Nightclub Girls by Dasha K.
Please archive at Gossamer. Anywhere else, just let me know where you've put it so I can visit.
Summary: Scully explains her version of events. A follow-up to Nightclub Jitters.
Rating: NC-17 and I mean it this time
Category: SRA
Keywords: Scully/other, Mulder/Scully Romance, Slash
Spoilers: US Season 5
Feedback: Give it to me baby, at
Disclaimer: Don't belong to me, even though I did win them in a poker game with CC. Tristan belongs to Psyche. May and the nightclub girls belong to me. Got that? There's a quiz at the end.
Note: This is a sequel of sorts to my story "Nightclub Jitters". It's a good idea to read that first before delving into this one. I also highly recommend Psyche's story "Nightclub Lamentations", which adds further resonance to the whole universe.
My thanks to Alanna, Gwen and Psyche for beta reading, encouragement, support and a good laugh when I needed it.
This story takes place in spring of season 5, but before the events of The End and the movie. Beware, angst and smut lay ahead.

Nightclub Girls by Dasha K.

Somewhere around noon I slip on my wrinkled clothes. He's crashed out on his stomach, oblivious to everything around him. I hope he's having pleasant dreams for once. Blowing his sleeping form a kiss, I tiptoe out of the bedroom to hunt for my car keys.

I need to be alone right now; need to give my brain the breathing space it demands after the events of last night. When I'm around him it all blurs until I can't see straight. It changes from my wants, my needs, my desires to his mouth, his hands, his eyes and I'm lost.

Back in the quiet sanctuary of my apartment, I curl up in the softness of the striped couch and sigh, feeling satisfied, satiated, bone-weary. I can feel the places on my shoulders and upper arms where bruises are beginning to form. Absently I stroke the rough linen of the pillow, imagining it to be the middle of the night stubble on his cheeks, the scratchiness brushing along my inner thighs.

It's so odd to have a man again. How long has it been? Since Jack? Good God, that's forever. But it's not like I've been exactly alone all this time.

Three years ago, there was a terrible night when I couldn't sleep. It had been weeks since I had managed to get more than a few restless hours at a stretch. Most nights I wandered around my three little rooms like a bathrobe-clad wraith, just thinking too much, the same images flipping through my brain in a horrible feedback loop.

I saw Mulder sitting at the table across from that, that monster, sitting with unnatural stiffness, the sweat running down the side of his neck in beads. The gun was resting on the table between the two of them. I felt the helplessness coursing through me, my own inability to change this course of events that I knew would end in the death of one of the three of us. That's how the rules of the game went- one bullet, six rounds, three people. My mouth dry as paper, my fingernails digging into my palms in mute fury as Mulder put the gun to his own temple and squeezed the trigger. Click. I recoiled at the motion, but there was no report from the gun. Instead, he turned the gun on me, his eyes pleading for mercy.

No, I wasn't sleeping well at all, so I jumped at the chance to attend a pathology seminar out in San Francisco. I figured the change of scenery would do me good, would clear my head of the waking and sleeping nightmares.

Instead, it only became worse over the course of the week. Away from the familiarity of home, I couldn't sleep at all and I was trapped in a small hotel room in a strange city, with only the blare of cable television to keep me company. During the daily sessions I could hardly concentrate on what was being said, let alone take intelligible notes, so weary and disoriented I was. Nothing helped, not running six miles up and down the infamous San Francisco hills, not getting a full-body massage in the hotel's spa, not raiding the mini bar for wee bottles of Stolichnaya.

Always, like a sour taste in the back of my throat, the sensation of guilt. I knew all too well that Mulder was so dependent on me, and I on him, that if either of us had died in that hospital room with Modell, the other would have been finished off for good.

And there was the realization that something was growing between Mulder and me, mutating and changing the current that flowed among us. I didn't have a name for it back then; it was just too new, but it already had me scared shitless.

The last night in San Francisco I was wired, jittery, on the razor-thin edge of panic, pacing my beige cell, wringing my hands like some celluloid damsel in distress. Gotta get out of here, I muttered, and I fled the hotel.

For hours I marched the crowded streets, passing the gorgeous "painted lady" houses, chic restaurants, noisy bars and cafes. It had just rained and the reflection of the streetlights on the wet pavement cast an alluring glow. Being out of my room helped immensely. San Francisco is one of those surreal dreamscapes of a city, where no one seems to actually work, or go to the hardware store for a crescent wrench or do anything that is mundane in any way. It is a land where the denizens live for the hottest restaurant, the wildest club, the newest look. Everyone is young and beautiful on a Saturday night in San Francisco.

Finally I became tired and thirsty, had no idea where I was in reference to the hotel. On a swarming street packed with bars, I chose the one with the most fascinating name, Belladonna.

Inside, the bar was dim and cool, lit only by soft pinkish lights set in elaborate wall sconces and votive candles on the tables. It was fairly crowded and smoky, but I managed to find a table in the corner and sit down with relief, my feet aching from a pair of black leather knee boots I hadn't managed to properly break in yet.

The waitress came by and I recklessly ordered a bottle of Dos Equis and a shot of Cuervo Gold. I suppose I was longing for the carefree mindlessness of my junior year spring break in Ixtapa. While waiting for the drinks and halfheartedly listening to the ambient techno wafting through the room, I recognized that there were only two or three men in the crowded room. Aha, I thought, this is a lesbian bar. Somehow that thought comforted me; no cheesy guys would be putting the moves on me.

My drink arrived and I knocked the shot back, coming up sputtering and gasping for air. Someone nudged me and handed me a napkin, which I gratefully took to wipe my mouth. My Good Samaritan turned her head and grinned. "Drink much tequila?" she said in a wry voice.

She was a small, thin woman, a few years younger than me, with a delicate Asian face and a pixie haircut, dressed in a little red t-shirt and a long, tight black skirt. "It's been a while." I ruefully admitted.

Holding out her right hand, every finger sporting a silver ring, she said, "My name's May." I shook her hand and told her my own name, asked her if she wanted to sit down. She joined me and I bought her a glass of Shiraz and another shot of tequila for myself. May told me she was a third-year pediatrics resident and we commiserated about the tortures of medical school. It just felt so refreshing to get out of my tortured head for a bit, to forget the nightmares, that it took a while to notice her bare foot sliding up my calf or my hand creeping up her thigh.

Something about the fact that I was a blank page to her, and she to me, was deeply exciting.

Until that night, I had never really given much thought to being with a woman. I never walked down the street and said to myself, "Whoa, that woman is hot!". I just didn't occur to me. But here I was in some little bar with a beautiful woman and I had an overwhelming desire to kiss her full lips. And I did, suddenly reckless. It was a strange sensation, kissing a mouth covered with lipstick, touching the softness of May's neck, tasting the inside of a woman's mouth, her smooth cheek brushing mine. This is safe, I thought, a bit giddily, if I have sex with her nothing is risked, no one will get hurt.

Soon after the kiss, we stood up to leave. "May," I blurted, suddenly feeling self-conscious, "I've never-"

She cut me off with an impish smile. "I know," she said, "I could just tell. Don't worry about it."

Luckily, May's apartment was just around the corner from Belladonna.

The next morning I woke up in May's bed, realizing I had slept soundly from 2am to 8am. Six uninterrupted hours of sleep and I felt renewed, like a cat who had been thoroughly petted. I wanted to purr. It didn't seem strange, after all, to wake up nude in bed with another woman. Instead, I remembered the glorious pleasure and release of being with May, the silk of her arms around me, her taste, the heady scent of her perfume, crying out from the touch of her tongue on me. I didn't feel ashamed, I felt relieved and glad for that singular night. The opportunity to forget.

Before she awoke, I scribbled a goodbye note to May and left the apartment, suddenly aware of the plane I had to catch.

I slept most of the way back to D.C.. Mulder met me at the airport and smiled when he saw me. "You look great," he said, "Much more relaxed. San Francisco must agree with you."

I nodded my head, hoping my cheeks weren't turning red. "You have no idea." I said, stifling a laugh and we went off to claim my suitcase.

A few months later, when the demons began to haunt me at night again, and I felt the stirrings of my appetite, I found a lesbian dance club I liked, Jitterbug Perfume. It was loud, packed on weekends, full of the post-college nose ring and tattoo crowd, a perfect place to lose myself. I discovered I still knew how to dance, that my body could still move to the beat, that I still could laugh. There I met Ellie, with her caramel-colored eyes, Tara with hair as red as my own, Michelle who had magic fingers.

I was with each of them only one time. That was enough. They wanted what I wanted, one hot night, no phone call the next day. Relief, release, rebirth from the pressures of our lives. Just one perfect and remarkable night.

There was a certain smugness, knowing my own power, of being able to walk into the club and have all those appraising eyes on me. Of being able to crook my little finger and have some young thing come running. In the confines of Jitterbug Perfume I became more than just demure little Agent Scully.

It seemed to me, at that time, that I had found a solution to the conundrum that was my life. I had the perfect jewel of platonic love with Mulder, our mutual devotion, trust and friendship neatly wrapped up in a red ribbon. No risk involved, the partnership would remain unsullied by a love relationship. And when my lust peaked, every few months or so, there were always the nightclub girls, ready to please, ready to be pleased. Safer than men, just as much fun and there was something about crossing the line, of going where most women did not dare, that was horribly exciting.

Then came the dark interlude of cancer. A tumor gnawing at the inside of my head, a black gift from our enemies. All my desire fled as I struggled to keep alive, keep my sanity, keep the strength to fight.

When I was in the hospital for the last time, certain I would never leave in anything but a casket, I grasped that Mulder's love for me had shifted yet again. He needed me, not just as a partner and trusted friend, but as a lover. His strange green-brown eyes told me the whole story of his love for me as he entered my room and saw me curled up in the bed, an oxygen tube in my nose. My heart twinged with the knowledge that we would never see this thing between us ripen into fruition. I was going to die, leaving us both eternally unsatisfied.

Yes, my love had changed for him, too.

I could now fully admit to myself that I needed him as a lover.

But the return of my health and strength did not bring about any change in the five year-old stalemate between Mulder and me. We were just too accustomed to the old patterns, the familiar ways and means of our life together.

Around mid-winter I grew bitter, angry. I had nearly died and I had just lost the daughter I never knew I had. I couldn't even summon the strength and courage to face my fears head-on and admit my feelings for Mulder. I grew resentful of Mulder, of his seeming complacency to let things continue down the accustomed, rutted path. Daily, my rage towards Mulder grew, until I could hardly look at him. He ditches me, I thought, treats me like his assistant, won't give me all the information, doesn't trust me with the truth, kept my infertility from me, won't trust me with his pain, well fuck you, I don't need you.

He saved your life, a little voice always whispered in my ear at times like that.

I've saved his plenty of times, I'd always think, we're even. I owe him nothing.

I cut myself off from Mulder, emotionally. No more cozy lunches across the desk from each other, fighting over the last piece of pizza. No more bad late night movies in cheap motel rooms together. No more banter over mutilated corpses. I spent the remainder of the winter, when not out on a case, closeted in my apartment, in mourning for the life I had sacrificed for life with Mulder. The husband, the children, the stability I could have had, had I not decided to follow that man on his journey. It was a chilly, rainy winter and I spent sleepless nights at my window, watching the rain trace patterns on the glass, wrapped in the thick blanket of self-pity.

I cursed myself for loving him.

I cursed him for loving me.

I wanted to be with him so badly my muscles ached, but I was afraid.

My lust returned in early spring in full, agonizing force. Perhaps it was the budding trees that set my hormones off, or else I had just gotten the grieving out of my system and was ready to move on with my life. I don't know.

Once again, I found myself at Jitterbug Perfume one night. It had been so long I felt as if it were the first time, so nervous and excited I was. I had been so crazed with desire I hadn't even changed after working late; I marched into the cavernous club in my prim little business suit, scanning the crowd for the woman with whom I could find my relief. Feeling like a predator stalking her prey, my eyes landed on a brunette sitting sulkily alone at the bar. Her enormous chocolate brown eyes landed on me and her mouth turned up in a knowing smirk. She was the one. I had learned to develop a sixth sense about those things.

Tristan was different than her predecessors , I thought as I sipped my vodka and tonic. She wasn't at the club to be picked up; I could sense she wasn't a one night stand girl. She was looking for love and I wasn't. She made it perfectly clear to me that she normally had no truck with nominally straight girls like me dabbling in her world. I shrugged and let nature take its course.

As the night wore on and we got mildly smashed, talking about Melville, one of my favorite subjects, I wanted to taste her skin so badly my tongue was twitching. Something about the herbal smell of her shampoo, the strong muscles of her thigh resting under my hand, the way she absently fiddled with a strand of her dark hair, made me nearly frenzied with lust.

Apropos of nothing, Tristan lifted her head and said, "I belly dance, you know."

I leaned over and licked her swollen lower lip, tasting vanilla lip balm and her Long Island iced tea. "Show me." I answered.

With that, we left the club.

Her studio apartment was small and funky, with Indian print curtains, framed Japanese watercolors on the walls and creaky wood floors. It smelled of sandalwood and jasmine. After very few words I unceremoniously pushed her to the wall and kissed her, feeling relieved that she was around the same height as me. Tristan sucked in my tongue and I gasped at the raw eroticism of the sensation, more personal than any fuck in the world.

She stripped me of my black silk blouse and slowly traced the tattoo on my lower back with a cool fingertip. "Ourobouros." she breathed. The memento of the one night I tried to pick up a man. Served me right for breaking my own unwritten rule.

Skin to skin we fell on her bed and my legs shook with anticipation.

Believe it or not, I never thought of Mulder at times like that. It wasn't until it was all over that he managed to insinuate himself back in my brain.

Ecstasy. There is no other word to describe my night with Tristan. As my hands spread her apart and I tasted her for the first time, I realized she didn't even know my real name. "Katherine," she slowly groaned and I felt guilty for having to hide my real self from her, that she would never know who I really was. The pangs of guilt slowly receded as she wrapped her legs around my head and pushed herself into my mouth.

Several sweaty hours later, we unfolded from each other and I lay back on the pillow and stared at the cracks in the ceiling. This was always the bad time, when I stared at my new lover, disappointed she wasn't Mulder.

I made some lame excuse to Tristan, hastily dressed and fled her apartment. As I walked out the door, I saw a flicker of pain in her eyes. Never again, I vowed. I couldn't do this anymore. I was becoming someone I despised, someone who uses others to get off, damn the consequences. It wasn't how I wanted to be. These girls were objects. I didn't love their souls, their hearts, only their bodies.

And it wasn't enough anymore.

I wanted the real thing, living and breathing in my arms.

I wanted him, dammit.

Some weeks went by and I felt the familiar itch begin to build. I caught myself shamelessly staring at Mulder all the time, wondering what the skin of his back would feel like under my hands, what his lips tasted like, how he'd feel pushing inside me for the first time.

Don't you get it, stupid? I inwardly raged at him from across the office, but as usual, he was oblivious. And I was too damn scared to initiate anything. Why was it so easy to make my move with the women in the club, but not with the man I loved beyond measure?

Yesterday, it built to a fever pitch. It was the first truly warm day and he came into the office, his hair still wet from swimming laps. I couldn't help shifting around in my seat, I was so aroused at the sight of him. Finally, I conceded defeat. Oh hell, I told myself, what's one more trip to Jitterbug Perfume? The nightclub girls may not be the real thing, but they are better than nothing, more real than my own hands and imagination.

I marched inside the club, dressed to kill and immediately ordered myself a shot of Cuervo. I could finally do a whole one without nearly choking to death. As I nibbled at the accompanying slice of lime, I idly wondered what Mulder's mouth would taste like after drinking tequila. Down girl, I told myself, and went off to the dance floor. That's when I saw Tristan, leaning over to whisper in the ear of a tall, dreadlocked woman, her eyes locked on me.

It will be a long time before I can erase the image from my mind of pulling away from Tristan's lips to see Mulder standing there at the bottom of the stairs, his pain palpable from a distance of fifteen years. And Tristan's voice, slightly mocking, mostly hurt, "Busted." There were no words I could say to excuse myself, to somehow make this surreal situation right. And I will always remember the welling rage as he pulled his car out and left me standing alone in the parking lot. I slipped off one of my black heels and threw it at his retreating car, but it didn't even come close to hitting it.

On the way home it came to me that none of this would have happened if Mulder and I weren't such fucking cowards.

At home, I stood in the shower and screamed until my throat was raw, not caring if the neighbors thought I was being abducted again. I howled out my rage, disappointment and fear until there was nothing left inside me. I had been holding it all in for far too long and it just had to come out somehow.

With deliberate care I combed out my hair, put on some clean clothes and headed out on the long drive to Mulder's place. We were going to finish this, one way or the other.


The shrill ringing of the telephone breaks my reverie. "Hello." I mumble into the receiver.

A scratchy male voice answers my greeting. "Why aren't you here?"

I lean back into the couch cushions and luxuriously stretch out my legs. "Good morning, Mulder, or shall I say good afternoon?"

His voice sounds perturbed and I suddenly feel guilty for having run out on him this morning. "I woke up and you were just gone. How am I supposed to feel about that?"

"I know. I just needed to be alone." Silence on the other end. Shit, I'm just making it worse.

"It's not what you're thinking," I say, "I needed some time to think." As soon as those words come out of my mouth, I immediately regret them. This is what great sex does to my head, turns my intelligence and judgement to chocolate pudding.

"Don't worry about it, Scully." That's the voice of his pride. If nothing else, Mulder attempts to hang onto his pride.

I sigh, hating the lack of nuance of the telephone, not being able to see the expression on his face. Yet, so much of my life with Mulder has been conducted on the telephone, the curiously intimate experience of pressing my cell phone to my ear, his voice entering me.

Thinking quickly to repair this, to reassure him I have no regrets, I stammer, "Last night was, it was everything to me. And I have just one question for you."

"What is it?" His voice sounds curiously breathless.

"Is there going to be a tonight?" God, I want to be with him tonight. I have a brief memory cascade of last night in his bedroom. A tremor passes through me at the thought.

Mulder's low chuckle is all the answer I need.

I have a sudden flash of inspiration, a memory of a witness I questioned a couple of weeks ago and something he handed me at the end of the interview. "Come over at 11:00 tonight."

"I have to wait until 11:00?"

I smile. "Whining isn't very becoming, Mulder."

"What are we going to do?"

My smile widens. "That's for me to know and you to find out. Just wear something black." With a laugh, I hang up the phone.

All the times he's kept me in the dark, refused to tell whole truth, it's payback time. Revenge can be so delicious. This will drive Mulder to insanity for the rest of the day. He detests waiting, so like a little boy that way.

Lesson Number One of the Dana Scully School of Behavior Modification: Exercise Patience.

Actually, I'm having a tough time with that myself.

In the kitchen I gather together a simple lunch of a sliced apple and some cheese. It's all my post-tequila stomach can take right now. I return to my post on the couch and slowly eat my meal while Tori Amos wails on the stereo, "If you want to get inside the well, boy you better make her raspberry swirl." I nearly choke to death on a chunk of Granny Smith, remembering Mulder's mouth on me.

A more contemplative song darkens my thoughts again. Mulder and I have lived through six years in the shadows. Is it so wrong to want to step into the light, if only for a little while? I'm afraid of asking for too much, of wanting a little happiness. God has been so stingy with me.

My persnickety inner voice speaks up. God brought you a miracle.

I nod my head, reflexively touching the gold crucifix hanging at my neck. Thank you, I whisper.

There have been countless times in the last years when I have experienced abject terror. Duane Barry, Modell, Pfaster; the list is sadly extensive. But the worst, most gut-wrenching fear ever to tear through me was last night, in Mulder's bed, as we faced each other, but did not touch.

Tell him, I ordered myself, but I was paralyzed by five years of hiding.

I could smell his fear, too.

In the beginning I had to prove myself to him. Prove my strength, my acuity, my intelligence. And I've always been considered by outsiders to be the stronger of the two- less obsessive, the stable element in the formula that is our partnership. To admit my need, my desire was staggeringly difficult.

A clock annoyingly ticked in the back of my head. It's now or never, Dana, I warned myself.

A stray thought popped into my mind. Love doesn't necessarily imply weakness. I opened my mouth and the words began, "Mulder, do you ever think about me?"

I told him I wanted him. I loved him.

Five minutes later we became lovers.

The world as me knew it did not end. Such a simple thing, really. Man kisses woman, woman kisses man, the rest follows. It is sad we let out fear hold us back from such glory.

Somewhere in the first light of dawn, I awoke to feel his finger tracing the contours of my face. It slid down the bridge of my nose to shape the line of my lower lip. Opening my eyes, I saw on Mulder's face an expression of such awe I wanted to cry.

This is love, I told myself. It was an entirely new emotion to behold and I began to shiver.

He smiled to see me awake and I realized it had been ages since I'd seen a genuine smile on that face. We had passed through such a black season together. The finger lifted my chin and he murmured, as if to himself, "Beautiful." It was my turn to smile.

Our lips met and this time it felt entirely natural, as if we'd spent a lifetime doing nothing but kissing each other. This kiss was slower than the first one earlier in the night; we had nothing to prove to one another anymore. Time to taste and explore. Jesus, even his morning breath tasted delicious.

I felt him hardening against my thigh as we lay together on our sides. "Ready for another round?" I asked, feeling my left eyebrow automatically rise.

"Making up for lost time." Mulder muttered into my neck as he started to rain the line down from my ear with kisses. Now, who told him about my neck fetish?

He suddenly pulled his mouth away from my neck and I gasped in disappointment. Intently, he looked at me.

"What?" I asked, wanting only for him to get back to the urgent business of my neck.

Mulder shut his eyes and shook his head. I kissed his forehead. "Come on, tell me what you're thinking." I urged. The intensity of his expression was starting to disturb me. I inwardly groaned, oh Mulder, don't think about the women. This is all about you and me.

His eyes still closed, he said in ragged voice. "I was thinking about you and those women. Wondering if it was different with me. If it was better for you with them."

A pang of sadness washed over me, sadness that we both were so willing to let our insecurities lead us around by the nose. I rested my forehead against his. "Mulder, look at me."

He reluctantly opened his eyes.

"There is a discrete difference between sex and making love. When I was with those girls, it was all about getting off. I'm not going to lie to you and tell you I didn't enjoy it, but it was just sex. With you, it's different. Being with you is an expression of my love.."

He didn't say anything in return, just reached out and gently circled one of my nipples with the fleshy pads of his fingers, sending waves of radiance through my body.

I continued, "I have my moments too, you know. I feel terribly insecure a lot of the time. Too short, stumpy little legs, small breasts."

He barked out a laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"Your breasts are perfection, Scully."

Oh, the way he said my name in bed. Someone who didn't know us might have found it impersonal, the way we use our last names only, even alone and naked in bed together, to for me it felt like a secret code. Only to Mulder am I Scully. And he will never be Fox to me, he is only Mulder.

I reached for his left hand and placed it on my other breast. "Then touch them."

He did one better than that. Mulder made a wet trail of kisses down my neck and chest until his mouth landed on one of my nipples. A sigh of pleasure escaped my mouth as he sucked and teased the tender flesh with total concentration. Lord, instant wetness, instant readiness. All the hours I spent alone, imagining myself with him, well, I was right. It was amazing, pure and simple.

Taking his hard length into my hand, I tentatively began to stroke him. I have always been self-conscious about doing that to a man, worried I'd do it too hard or not hard enough, but judging by the noises Mulder was making I was doing just fine.

"Oh Scully," he groaned into my chest, "Do you know how that feels?"

I threw my head back in laugher. "Being that I don't have a penis, no, I don't." And he laughed with me. I was delighted that we hadn't entirely lost our senses of humor over the years.

"Tell me what you want." He said, lifting his face from my breasts. "Tell me and I'll do it. Anything for you."

Oh, now there was an offer a girl couldn't refuse, but I had a better idea. "No, it's all about what I'm going to do for you."

He trailed his finger along the rim of my ear. "You know, I'm really getting to see a new side of you tonight."

Now, that was the understatement of the century. I pushed him onto his back. "There's a lot of things you don't know about me, but I guarantee you'll find them out over time. Now lie still."

Mulder shut his eyes, utterly obedient for once. So, that's what I had to do to make him mind me. With relish, I took a moment to enjoy the unprecedented sight of my partner, wearing not a stitch of clothing, hard as a rock from my attentions. I couldn't help but bite my lip in anticipation.

My hand reached out to stroke his balls, enjoying their texture in my palm. From above, I heard him sharply inhale. I bent down and lazily drew a circle on the blood-engorged head of his penis with the tip of my tongue. Another gasp from the peanut gallery.

With deliberate slowness I took him into my mouth, which elicited a gasp of, "OhshitScullythatfeelssogood." I cannot even tell you the thrill that gave me. Inhaling deeply, I could smell his male essence, the low woodsy aroma of a man, so different from the women I had slept with.

And then I began to suck, to tease him with my tongue, my lips, my own excitement painfully mounting as I felt him squirm under me, his hands gripping my neck. I heard him groaning my name in desperation as I slowly slid his cock in and out of my mouth. The feeling of being completely in control of his pleasure exhilarated me. You're my punk now, I thought, and wanted to laugh, but my mouth was full.

I pulled myself away from him and Mulder abruptly sat up, an astonished expression on his face. "Scully, what the hell are you doing?" he bellowed.

I bit my lip. "Resting."

His eyes narrowed. "You are too cruel, woman."

I rubbed my jaw with my hand. "You know, fellatio is very hard on the mandibular muscles."

Flopping back down on the mattress, he said, "Oh God help me for making love with a smartass doctor."

Moving up the bed, I collapsed in laughter on his warm chest, "God help me for making love with a spooky federal agent."

His hands grasped my shoulder. "Fuck you." He laughed.

"No, you've got it wrong. Fuck me." I licked the few beads of sweat nestled in his chest hair, savoring the saltiness upon my tongue.

In a teasing voice he said, "How would you like it, my lady?"

I had to think about that one for a second. Never thought I would have such panoply of choices at my disposal. I rolled off his body and got on my hands and knees. "Like this." I whispered.

"Scully." He gasped.

My eyes shut, I heard the bedsprings creaking. Then I felt him come behind me, his erection pressing against my behind. His hands reached around for my breasts and I halfway screamed as her roughly pushed his cock into me, so hard, so deep. Fingers are nice, a tongue even better, but this was just too much.

He stopped. "You like that?" he breathed into my ear.

All I could do was dumbly nod my head.

"You want me to keep going?"

Another nod. He was torturing me as surely as I had him a few minutes before. Well, I deserved it.

Again, his low whisper in my ear, "Tell me how you want it." Slowly he started pulling out of me and my hands gripped the sheet harder. The elastic of the contour sheet made a snapping sound as it came loose from the mooring of the mattress.

I couldn't stand it a minute longer. I threw my head back and bared my teeth. "Fuck me now." I muttered, "Fuck me hard."

He slammed so hard into me I nearly ran my forehead into the wall. "Like that?" He asked.

My moan was the answer he was looking for. I reared back against his hips and my, the exquisite sensations that ran through me as he thrust harder and harder into my vagina, his fingers circling my nipples, his mouth biting the back of my neck. We had been set free of the tethers that kept us from each other and we were rapidly becoming animals as we drove into each other's bodies. There was something so thrilling about not being able to see his face, to just have him coming at me from behind. He could be anyone, but he was unmistakably Mulder. The genuine article, no substitutes tonight. Mulder, filling me, loving me.

His hand snaked around to my clit and after a few short strokes of the poor neglected bunch of nerves, I felt the waves of my orgasm shudder through my body and somewhere I heard my own voice, screaming out something unintelligible. And then he too came, with a definitely inhuman cry, thrusting into me one last time with furious power. The poor neighbors, what did they think?

Frankly my dear, I didn't give a damn. Mulder and I separated and collapsed on the crumpled sheets, gasping for air. He wiped the sweat off his brow and started laughing.

It took me a second to collect myself, as pleasure was still trickling through my limbs, but I finally demanded, "What's so funny?"

"Oh, you're just a surprising woman."

I propped myself up on one elbow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Dana Scully, a lady in the office, a hellcat in bed."

I stuck my tongue out at him "Sexist pig!" I said, and swatted his cheek lightly.

We lay together, sticky and smelly, and shyly begin the confessions new lovers must give, when we first noticed the other as a potential lover, when the actual love began, the hurt, pain and confusion it caused us. Two voices in a darkened room, sharing our souls the first time.

"You walked in with this na‹ve arrogance and I though, oh boy, this is some spy the top brass brought in."

"I opened my eyes and my first thought was, where's Mulder? I saw you, Mulder, on the other side of the shore, waiting for me to return."

"God, your voice on the other end of the phone. `Her name is Bambi?' I'm telling you, I had to work really hard not to laugh."

"I ripped off that headset and ran the hell out of that trailer into the hospital."

As the room grew fully light, our voices dimmed and quieted and we slept.

And here I am, the day after. The unthinkable has happened. We are together, for better or worse.

It isn't going to be an easy thing, loving Mulder like this. I pride myself on the generally tidy order of my life. I'm early to bed, early to rise, three square meals a day, do the dishes as soon as I'm done. Mulder lives life in a looser vein, just careens through each day blindly.

All the things I was angry at him about, I'm still angry. He's going to have to stop ditching to me, protecting me, treating me with a lack of respect. And I'm going to have to change too, it isn't a one way street between us. I can treat him like he's an annoying overgrown child, refuse to listen to his wild theories, when he happens to be right a lot of the time, the jerk.

Hard work is ahead of us. But I think I just may be ready for it.

It took long enough.

Reluctantly, I stand up to take a shower. I'm a mess, but I hate to let go of his scent. My fingers smell like his sweat, his hair, his lovemaking. The tangible reminder of a long night with my lover.


He knocks on the door precisely at 11:00. I fling open the door and he's standing there in a pair of black jeans and a tight black t-shirt. Whoa mama, I think to myself, all this is yours to have. As much as you want.

Mulder smiles to see me and bends down to kiss my cheek. "You look dangerous tonight." he comments.

I'm wearing a skimpy little black slip dress I bought a few months ago but hadn't the courage to wear before now, and the most towering black heels I could find in the closet. I smile at him. "I am dangerous."

He touches one of the faint fingertip bruises on my shoulder. "Hmm, I think I may be the one who is dangerous. Geez, I'm sorry about that."

"I'm not." I take his index finger and draw it into my mouth, rewarded with an astonished look on Mulder's face.

I pull away and walk over to the phone, take it into the kitchen and make a brief call. When I return to the living room, Mulder asks, "Who were you calling just now?"

I smile. "I called a cab. We're going out tonight and I don't think we should do any driving."

"Out? Where?" Ah, this has been so much fun, keeping him in the dark.

This is where I start to laugh. "We're going to exorcise some demons, Mulder."

He looks mystified. "Satanic rituals? Is that what the black outfits are for?" I love this.

I take his hand in mine. "We're going dancing tonight."

He squeezes my hand. "Oh yeah?" He nuzzles my neck. No, don't start with the neck or we'll never get out of here.

"Yeah." The witness I questioned was a promoter for Fabricant, a club so hot Mulder and I would never get in without the passes Bix gave me. I think it's high time Mulder and I went out, just had fun. Pure and simple, we're not old, we're not dead yet.

Mulder gives me a mischievous look. "Tell me Scully, do you drink tequila?"

I start to usher him through the front door into the night, thinking, you'll find out, oh, you'll find out quite a few things tonight.

Tomorrow I may just do something unprecedented, something I haven't done in years with a man. It's the next big step of commitment, really.


End of the whole dang thing.

My thanks to Tori Amos (like she's going to read this) for providing accompaniment with her album "From The Choirgirl Hotel".