AUTHOR: bugs SPOILERS: Rush, Goldberg Var. RATING: R for sexual situations CLASSIFICATION: V, H, Scully POV SUMMARY: In Chicago to investigate a lucky man, Scully's mind flits over some word associations. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: Sharon kindly shoved her holiday guests out the door and gave this a read for me. AUTHOR'S NOTES: A few lines in GV caught my attention, but the story I saw was a mad, scribbling sketch, not the usual fanfic deep massage of 'what it all means.'

X * X * X * X * X   "Hey, nice outfit." Compressed laughter. Warm and low. Wrapped around each letter of those words like his warm hands cradling my waist. Laughing: At the shattering of all my high self-standards. First and foremost, laundry always done on time. Dry cleaning dropped off and picked up on Friday evening on the way home from work. Friday evening. The rush home. His hands stretching across the front seat. Tracing the bones in the back of my hand. My hand gripping the steering wheel. Acceleration. Past Quick-E Dry Cleaning. The silent promise to pick up the dry cleaning on Saturday morning. Bodies barely through the door. Clothing pushed aside, ripped away. Lifted by strong, long arms. Back pressed to the wall, the picture of Bill and me at summer camp falling and shattering, unnoticed. The slow, delicious/painful descent, as long and protracted as my moan. Down, down, onto his waiting cock. That laugh in his answering moan. Saturday morning. Dry cleaning forgotten. Snow fort of pillows built instead. Spread open like a snow angel, my dark dog snuffling between my legs. 1:12 PM: Numbers on the clock chuckle at my distraction. "Dammit! Mulder!" "What?" Lazy and insolent. Sleek fingers dancing like a theater troop of Fred Astaires on my ankles. "Don't 'what' me! My dry cleaning!" "Can I 'what' you? Please?" Palms sculpting my ass into a round, firm overturned bowl. The contents of my closet mentally catalogued. I didn't get my dry cleaning last weekend, for exactly the same reason. Nothing. "Dammit, Mulder!" "Awww..." He signed his death warrant. "You love me anyway." Revenge. Revenge will be mine.   My gaze slips down over my least favorite black suit with the frayed cuffs. Smells of the last death scene it was worn to. Gives me a rather morbid air that may suit to intimidate suspects, I must admit. I take in his ensemble. He isn't doing much better, wearing a brownish suit with a dark blue shirt and one of his old, horribly patterned ties. He, however, doesn't give a shit. I repeat. Revenge. It will be mine.   X * X * X   *Crack!* Our eyes meet. My laughter dissolves as the floor gives way. He sits on the floor of the apartment below the huge hole. "You okay, Mulder?" Heartbeats have run off like rabbits in a meadow. I can't get them under control. Revenge is mine, but was it worth it? "Yeah, it's all right. My ass broke the fall. Guess who I found? Henry Weems, I presume?" X * X Now that I'm calm, Mulder's ass appears to not be broken--that would be a bad, bad thing. We need that large muscle--I can reflect. Revenge. His last clean suit, ruined. I can see the wrinkles puckering the fine cotton fabric of his beautiful shirt. His tie shrivels like his nuts under my lashing tongue. That slip of the mind brings up some interesting possibilities... "So, here's the plan, as I see it: we inform the Chicago field office about Weems, leaving it to them to secure his testimony, you change your clothes ..." Out of his clothes. He might get a chill. Hot shower back at the hotel. Soaping his back, hands down his long legs, my tongue tracing the crack of his ass... Fluffy towels, roughly rubbing over his limbs until all his body hair stands on end. Blow drying his hair, set on low, my fingers running around and around his scalp... He's reading my mind. His brows rise. I can't hold back a smile. Okay, so he wins this point. "...We fly back to D.C. by sunset and all is right with the world." Vampires have to be in by sunset. At least that was his story. The reason we had to leave work before nightfall. I told him he was full of shit. Kept working. Somewhere in the depths of Evidence, he found a black cape. I don't want to think of what crime was committed with it. Swooping down on me in my office, covering me in darkness. Hands, cold as death, under my blouse. Teeth on my neck. "Mulder, don't you dare mark me!" Answer: My hair swept aside. The back of my neck, bracketing my spine, attacked. I went limp. Lifted. Draped over the desk. Skirt pushed up. "Mulder. No. Not here." The hands stilled. A reply. "No. I guess not." No. Home. Past the dry cleaners. Past the laundromat. Race the setting sun. Pulling the covers over my vampire, closing the lid on his coffin. "Come on, Scully, you're going to dump this case just as it's getting interesting?" I can't help the raised eyebrow. Perhaps I've overestimated the appeal of my company. "*Interesting,* Mulder, was when we were looking for Wile E. Coyote. Come on, Mulder, this guy just got lucky. There's no X- File here." He starts chewing at this like a terrier with a bone. "Maybe his luck is the X-File." Crossroads. Of all the ways this scenario played out in my imagination, that I would be the one distracted by sex was very low on the list. He had seemed pliant enough in Pittsfield. "Mulder. Rather than spirits...can we at least start with Tony's friends? Please? Just...for me?" My fingertip traced up and down his tie--imagination, or had the end turned up like Dilbert's? My first attempt at coyness rewarded that time. *Stab--Stab at the elevator button* But now? My eyes flick up and down his tie. He twitches. Very slightly. Okay. Now I feel better. A decision. There's not going to be a free ride. Never has been with us, never will be. Back to the ground floor, one step at a time. On our own four legs. "Stairs."   X * End * X

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