to stop.  Not now, not
until I have gone all the way.

I meander down his belly to the top of the dark thatch of hair.  I am
just barely conscious of the pain radiating throughout my body as the
stinging substances are scrubbed from my surface.  The burning has
been replaced by something else that smolders inside me and makes me
feel heated under the water that seems cold as it pours across my
aching skin.

To be honest, I've always found penises humorous, particularly when
flaccid.  I mean, I never really understood the attraction of
photographs of random penises on random men.  After all, it's the man
it's attached to that really matters.  Soft and unaroused, a penis is
really rather silly, just a slab of flesh hanging between the legs,
like some sort of leftover from a blunder of evolution.  Ridiculous
looking, despite its functionality.

At this particular moment, however, I find nothing at all ridiculous.
 I study Mulder's cock carefully, like an artist, its smoothness and
bumps, the way it hangs just perfectly.  I wish I was an artist so I
could sculpt him or paint him or do something to preserve his beauty
for all eternity.  I have never seen any man so beautifully designed,
so perfectly exquisite.  His cock and the tight muscles of his upper
thighs and the angle of his hipbones all glide together in some kind
of sonata of wondrous masculinity.  The stroking of the water
streaming over him only magnifies my need to touch him and to
memorize the splendor of his form with my hands.  Heat blazes between
my legs despite my efforts to fight it and despite the many eyes that
I know are watching us.

I'm surprised when Mulder's cock stirs slightly under my gaze.  I
clench my fists tightly to squelch the desire to reach out and touch
it, to run my fingers over its curves and ridges so I can know the
feel of what I see before me.  I long to make it rise under my hands
and beg for me.  I want to taste it, to have it full in my mouth, to
feel it hard inside me, all of me, every part of me.  I cannot
believe how much I want it.  How much my mouth craves him.  I'm aware
that I am biting my lip, hard, and I know that Mulder sees it, that
he is watching me look at him, but I don't care.  I shiver with the
thought of taking Mulder into me, and if not for the constant tremors
of pain that hover about my consciousness, I think I would break into
a fit of weeping for the sheer desire that swallows me.

I sense Mulder's breath quickening, although the noise of the water
pouring from the hoses could not possibly allow me to hear it. 
Goosebumps rise across his flesh and he shivers, while I am burning
up.  I do not want to embarrass him, so I cease my visual kiss.  I
take a quick journey down his lanky legs, strong and beautiful and no
doubt incredible to have entwined with one's own.  I slowly raise my
gaze to meet his face again.  I see something in his eyes, something
I have never seen before.  An entire lexicon of emotions rumbles
across his face and reaches across to me, balancing on the water
droplets that cavort around us.  

Then his eyes drop, slowly dancing over my neck, my shoulders.  I
watch as his eyes move, then pause, then move again, then pause.  I
know that he is kissing me, that each time he hesitates he is
imagining planting a kiss in that spot, tenderly and gently.  I can
actually feel it.  I am surprised when he stops his excursion just
above my breasts and his gaze meets mine again.  

I've long been aware that I can't measure up to the women of Mulder's
fantasies, to the anonymous women in his films and magazines.  I see
in his eyes that, at this moment, it doesn't make a single bit of
difference.  What I see is desire, just the flicker of it, nothing
that anyone else would notice.  But I see it and know it, and this
time it isn't my imagination playing tricks on me.

Mulder holds my gaze, waiting, as if asking my permission before
delving lower.  With a stifled smile, I grant it, and I must remind
myself again that we are being watched.  I can't let it show.

All the way down, I feel his touch, his lips on me.  His eyes float
over my breasts and I know with an arousing certainty how his hands
would feel there, stroking and touching me, as his eyes move across
my seared skin.  The heat of my chemical-burns becomes
indistinguishable from how I know his mouth on me would feel.  It is
the most incredible sensation I have ever experienced.  I am here, in
a sterile room, being hosed down and scrubbed over every part of my
body which is burning with chemicals, and all I can feel are Mulder's
soft imaginary kisses landing over my breasts, my ribs, my belly.  

All the way down.  He takes his own sweet time, which pleases me with
its implications.  I know now exactly how he would be, how
excruciatingly slowly he would love me.  All memory of awkward and
selfish lovers from the past is washed away and replaced by this
single moment of furious intensity.  The feeling of my skin being
rubbed raw, the harsh brush scraping the smooth skin of my lower back
and buttocks, contrasts markedly to the delicate way in which
Mulder's scrutiny caresses me, languidly, as if we have all the time
in the world.

I keep my eyes trained on Mulder's face, watching his every
expression, just as he watched me as I explored him.  His eyes linger
over every part of me.  My consciousness is refocused on the
scrubbing which has now moved to the back of my thighs, then to my
knees.  We are running out of time.  Hurry, Mulder.  My pulse speeds
up with the excitement, the anticipation.  The flurry of feelings and
stimuli nearly drive me insane.  I can barely stop myself from
spurring him on.  Now, Mulder.  For God's sake, do it now!

I am more than aware when Mulder's eyes meet their goal--I see the
exhalation of the breath he's been holding and the struggle to
maintain his composure indicated by his clenched fists.  It's the
same thing I've just experienced, only this time I am on the
receiving end and the knowledge of what I do to him erupts inside of
me.  His eyes drift over that part of me that I have kept hidden for
so long, that I have kept to myself out of fear of losing myself in
just this way.  Mulder seems blissfully unaware of the presence of
those around us; they are equally unaware of us, of our waltz of
imagination, danced to the tune of falling water.

As the scrubbing moves down to my ankles, Mulder tears his gaze away
and looks me in the eye.  What I see there confirms what I have just
felt.  In our own peculiar way, in this extremely peculiar
relationship of ours, we have just made love, in front of a half
dozen decontamination technicians and God knows who else, none of
whom have a clue about what has raged between us without so much as a
single physical touch.  Extreme possibilities indeed.

Mulder smiles at me in a way that makes me blush for some totally
inexplicable reason.  It is the first time during this whole
standing-naked-and-aroused-in-front-of-a-room-full-of-strangers
scenario that I have felt embarrassed.  From somewhere that seems far
away, I hear someone talking.  With a start, I realize the technician
is speaking to me.

"Agent Scully?  I'm finished here.  You can go ahead into the
examining room."  I turn and look at the masked woman and flash a
smile as an apology for not hearing whatever it was she said before
my attention was drawn away from Mulder.  "Sorry about this," she
mumbles, seeming to just now realize that I've been standing in front
of my partner stark naked for the last ten minutes.  Not that I
minded, as it turns out.

I step out of the decontamination area and into a large smock that is
offered to me, though it seems a bit late for privacy now.  I
immediately feel a sense of loss, like I have been abandoned.  A
shiver runs through me although my flesh still aches with the burns
and my insides are ablaze with Mulder.  I do not turn back to look at
him because I suspect that if I do, I will never be able to walk away
from him again.  

************

A half hour later, I leave the examining room to find Mulder waiting
for me on the bench outside.  He is dressed in scrubs that match my
own, our clothes having been destroyed to prevent further
contamination. 

"Everything okay?" he asks, tilting his head at me in concern.

"Yes.  They treated a few of the burns, but none of them seem
serious," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Same here," he says, gingerly getting up from the bench and standing
in front of me, "but it hurts like hell, doesn't it?"

The scrubs hang on him loosely, covering his form.  I know what lies
underneath.  Every curve and muscle and mark I have mapped out in my
head and committed to memory, like an explorer who fears getting lost
forever in endless wilderness.  I wouldn't mind losing myself in
those hills and rivers and forests.  I know the places I want to
touch--the broad chest, the solid arms, the slight rise of his belly.
 I know exactly where I want to run my tongue--along the velvety
smooth skin of his lower back, the ripple along his abdominal
muscles, and mostly the part of him that began to spring to life
under my simple gaze.  I can identify every curve and rise of his
body that I now want to touch and taste in the same way I have seen
them--slowly, gently, one part at a time, until I have covered all of
him with all of me.  

"The doctor said we were lucky."  Mulder's words call me back to
reality.  My skin pounds with the burns and the scrubbing it has
suffered, the ache exacerbated with every brush of my clothing
against me.  "He said it could have been worse, if we hadn't been
treated so quickly." 

When I look back up at Mulder, he is smiling gently and looking at me
in that way that I have just begun to understand.  We are thinking
the same thing.  Of that I am sure.  It is only a matter of time.


END 
____________


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