Hard Luck Story
Part One
by Mish
mish_rose@yahoo.com

Classification: MSR, post-ep for 'Goldberg
Variation'
Rating: NC-17, for consensual sex between two
frustrated adults ... not for underage readers!
Disclaimer: If I had the kind of luck Henry
Weems seems to enjoy, they'd belong to me.  But
I don't, and they don't.

Summary:  Physiological, psychological, or the
result of a paranormal penny... even they don't
know for sure.

Note: In this universe, 'Rush' takes place after
GBV.  More notes at end.


Hard Luck Story
Part One



"Find a penny, pick it up, all day long you'll
have good luck."

Scully looks at Lincoln's profile with a wry
grin.  "Says who?"

"My mother," Mulder replies, leaning close to
make his point over the din of the baggage claim
area.  "Except if it's face down, then don't
touch it."

The shiny new penny winks up at her from just
beyond her right shoe.  "Don't tell me - bad
luck, right?"

"Bingo."  He cranes his neck to and fro in an
effort to see over the crowd, still speaking. 
"Pick it up, Scully.  Wouldn't hurt."  With a
wink, he moves closer to the conveyor belt.

This business with Henry Weems has really gotten
Mulder going.  Scully knows he enjoyed himself
in Chicago, even though he came away with a sore
arm and bruised ass.  It was one of those
innocuous cases where no one really got hurt
except the bad guys.  Those are few and far
between and to be honest, she's also come away
with a smile.  Most especially at Richie's
miraculous recovery.

However, she still thinks the whole 'good luck,
bad luck' theory of Mulder's is a load of crap. 
But she smiled graciously at his excitement
throughout the case and as it continued on the
airplane ride home.  It's so unusual to come
home with such a sense of satisfaction, no
matter what the cause.

Too bad they have to return to the basement
Monday morning.  She's rather liked their brief
encounter with cause and effect, even if she
still doesn't believe it had anything to do with
Weems' lucky streak.  At its most basic level,
the trip had been fun.  Blessed with unusually
warm January weather, a playful Mulder and a
happy ending, she couldn't have asked for more.

Stooping to pick up the penny, she allows a
smile to break free.  Maybe she'll buy a lottery
ticket on the way home.  God knows she could use
the money, after that trip to Africa on her own
dime.

"Scully!"

She glances up to see Mulder waving her over. 
The thump of baggage rolling over the belt tells
her that their luggage is being off-loaded. 
With any luck, she'll be home and in a soaking
bath within an hour. *If* her small bag doesn't
get lost in the sea of Samsonite, like it
usually does.

As she approaches, she notices Mulder gripping
her suitcase.  "First one off," he says, handing
it to her and adding with a dry murmur and a
grin, "Some people have all the luck."

Pocketing the penny, she takes it from him and
answers, "It's the smallest bag, Mulder.  Stands
to reason the baggage handlers would go for it
first."  Not that she really believes that, but
she can't resist needling him a bit.  It's her
duty in life to be negative to his positive; if
she doesn't do it, who will?  Besides, she knows
he enjoys it every bit as much as she does.

Turning back to the belt, he says, "Spoilsport."

But she sees the pleased twinkle in his eye.


**********


"Shit.  What now?"

Mulder's profanity makes her look away from
traffic for a moment at his apartment building
looming in the distance.  Fire trucks and police
vehicles are double-parked in front, and people
stream from the entrance, bags in hand.

"Doesn't look like there's been a fire," she
comments.  "I don't see any smoke or damage."

Nor does she see a close parking spot.  And she
was just going to drop him off; now it looks
like matters have insisted that she stay for a
while.  She sighs, wishing for once she wouldn't
have to circle his block like a buzzard over
roadkill.

"Great," he mutters.  "First, my luggage gets
lost.  Now I come home to this."

She slows the car as they approach and is
surprised to find an empty parking place just a
few cars down.  Amazing, she thinks.  She'd
resigned herself to double-parking; she can't
remember the last time she's been so fortunate. 
Of course, the residents of Mulder's building
are departing as if chased by the hounds of
hell, so the street is rapidly emptying of
vehicles.

Mulder is out of the car before she stops the
engine, running to the first uniform he sees. 
Following a few steps behind, she hears him
question the fireman, flipping his badge to
facilitate cooperation.

"What?"  His incredulous outburst reaches her
ears as she walks up the sidewalk to join the
two men.

"You heard me.  Building's being evacuated.  No
one goes in."

"But I *live* here!"

"What's the problem, officer?"  Scully stalls
Mulder's growing anger with her soft query.

The burly man looks her way, a slow smile
developing above his chiseled jaw.  Interesting,
she muses.  And *very* handsome, in the raw way
of the men who brave fire for a living.

Of course, he doesn't do a thing for her.  Not
when the memory of Mulder, soaked pants clinging
to his tight ass, is presently worming its way
back into her tired brain.  She pushes her
sudden, unwanted burst of lust for her partner
aside.  It seems to break free from lockdown at
the most inopportune times lately, especially
since the chaste kiss they shared at New Year's. 
But it's not hard to find a logical reason for
each lapse;  she blames this escape on fatigue
and concentrates on the fireman's answer.

"Gas leak.  We're having trouble locking it
down; major pipeline crack under the building's
foundation, we think.  You live here?"  Directed
at Scully, the question is soft but deliberate,
the glint of interest in his eye unmistakable.

"Those sirens cause premature hearing loss?"
Mulder bites out.  "I said *I* live here."

Scully notes the set of Mulder's face as he
glares at the fireman, his left cheek twitching
with suppressed anger.  Apparently, he's also
witnessed the obvious, and isn't pleased one
bit.

She can't deny that the sparks of testosterone
flying between the two men are pleasing to her
ego.  But she isn't interested in the fireman,
nor in Mulder's jealousy.  Well, maybe just a
tiny bit in Mulder's jealousy, if she's truthful
with herself.

Except for that passing interest though, she
isn't in the mood.  All she wants to do is get
home as quickly as possible.  Which is looking
more unlikely by the minute.

"How long before the residents are allowed back
in?"  She's tired and hungry, and desperately in
need of a long, hot soak.  At this point, she
doesn't care if Mel Gibson himself walks up and
offers to lick honey from her navel.

Well, maybe if he massages her feet first...
while sporting a tight... wet... stormy-gray-
like-his-eyes... suit....

"At the earliest, tomorrow afternoon.  Maybe
even Sunday morning.  Give a number where you
can be reached to your landlord."

The fireman's statement breaks through her
distraction, as does Mulder's, "Sunday?  What
the hell am I supposed to do until then?"

Scully sighs and puts a hand on Mulder's arm. 
"C'mon, Mulder, you can stay at my place.  Your
landlord knows you've stayed with me before. 
*And* you have a change of clothes there."  She
hopes her decision is accepted by her partner; 
it's time to go and leave these people to their
work.

Both men slowly turn their heads toward her. 
One, eyes wide with misunderstanding, his
chiseled face crestfallen  - the other, grinning
with satisfaction at the first one's erroneous
conclusion.

"Oooh... can we pop popcorn and paint our
toenails?"  Mulder's drawl should have been
irritating, but she finds herself playing along,
emboldened by the attention she's received from
an attractive man.  Something she's sorely
missed in her years working in the basement.

Leaning closer, she murmurs, "Maybe we can stay
up all night.  No school tomorrow, you know."

As she turns to walk back to her car, she hears
him lope to her side, his breath warm in her
ear.  "Can we play Post Office?"

"Don't push your luck, Mulder."


**********


"'Due to computer error, we have re-calculated
your overtime pay and have enclosed
reimbursement in the amount of...'"

Scully's words drop off at the same time he
drops her bag to the living room floor.

"What?"  Mulder's query is more alert, where
before he'd only been half-listening as she read
the letter.  He turns, dropping his suit coat to
the couch, noting her gaping mouth and wide
eyes.  His heart lurches in his chest as he
steps closer.  "What is it?"

"Two-thousand three hundred seventy-five
dollars."  Breathless surprise makes the hand
holding the check shake just a bit as she looks
up at him.  "The Bureau made a mistake in paying
me for overtime the past six months."

"Let me see that."  He's highly skeptical of
such a windfall, especially where the federal
government payroll system is concerned.  With a
quick scan of the letter, he sees that it's
true; they've neglected to calculate Scully's
overtime correctly after she'd had her annual
pay increase.

"I can't believe it," she says, holding the
check like she's sifting her fingers through a
pot of gold.  Which she is, he supposes.

He couldn't have wished for anything better for
her.  He knows the Bureau refused to pay for her
trip to the Ivory Coast.  He'd offered to give
her the money from his Dad's trust fund, but
she'd flatly refused.

Smiling, he attempts mock anger at her good
fortune by saying, "You lucky..." then breaks
off as he realizes what he's saying.

"Mulder?"

He stares into space for a moment while thinking
back.  Luck at the baggage claim.  Finding a
choice spot to park in front of his building. 
Hit on by - well, he really doesn't want to
think about that.

And now, a sudden, unexpected cash windfall.  He
backs away as his gaze rises to hers, intending
to flop onto her couch in amazement.

"Mulder!"

Instead, he ends up on his ass, his feet
entangled in her bag.  Letting his eyes close,
he lays his head back, emitting a low, "Ow."

"Mulder, you okay?" He perfume wafts over him
and he feels one hand gently touch his temple. 
"Mulder, answer me!"

The picture is clear in his aching head - King
of Diamonds, Scully's disbelieving, "Hell,
Mulder, *I* just beat him," the seams tearing on
Henry's jacket....

He'd thought Henry's luck had returned when he'd
walked in on the disaster area that was the
linen service.  Maggie Lupone unharmed and
shivering in Henry's arms, Cutrona dead and a
one-in-a-million donor match for Richie... but
now he's not so sure.

Cause and effect.  One person's good luck is
another's misfortune.  Passing from person to
person in a chain reaction; turning up like a
bad penny.  Or a *lucky* heads-up, in this case.

He opens his eyes to her worry and breathes,
"You drew an ace, Scully."


**********


Eyes clouded with confusion, she asks, "What?"
Seeing him struggle to sit up, she shifts her
knees closer to his side and lifts under his
shoulders.  "Careful, take it easy."

He's got that look in his eye; the one backlit
by the floodlight tripping on in his brain.  The
look that usually means he's leapt from concrete
fact to jello theory.  Scully is wary of those
looks, knowing that in most cases, she'll have
to rescue his ass before he sinks into black
cherry oblivion.

"You drew an ace."  He says it again, awe
shading his voice with silvery wonder as he
scans her face.

She slips her fingertips through his hair, the
pads clinical, yet urgent.  "Mulder, did you hit
your head?"

He laughs, sitting upright to capture her
roaming hand in his.  "Don't you get it?"

Impatience at his lack of cooperation makes her
reply brisk.  "Get what?"  She's worried about
his possible injuries, but he won't stop long
enough to let her examine him.  Typical, she
thinks.

"Your good luck."  He stands with a small grunt
and she steadies him, intending to make him sit. 
But he will have none of it, grasping her elbows
to make his point, shaking off her worry with a
smile.  "Don't you see?  The penny, the baggage,
the parking place, the check in your mailbox." 
His excitement is palpable in the dim lamplight. 
"You beat Henry with the playing cards at the
hospital. *You* drew an ace."

Of all the ridiculous ideas Mulder has come up
with, this has got to take the cake, she thinks. 
"Mulder, that's absurd."

"Is it?"

With impatience, she breaks free from his hold
and picks up her bag, walking to her bedroom. 
"Henry Weems seemed to enjoy an incredible
streak of luck," she throws over her shoulder,
"but that's all it is - luck.  And luck is non-
transferable, just like this check.  Which was
mailed yesterday, I might add."

"You saw what happened when you beat him at
cards, Scully.  The man was run over by a
truck."  The argument comes from her bedroom
door, as does the added, "Which also happened
*yesterday,* I might add."

Groaning, she realizes he's not about to let
this go.  Not yet, anyway.  And she was *so*
close to sinking her tired bones into her most
inviting bed.

Maybe if she ignores him, he'll leave her alone. 
Slipping off her shoes, she removes her gun from
her back waistband and places it on the night
stand along with the check, then reaches for her
bag.

But Mulder is insistent.  "Who's to say Henry's
bad luck isn't your good luck?"

Turning with a sigh, she sees him leaning with
crossed arms in the doorway.  Knowing he's
latched onto this idea like a dog to a bone, she
says, "Henry's bad luck?  Mulder, Henry's luck
aside - I'd say things turned out pretty well
for Richie *and* Henry.  Now you're saying Henry
had a turn of *bad* luck?"

Stepping forward, Mulder sits on her bed and
replies, "No.  I'm saying that it's quite
possible that Henry's good luck rubbed off on
you.  We know that whenever something good
happened to Henry, something bad happened to
someone in his sphere... why not, when something
bad happens to Henry, something good happens to
someone else?  Cause and effect can go both
ways, Scully."

It's her turn to cross her arms, disbelief
making her snort.  "So, if Henry's bad luck gave
me good luck, Mulder - why didn't the return of
his good fortune take mine away?"  She can't
believe she's asking this, but at this point,
she wants to end this as quickly as possible.

He runs a hand through his hair, his eyes almost
wild with thought as he looks away and chews on
his lower lip.  "I don't know," he says finally,
tilting his chin to capture her gaze once again. 
"But you have to admit, your lucky streak is
following Henry's pattern."

Her lips purse and an eyebrow goes up.  "How
so?"

"Because right now, if I didn't have bad luck,
I'd have none at all."


End Part One


Hard Luck Story
Part Two
by Mish
mish_rose@yahoo.com

Disclaimer, etc. in Part One


"Don't be ridiculous," she says, flashing him a
look of utter disbelief.  She starts going
through her suitcase, her sifting jerky and
hurried.  Her laundry is the first to appear,
the mesh bag sailing past his head as she
throws it in the corner.

He can tell she's had just about enough of his
rambling, but he's determined to make her see
that he's right.  Especially since it dawned on
him moments ago that his luck has gone down the
toilet.

"Think about it," he says, as he watches her
pull lingerie from the bag.  He ignores the
trickle of arousal that flutters in his stomach
at the sight of the flimsy white material.  "My
luggage gets lost.  My building is suddenly on
the verge of destruction.  You come home to a
late Christmas present and I fall on my ass...
*again.*" His eyes follow her to her armoire
and he notes with satisfaction that she is not
unmoved by his reasoning, opening and slamming
the drawers with uncharacteristic impatience. 
"Hell, Scully - Fireman Fred back there was
ready to screw your brains out on the
sidewalk!"

When she stills and turns to pin his eyes with
her own, he realizes his last statement wasn't
put *quite* the way he wanted it.

"You're saying the only way a man would show
interest in me is if my luck changed?" The
question is soft but icy.

Shit, shit, shit, he thinks.  Quickly, he
backtracks.  "No, of course not.  That's not
what I meant at all."  Exactly *what* he meant,
he doesn't know; he just knows it isn't what
she thinks it is.

"Are you sure, Mulder?"  Advancing, her eyes
narrow.  "If I'm enjoying a 'lucky streak,'
courtesy of Henry Weems, why wouldn't I
suddenly 'get lucky?'  The fireman was
certainly attractive enough - maybe I *should*
go back to your building and 'screw his brains
out on the sidewalk.'"

He cringes at her use of *his* crude language
and finds he can't form a reply.  But he
doesn't have to, because she's obviously on a
roll.

"Would that prove your theory?"  She grabs her
makeup bag and storms out of the bedroom, her
voice rising as the next lash of her tongue
comes from the bathroom.  "Of course, I'd have
to take you along so we could see if you'd get
attacked by rabid wolves while Fred and I got
naked."

Jesus, he thinks, I've done it this time.  He
watches her stalk back into the bedroom.  With
flashing eyes, she pulls her jacket off and
flings it toward the chair.  It lands as though
it is carefully folded on the seat, the penny
rolling out of its pocket to land on the floor.

Their eyes follow its slow path as it lands at
Mulder's feet, face up.

"Pick it up, Mulder," she says softly, dead
anger steeling her voice.  Her pointed look
shifts from him to land on the neat fold of the
jacket.   "According to your *theory,* you're
due for a bit of bad luck, since everything
seems to be going my way."  Flinty eyes return
to his face as she adds, "Or maybe you'd think
it was your lucky day if you had a front row
seat to 'Scully Fucks A Fireman.'"

"Enough!"  Mulder stands, fury at her derisive
comments against herself and him making him
tremble, his hands fisted at his sides. 
"Jesus, Scully - that fireman would have wanted
you regardless of my theory and you know it."

He sees the fight go out of her as her
shoulders wilt under his stare.  "No, I don't
know it, Mulder," she answers with regret. 
"All I know is - luck has nothing to do with
anything that's happened tonight.  If I'd been
truly lucky, it wouldn't have been..."


**********


Breaking off, she colors as she realizes what
she almost confessed.  She walks past Mulder
and picks up the now empty suitcase, intending
to stash it away in the closet.  She hears him
follow, his breath drawn in a sudden hiss of
frustration at her abrupt abandonment of the
conversation.

"It wouldn't have been what?"  His question is
not unexpected, as is the sudden leap of her
heart in her chest at his closeness.

Moving away, she turns her back on him and
moves to the closet door, her fingers wrapping
around the knob.  "There are pillows and
blankets in the hall closet, Mulder.  Sorry I
don't have another bed, but the couch is
comfortable enough.  Good night."

She feels it in her back first.  Warmth,
seeping through her thin blouse as Mulder steps
up behind her.  His left hand falls gently on
the closet door, a barrier to her retreat.

"Wouldn't have been what, Scully?"

The husky plea floats across the back of her
neck, stirring the fine hairs exposed by the
dropping of her head.  From the corner of her
eye, she spies the muscle in his forearm twitch
and she longs to touch it.

Why now?  Things are relatively calm in their
corner of the world, despite the argument of
moments ago.  Mulder is healthy again and she's
happy with the renewed camaraderie they enjoy.

She always thought if this moment would ever
come, it would be because of reaction to
trauma, or near-death experience on both their
parts.  Even intoxication - either forcibly by
drugs or willingly by alcohol - has never been
ruled out in her mind as a probable cause.

But it looks as though it just may happen when
she least expects it... but when she wants it
most.  And she does want it; there's been no
doubt in her mind lately that it's something
she wants very much.

Now all she has to do is turn around and make
it happen.  Luck or fate?  Doesn't matter to
her; she embraces the end result no matter the
motivation.

Slowly, she pivots in place, her stocking feet
rustling in the quiet of Mulder's cocoon.  She
looks up to find his eyes smoldering, the
narrowed hazel orbs devouring her face and
desperately searching for an answer.

His cheeks are flushed and his mouth is parted,
waiting.  Simply waiting for the affirmation he
knows is coming from her; she knows once it's
said, there's no going back.  Those lips will
take the words from her mouth and seal their
fate once and for all.

"If I'd been truly lucky, Mulder," she murmurs,
seeing his gaze drop to follow the slow ebb and
flow of her lips, "it wouldn't have been the
fireman offering to 'light my fire,' so to
speak... it would have been you."


**********


He can't breathe, he's so astounded by her
admission.  But he knew it was coming; the air
in her bedroom had become humid with unspoken
desire from the moment their conversation had
become heated.  He just hadn't really believed
that this would be the day.  Hell, he *still*
wants to pinch himself.

It's happening so fast, this leap from
friendship to intimacy.  Not that it frightens
him; he made his mind up long ago that Scully
was the one woman for him.  But he knows such
an immediate step goes against her methodical
way of dealing with life and love.  Just as he
knows if he backs away now, it may be years
before they reach this crossroads again.

Bringing his right arm up to trap her words
between them, fearful they will escape and
never be spoken again, he says, his voice low
with a last gasp at restraint, "It should be
me, Scully.  Fate, luck, whatever... it always
*will* be me.  Just as it's always been you."

He implores with his words, with his eyes, with
his heart.  Take the last step, Scully.  Give
us both what we want.

A second away from just stealing in and taking
what she's so freely offering, he's surprised
when she beats him to it, raising up on her
toes to touch her mouth to his.

His groan is lost in her lips, slipping over
his tongue to tangle with the one he feels
tremble through her.  The kiss is heated but
not overwrought; a simple, tentative joining. 
He likes it, but needs more, moving closer as
his mouth opens to deepen the connection.  A
hidden smile blooms on his soul as she responds
in kind, her hands settling on his arms....

An explosion of pain causes him to softly swear
into her lips.  "Damn."  Squeezing his eyes
shut, he bears it, not wanting to move away. 
He doesn't want her to fly from his arms,
making his request as calm as he can.  "Scully,
can you move your hand please?"

"What - oh, Mulder!  I'm so sorry!"

Scully's grip on his arm lessens immediately
and he sighs with relief, opening his eyes to
smile at her.  Damned bullet graze - ricochet
also courtesy of Henry, he realizes.  But he
shakes it off, not wanting to interrupt this
moment with even one thought of the little man.

The view before him is spectacular; her cheeks
are pink and her lips ripe, tempting him to
lower his head and dive right in.

"Mulder, no."  Pushing against his chest, she
stops his advance.

Confusion makes him pause; a grimace of dismay
accompanies his whispered, "What?"


**********


She forces herself to calm and she ducks under
his arm to put a breadth of sanity between
them.  She can't believe she's about to say it,
but maybe there's some truth to his theory
after all.

She can't deny that the kiss was one of the
most pleasurable moments of her life and she
wants nothing more than to continue with him to
the obvious conclusion of their dance.  But his
pain is something she's not willing to chance,
even if she still doesn't quite believe.

"Maybe we should think about this."  It's not
as difficult to say as she'd thought it would
be.  Of course, the statement is vague enough
to cover all the bases.  Belief doesn't have to
be immediate, in her mind.

She turns to find he's turned as well.  They
face each other across the room; actually,
across the expanse of her bed.  She realizes
just how far she's moved away and groans
inwardly; she doesn't mean to be so distant,
but worry has her moving without thought.

"What the hell are you talking about?"  Mulder
rubs his right hand over his left sleeve,
soothing the ache her fingers left behind. 
Absently, as he hasn't made the connection yet. 
But she has, and he must be made to see as
well.

"My good luck, your bad luck." She stands with
clasped hands, wringing them together as she
nods at his arm.

He looks in the direction of her pointed gaze
and consternation gives way to realization,
then disbelief.  "Don't tell me you believe my
theory now?  Come on, Scully..."

"I'm not saying I believe in it, Mulder."

He brings a knee up, crawling onto the bed. 
"Good, because we have some unfinished
business."

She backs away, her hands coming up to stall
him.  "I'm saying we just need to think this
through."

His look is a mixture of lust and incredulity. 
"You're kidding," he breathes, sitting back on
his heels.  His mouth opens and closes as if to
tack on an argument, but he says nothing else,
his eyes shifting and searching like he's
trying to pull the right words from the bedroom
air.

If circumstances weren't what they are, she
would allow herself a smile at the way she's
struck him mute.  As it is, she still wants to
laugh, but with derision at what the fates have
taken away.

Unable to resist, she mimics his pose, sitting
at the end of her bed.  Don't move, she
admonishes him with her eyes, when he starts to
close in again.  "I just don't want us to end
up in the hospital again, that's all.  Maybe we
should take it easy."

Is that really all? she asks herself.  Why
can't you admit that sometimes, you're very
tempted to dismiss your logic and just believe?

"Scully... we won't end up in the hospital, I
promise.  I feel fine."

"You're just saying that because you want to
make love to me."  She's shocked at their
suddenly frank conversation, as well as the
intent she feels exuding from Mulder.  But why
should his pursuit of this be any different
from his pursuit of anything else?  It's just
as she feared - no, it's what she *wanted* -
when she opened herself to him moments ago.

With a purse of his lips, he answers, "No, I
just want to neck a while before your parents
get home.... Of *course* I want to make love to
you, Scully.  What's wrong with that?"  He
gives her a smile of pure, boyish charm.  In
the next instant, he sobers just a bit.  "I
know this is moving awfully fast, but -"

"It's not," she says truthfully, noting the way
his shoulders droop with relief.  He really
thought she was using his theory as an excuse
to bug out?  "We're two adults, Mulder.  We
know what we want."

"Then what's the problem?"

She tries again, sighing.  "Mulder, if what you
say is true - and I'm not saying it is - then
any good luck of mine spells disaster for you. 
Are you willing to take that chance?"

His answer is immediate, his smile melting into
a burning stare that threatens to consume her. 
"Yes."

Dropping her chin against the magnetism of his
gaze, she picks at her coverlet.  "You say that
now, but what if something happens?  What if
every time I feel pleasure, you feel pain? 
What if -"

She's brought up short by his pounce, as he
grabs her arms to pull her to him, chest to
chest in the middle of the bed.  "Oh, I'm in
pain all right."  His hand settles in the small
of her back, pressing her hips firmly to his. 
The evidence of his arousal takes her breath
away as he growls, "This pain or that pain...
makes no difference, Scully.  At this point, I
really don't care."

Against her will, she feels passion snake up
from the heat where they're closest to one
another.  Her hands trail up his chest and her
eyes slip shut as his mouth begins to trace her
jaw and neck.  "Ma-maybe we can test... it
might be okay - yessss - to give it a try."


**********


Dimly, somewhere in the recesses of his mind,
he realizes that what she's just vaguely
admitted to - her willingness to believe his
theory - should be making him whoop for joy. 
It's something he's always wanted; something he
feels she has been ready to attempt since her
halting confusion in his hallway not long ago.

She told him then she didn't know what to
believe.  He was satisfied; outright refusal
and vacillation are miles apart on the Fox
Mulder 'I Want to Believe' Scale.

That she's saying now that the possibility
exists for her acceptance?  He should be happy
- hell, he *is* happy.  But somehow, nott for
that reason.  Right now, his mind and body are
doing mythical somersaults as he holds her to
him.  Happiness comes in many forms and this
form is the one he wants most.  Sure, he wants
her acceptance.  But he *needs* her love.

He smiles at the small moans coming from her
throat, his lips following the smooth expanse
of skin he's uncovering a button at a time. 
She whispers encouragement into his hair as his
hands finally slip the last one free.  With a
brush of his tongue against her skin, he moves
his hands under her hips to splay her legs to
either side of his.

When she falls back to the bed, hair flying and
chest heaving, she lets a surprised, "Oh!" come
from her kiss-bruised lips.  He thinks it's the
most beautiful sight he's ever seen, her
astonishment at his adept moves.  At this
moment, he doesn't care if he never sees her
react this way to any lights in the sky, or
sewer mutants, or lucky, one-eyed building
superintendents.

This reaction tops them all, and he grins,
stretching out above her in a most predatory
way.  "You believe this, Scully?"  One hand
settles by her head as the other makes quick
work of the front clasp of her bra.

Meanwhile, her hands settle at his waist,
slowly pulling his shirt from his pants. 
"Yes," she answers, her intense gaze never
moving from his.

He moves to the button of her trousers, then
the zipper, its slide making her arch beneath
his touch.  "This too?" he asks, arching to
capture a pebbled nipple with his mouth as his
hand slips under the silk of her panties.

He feels her nails dig into the valley of his
spine when his finger slips into her tight, wet
warmth.  "Yeah," she practically purrs, her
thighs not needing the insistent outward press
of his knees as she yields to his silent
command to open to him.

Already he knows just how well they will fit
together, as he nudges another finger into her. 
His tongue is busy stroking first one breast,
then the other, as his thumb joins the party
below, smoothing over her clit with several
well-placed strokes, each making her breath
hitch.

He wants nothing more than to bury himself
within her, gentleness be damned.  But with a
pang of remorse, he remembers her hurt
expression at his inadvertent slamming of her
lovelife moments ago and now decides the best
apology is giving her a slow, mind-shattering
release.  He can wait; they're not going
anywhere for the rest of the weekend, if he has
anything to say about it.

Not that he'll wait that long, certainly, he
thinks with a chuckle into her damp skin.  But
he's a chivalrous guy - ladies first.

"Mulder... your fingers... up just a bit."

Her breathless statement makes him pause and
raise his head.  Scully is flushed and a fine
layer of gooseflesh adorns her chest and neck;
she tosses her head on the coverlet, her hands
clenching rhythmically as they move over his
back.  No way.  He's barely touched her.

"Up, Mulder," she insists with a shaky sigh, as
if she feels his scrutiny though her eyes are
now tightly shut.

So he complies, curling his fingers within her,
her clit throbbing in its rough embrace.

Scully shatters with a cry, her hips lifting
from the bed to trap his hand between their
bodies.  Mulder moans at the beauty of it, his
mouth moving up to take the sex-soaked sound of
his name from her lips.  She opens her mouth
under his, her tongue whipping inside to parry
with his own.

As much as he's willing to believe just about
anything, he finds what just happened bordering
on incredible.  Is she always so responsive to
a mere touch?  If so, he's one helluva lucky
man, screw his theory.

Scully finally comes up for air, letting her
head fall back to the bed, almost giddy
chuckles trickling from her throat.  When
Mulder takes his fingers from her, she hisses,
the muscles clenching with a final gasp of
pleasure.  Sensitive, laughing, lovely Scully.

Yes, he considers himself a lucky man.

"You okay?" he murmurs, trailing his hand up
her torso, spreading the moisture *he* created
over that perfect skin.  Eventually, he'll get
to follow that path with his tongue, he thinks
with a smile.  He loves the way her belly
ripples in response to his touch, her nerve
endings squirming under the softness like
trapped jumping beans.

And he did this to her. *Does* this to her
still, from the almost beaming smile she gives
him in return.

"God, Mulder... I've never had that happen to
me.  Never so fast and hard in my life."

Settling his hips back over hers, he props
himself on his elbows and leans in.  "That
isn't luck, Scully.  I think we can safely call
that 'lust.'"

"Or love?" she replies, leaning up to brush his
chin with her mouth, her hand snaking between
their bodies to his belt.

"Definitely love."

Soft blue eyes take in his sober words as she
brings her other hand to his cheek.  Suddenly,
she gets very still, her eyes flashing up to
meet his. "Mulder?"

He knows worry when he sees it and rushes to
allay her fears.  "No chest pains, Scully.  No
allergic reaction, or sprained back - not even
the hiccups.  It's okay."

"Are you sure?"

As he presses his erection to her palm, he
groans, "Well, there is *one* little
problem...."

Scully grins and reaches for the tab of his
zipper.  "I think I can take care of that,
Lucky Boy."


End Part Two


Hard Luck Story
Part Three
by Mish
mish_rose@yahoo.com

Disclaimer, etc. in Part One


"I was fine 'til you called me 'Lucky Boy,'"
Mulder says through clenched teeth.  "Fuck Rob
Roberts."

Scully lies beside him, eyes shut against the
impending tirade.  This most recent development
is definitely not good, and she curses herself
for bringing up the subject of 'luck' again. 
And Mulder, in his fuming frustration, is bent
on blaming everyone from a fast-food mutant to
Walter Skinner.  She's just waiting for her name
to pop up in the stream of curses.

"And fuck Henry Weems and double fuck Skinner,
for sending us on this Goddamned case, and -"

"Mulder."  Her head falls to her right and she
opens her eyes.  What a sight, she thinks with
regret.  Her so very handsome partner, clothes
askew in every direction, sweat making the
sparse hair on his belly dark and inviting.  But
she can't touch him; not for a while, anyway. 
They'd tried touching their way past this for
ten minutes or more without success.  Touching
and kissing and encouraging and.... damn.  She
bemoans the injustice of it all with an inward
sigh as she waits for him to acknowledge her.

"*What?*" He brings a shaky hand up to his face
to cover his eyes.  She knows he doesn't want to
look at her; he's trying to cover his obvious
embarrassment.  With his hand *and* his angry
words.

Scully gently rolls to face him, the coverlet
rustling as she moves.  Mulder tenses and she
stops inches away from his form, not wanting to
upset him any more than he is already.  Sighing,
she begins, "This could be a medical problem -"

"Don't you *dare* say it happens to every man at
one time or another!"

She flinches at his harsh tone, but she remains
calm.  "That wasn't what I was going to say."

He visibly relaxes and removes his hand from his
face, though he doesn't look at her.  From his
glassy stare at the ceiling and broad sigh, she
can tell he regrets yelling at her.  Venturing a
touch to his arm, she conveys her compassion and
he apologizes with a whispering, "I'm sorry." 
Finally, he turns his head to look at her, guilt
clouding his eyes.

Knowing he's apologizing for more than his
anger, she hastens to give him an explanation. 
"Mulder, you recently underwent treatment with
two very powerful anti-psychotic drugs."  If she
could get her hands on Kritschgau for giving him
such massive doses of phenytoin, she would
gleefully strangle him.  "Either of which can
cause erectile dysfunction.  Especially since we
had to wean you off the phenytoin gradually." 
She shudders inwardly at the remembrance of his
continuing seizures once they got him home from
the hospital.  His doctors agreed with her that
the sudden withdrawal of phenytoin was
responsible.

"You think this is physiological?" His question
takes her by surprise with its sharpness.  Why
is he so willing to believe in sheer luck when
the facts are there?  "My inability to -" He
breaks off, coloring slightly.

"Maintain an erection?" she finishes for him,
all professionalism.  She knows how hard this is
for him to discuss with her.  "It's the only
reasonable explanation, Mulder."  Not really,
but she's loathe to bring up the possibility of
psychological causes at this point; he has
enough to worry about.  Check out the physical
first - it's how she's approached every day of
her life for the past seven years.

"No it isn't," he grinds out.  "Why can't you
see that?"

Feeling a slip in her composure, she zings back,
"And why can't *you* see that sometimes the
human body can't function normally?  For God's
sake, Mulder - you had brain surgery not long
ago!  The drugs, the stress, the physical
strain... there's bound to be some abnormal
repercussions."  She sees him close his eyes and
swallow, tensing at her words.  With a sigh at
the way she had to be so harsh, she leans in to
brush his cheek with a kiss.  But he pulls away
abruptly and she follows his retreat with her
eyes.  "Mulder?"

With jerky movements, he pulls his boxers up and
grabs his pants from the floor.  "Get dressed,
Scully," he says, not looking at her while he
thrusts first one leg, then the other, into the
wrinkled slacks.  When she sits in stunned
silence, he raises his head.  Looking longingly
at her near nakedness, he says,  "Please."

She knows what he's thinking - that their
disastrous first attempt at lovemaking is a
result of her sudden good fortune... and his
downward spiral into bad luck hell.  He refuses
to consider any other possibility.  "It's
natural to be nervous, Mulder.  We can try
again."

"Nervous, my ass," he growls, kneeling on the
floor.  "It's all Henry's fault."

Scully leans over the bed, trying to see what
he's doing.  With a startled retreat, she sits
up when he does, his head narrowly missing her
chin, shoe in hand.  Though she toyed with the
idea of Henry's luck rubbing off on her, it's
just too weird to contemplate.  "Don't be
ridiculous."

Mulder scrambles around, looking for his other
shoe, moving on hands and knees around the bed. 
"It makes sense, don't you see that?  I had - I
was *ready,* Scully.  You'd just come with a
touch of my fingers and I wave bye-bye to Big
Jim."

"Big Jim?"  She follows his crawl by shifting on
the bed, her question posed without a trace of
humor.

"Big Jim.  Woody.  Bobby Boner."  His muffled
words come from under the tent of the coverlet; 
he's frantically searching for his other shoe.

At his stubborn use of the euphemisms, she
finally lets a grin emerge.  "Bobby... Boner?"

"Oh, go ahead, Scully.  Make fun of me."  With a
huff, he stands up, both shoes finally in his
hands.  "But I'm right.  And I'm gonna prove it
to you.  Get dressed."

With a sigh, she slips off the bed, careful not
to get too close to him.  In seconds, her pants
are fastened and her bra and blouse back in
place.  As she slips on her pumps, she turns to
see him slip the last button on his shirt into
place, though he doesn't take the time to stuff
it into his trousers.  "Now what?"

He passes her in a wide arc, almost hugging the
wall.  "Pick up that damn penny and follow me,"
he throws over his shoulder.


**********


He can't believe he finally had Scully writhing
in his arms and couldn't do it.  For years, he's
been waiting for the opportunity, wanting it so
badly he can taste it.  And what happens?

Henry Weems.  Indirect interference via the ace
of hearts and a coin not worth the metal it's
made of.  At first, he thought the ace was
solely responsible, but now he's not so sure. 
The ace he can do nothing about, but he can damn
well make sure Scully sends that penny to the
one man it won't make any difference to.  What's
one more bit of luck to the world's luckiest
man?

Henry Weems, Henry Weems.  The name echoes in
his brain; its similarity to Harry Reems grates
on his frustration, compounding it to almost
unbearable proportions.  Henry Weems is indeed
the world's luckiest man and Mulder can't help
but wonder if his luck extends, so to speak, to
his sexual prowess.  Henry Weems, Harry Reems.

Could anyone have planned it better?  It's like
there's a sinister little troll sitting at a
typewriter, directing the events of the last few
days.  Throwing cliches around, laughing with
glee at the pun-riddled mess of Mulder's
lovelife.

Harry Reems.  A short, ugly porn star with an
ever-ready schlong.  Certainly *never* afflicted
with erectile dysfunction.  Reknowned for his
role in 'Deep Throat,' the most classic X-rated
movie ever made.

<Harry Reems, Henry Weems.> The little troll is
chuckling even now, the keys hammering Mulder's
fate onto paper. <Ha!  Deep Throat!  I'll get
that *cocky* - Ha! - Mulder for... >

"Mulder, if you lean any further against the
door, you'll be *outside* the car."  Scully's
wry comment snaps him from making the next
leap... the one that ends with the troll
morphing into Philip Padgett.

"Until we do this, I'm staying as far away from
you as possible," he grumbles.  "If I so much as
touch you, the twins'll probably fall off."

"The twins?"

Smirking, he replies, "Big Jim's kids."

With a roll of her eyes, she takes a left at the
light and asks, "Mulder, why is it so hard for
men to use the correct terms for genitalia?"

He flashes a look at her and instantly regrets
it.  Though she's concentrating on her driving,
totally unaware of the fetching sight she makes
by the light of the street lamps, he can't help
but feel the pull of her in his body and mind.

She didn't even bother to run a comb through her
hair.  It's wild from the tug of his fingers,
and her face and neck still have a pink glow
from her orgasm.  Hell, he can even smell the
scent of her - the scent of *them* - as it
lingers on her blouse.  Which is unevenly
buttoned, he notices with satisfaction.  Maybe
her luck is running out.

"Scully, do me a favor."

"What?"

"Don't say 'hard' to me for a while, okay? 
Especially in combination with 'genitalia.'"

She glances his way, purring, "Sorry."

From the corner of his eye, he spots the
familiar blue and white bird logo and says,
"This is it - turn!"

He holds on for dear life as she careens into
the parking lot, then immediately opens his door
as she screeches to a halt.  "Come on."

But she takes her time, mumbling, "I still don't
see why we had to come all the way here.  We
must have passed a half-dozen boxes along the
way."

"Because I want to make sure this goes out
tonight.  And no way in hell am I getting on an
airplane myself."

"It's one in the morning, Mulder.  It's not
going anywhere." She slams the car door shut and
gives him an impatient glare.

Stopping at the front of the car, he returns the
glare.  "This is a processing center, Scully. 
Twenty-four/seven sorting and trucking. 
Straight to the airplane from here.  Once it
leaves your hand and gets put on a truck, it's
as good as gone."  He turns and walks toward the
open gates around the side of the massive
building, noting with a smile the bustle of the
trucks and forklifts.  "And our luck will
change."

"You mean, we get to play 'Post Office' *in* the
Post Office?"  

Her playful words make him smile and he turns to
allow her time to catch up, only to watch her
stumble on the pavement.  He rushes to her side
just in time to stop her from seriously injuring
herself.  "You okay?"  His hands settle at her
waist as hers grip his.

"Yeah, just a bit tired."  She gives him a
small, weary smile and he suddenly feels like a
selfish fool.  So what if he doesn't get any
tonight?

"Scully, we can do this tomorrow."

"No, we can't," she answers softly, her hand
coming up to cup his cheek.  "This is important
to you.  Which makes it important to me."

He's overwhelmed by her willingness to set aside
her logic to appease him.  A warmth moves from
his belly to his chest and he finds himself
close to saying something he's only ever said to
her under the influence of drugs.

Drugs. *Again* with the drugs.

It's not drugs, and he'll prove it.  Besides,
he's liable to lose his tongue if he makes her
the tiniest bit happy right now.

She rubs her thumb over his lips and he sees a
sheen of tears in her eyes.  "I know."

He stands still as she sidesteps him, knowing
she'd read his thoughts.  But a twinge of
disappointment makes him shake his head.  If
*he'd* picked up that penny to begin with, she'd
have said it hours ago.  Then God only knows
what kind of bad luck she would have had; he
shakes off the unfulfilled wish.  No way would
he have wanted this torment for her.

In moments they're flashing their badges and
avoiding the security guard's skeptical looks at
their messy appearance.  Mulder frets for a
second, sure the man won't let them in, but then
remembers the good luck charm in Scully's
pocket.

"Show him the envelope, Scully."

Scully immediately catches on at his nod, and
produces the missive.  "This needs to get to
this man in Chicago as soon as possible.  It's a
matter of grave importance." Her eyes flash to
Mulder; he sees the mirth the other man misses. 
Her voice is all steely command, a fact the
guard reacts to immediately as he stands a bit
straighter.

"Chicago?"

Mulder has to stifle his smile, shuffling his
feet with impatience.  "Yeah," he prods the
burly man.  "You ever heard of Jimmy Cutrona?"

At the name-dropping of the now-deceased crime
boss, the guard is enthralled.  "Mafia guy? 
Sure.  You two nab him?"

"Yeah, but we're still hot on the trail of his
connection.  The source of all our problems, so
to speak.  And if this letter doesn't get to
this address by tomorrow morning, our luck will
have run out."

"Well, just give it here," the guard says, all
smiles.  "I'll make sure it gets put into an
overnight envelope and gets on the plane."

"We'd rather do it ourselves," Scully replies.  
"Just point the way."

They're soon standing next to a small truck the
manager of the facility has appropriated
especially for the trip to the airport.  Mulder
watches expectantly as Scully drops the
overnight envelope into the delivery man's sack. 
Relief flows through him at the disappearance of
the name 'Henry Weems.'

He smiles at the driver.  "Thanks.  Careful with
that - it needs to be put directly into his
hands, no one else's."

With a nod, the driver gets into the truck and
speeds away.

Mulder places his hand firmly on Scully's elbow.
"Let's go."

She waves at the guard shack as they exit the
gate.  "Any luck, Mulder?" she asks, smiling at
the man who was so helpful.

Mulder has to laugh at her whispered question. 
Seems she's just as impatient as he is for
things to... gel.  "Not yet.  Maybe Henry has to
actually open the envelope and touch the penny. 
That's why I had you mark it 'Urgent - Open
Immediately.'  It's also why I had you write my
cell phone number on it.  I want to know when he
receives it."

"You're sure this will work, aren't you?"  She
separates from him as they go to opposite sides
of the car, pausing to throw the question to him
over the roof.

He pauses as well, giving her a slow grin. 
"It'll work, Scully.  Trust me."

She sighs, arching an eyebrow.  "Can I get some
sleep before we test it again?"

At that, he goes around to her side and takes
the keys from her hand.  "Sure," he murmurs,
lowering his head to give her cheek a kiss. 
Before he can touch skin, she arches a brow,
making him pause.  Laughing, he steps aside to
let her by.  No use tempting the fates in this
parking lot.  "Starting with the car ride home. 
Get in."

"Is it safe for you to drive?" 

The dry question is so *her* and he can't help
but quip, "Scully, I feel my luck changing with
every second that passes."


**********


In the dim, hollow confines of her bedroom, she
finds sleep elusive, even though she's so tired
she can't see straight.  But every rustle from
the living room couch is magnified a hundred
times.  "Mulder?  Are you asleep?"

"No."  His answer is more like a sigh, floating
through her open door with equal fatigue.

She's silent for a few seconds.  No pressure, no
pleading, no manipulating... but how to say it?

"I'm so tired, Scully."  This comes from her
doorway.

She opens her eyes to Mulder's shadowy form,
slightly swaying in the shadows of the hall. 
He's shed his top clothes, and his white
undershirt is the only color she can make out.

Without a word, she edges nearer to her side of
bed and lifts the covers, beckoning.  His
similar reply is to pad across the floor on bare
feet and slowly settle in beside her.  Lying
flat on her back, she feels a puff of air cool
her face as the coverlet falls.  Her eyes drift
shut once more.

It's not long, though, before she feels the
mattress shift.  She knows he's studying her,
feels his gaze trace her profile.  The minutes
tick away and she schools her breathing to match
his slow inhale and exhale.  Drifting off
slowly, she almost misses the soft words.

"What if it isn't luck?"

Under the cover of darkness, it's easy to reveal
secrets and fears, much as young girls confess
to each other their hidden crushes.  She's done
it herself, whispering to Missy the longings of
an innocent sixth grade heart.  Melissa would
smile and reassure her that the world wouldn't
come to an end if Jeremy Kincaid couldn't see
what was right in front of his nose.

With Melissa's calm voice echoing in her mind,
she answers, "Then we'll deal with it."  She
turns to face him, keeping a safe distance, a
fear of her own pushing at her throat.  "I'd
actually prefer it, to be honest."

"You would?"  The whites of his eyes shine in
the dim street light filtering through her
window.

"It's something I can handle."  She focuses on
the white expanse of his chest and whispers, 
"It's within the realm of possibility."  Her
eyes close against the sure questioning of her
confession.

But he doesn't question, doesn't probe, doesn't
try to shake the foundation of her control.  He
just lies there and breathes, and eventually,
she finds comfort, her brain slowing down to a
twilight purr.  As her face relaxes, she feels
Mulder's hand glides beneath the covers.  Their
palms touch, his warm clasp soothing the icy
loneliness of her fingers.

"No matter how this ends, Scully, there's one
thing I am sure of," he whispers.  "We've always
been within the realm of possibility."

With a tilt of her lips, she agrees.


End Part Three


Hard Luck Story
Part Four
by Mish
mish_rose@yahoo.com

Disclaimer, etc. in Part One


He looks at his hands and they stare back at him
with a putrid shade of gray, the lovelines black
and interrupted by scars. Curiosity blooms
within him... he knows they are his hands, yet
somehow they aren't.  He turns them over to find
blackened nails, a cigarette now clutched
between the first two fingers of his right hand.

What is this?  He throws it away with disdain,
only to find another in the fingers of his left
hand.  Flinging that one away as well, he begins
to smell smoke all around him, filling his
nostrils with acrid, evil venom.  Waving in the
air, the darker gray sleeves of his jacket creep
up his arms, and he freezes when he sees it.

Jagged, half-healed scars surround both his
wrists, crusts of black thread holding his hands
to his arms.  The sounds of human fury and
condemnation reach his ears; he turns to face
the black and white crowd rushing down the hill,
fire spewing from their mouths and eyes.  They
want to kill him, he knows this.

He should face them down, but he's a coward.  So
he turns to run and is brought up short by the
lake that wasn't there seconds ago.  And then...
she appears.

Floating up from the water, the white lace dress
dry, her skin paler than the moon that shimmers
on the ripples she creates.  She can heal him,
he believes.  He takes the first step into the
cool water, then the second, coming ever closer
to her radiant smile.

But as he gets near, her smile fades.  A scream
tears from her throat... "Monster!" ... as she
brings her hands to cover her horrified eyes.

This can't be.  He's no monster.  He's human,
like everyone behind him.  Knowing he can never
be the equal of the vision before him, he only
wants to touch her, to ask her for love and
acceptance.

He stumbles in the face of her fright, the rasp
of his, "Please!" meant to soothe her.  But his
uneven legs falter and he drops to his knees in
the water, his arms outstretched with entreaty.

And he cries when she drifts away, leaving the
water still as she disappears.  Don't leave me,
he wants to yell at her.  I'm not a monster!

His head drops and, though tears blur his eyes,
he sees the truth reflected in the glassy
surface.  Written in a patchwork of scars around
his head and neck, speaking to him of the
haphazard way he was made.  Of the horror he
will always be... not human.  Created not by
God, but by man.  Every scar marking a
connection of muscle and bone.

He knows now why she left him here, why the
cacophony behind him wants him dead.  He is not
himself anymore.  Fox Mulder does not live; he
simply exists as the product of years of
tampering and lies, amputations and attachments.

He falls into the water, willing himself to
drown....

Mulder awakens gasping for breath, the covers
suffocating him.  With a heave, they're shoved
to his waist.  He inspects his arms while his
breathing slows and full awareness comes to him. 
A quick glance to his left shows him only the
crinkled pillow where Scully used to be; he
turns and buries his face into the cool cotton,
thankful she rose before he did.  He could use a
few moments of solitude, especially with the
familiar scent that clings to the pillow
stirring his blood.

The bright sunlight in Scully's bedroom calms
him and he sighs at his dream, trailing a hand
down to his lower belly in a subconscious
gesture honed by years of morning practice.  His
eyes close in relief; nothing wrong on that end.

But will it last?  Nightmares aside, he feels a
familiar apprehension return as he ponders the
day ahead.  Clouds of worry gather behind his
closed lids and he jumps when he hears a soft
voice in his ear.

"Mulder, you awake?"

Like a punctured balloon, he feels himself
soften, his slim hopes deflating as well. 
"Shit," he mutters, kicking free of the covers
to escape to the bathroom, sidestepping the
allure of Scully's husky voice and subtle
perfume.

Scully doesn't follow him and for that he's
grateful.  The sigh that trails after him tells
him that she, too, realizes that their ordeal
isn't quite over.

He dawdles in the shower, willing himself to
calm down, unwilling to face her just yet. 
Though he'd slept beside her in the bed, his
body never strayed into her space, not even in
sleep.  The light handhold was all he allowed
himself, all he needed at the time.  Exhaustion
took hold of them both and admittedly he feels
refreshed after the heavy slumber, even with the
nightmare ... though he wishes his waking
moments could have been better.

"Mulder?"

Her soft voice startles him into pausing, one
foot still in the shower stall, towel clutched 
protectively to his chest.  "Yeah?"

He hears a sigh and the scrape of her nails
against the door.  Don't come in here, he
silently pleads.  I'm not ready yet.

"You need some help changing the bandage on your
arm?"

He cringes at the way she's hovering, avoiding
the wound to his manhood by inquiring about the
wound to his arm.  But this is different from a
gunshot wound, or a blow to the head.  In other
circumstances, her concern would be welcome. 
Anytime he's hurt, the road to recovery begins
with Scully's cool touch.  But not this time. 
He knows she's not pressuring him; she's just
being Scully.  Still, the reminder stings,
coming hard on the heels of the nightmare.

"I can do it."  His reply is unintentionally
terse, and he bites his lip, forcing his voice
to soften.  "I'm okay, Scully.  I'll be out in a
minute."

At the sound of her shuffling away, he breathes
a sigh of relief.

It's a half hour before he emerges from the
steamy safe place and his nose is tweaked by the
combination of smells coming from the kitchen. 
He tiptoes into the bedroom and is happy to find
that she's made the bed already; he really
doesn't need the reminder of their unsuccessful
testing of the waters last night.   And his
extra clothes are on the bed, too, complete with
underwear, socks and sneakers.  With a smile at
her efficiency, he drops the towel around his
waist and pulls on the boxers and jeans.

"Mulder?"

Quickly, he pulls the t-shirt over his head. 
He's not ready, he's not ready.  "Yeah?"  His
reply is muffled by the material that bunches
into the sleeve.  "Damn," he mumbles, trying to
get his hand through the vise.  Seems his luck
hasn't changed in *any* way quite yet.

"Breakfast," he hears her call out.

Finally, he manages to finish dressing, pulling
on socks and sneakers, all the while asking
himself if he can stand the wait.  The light of
day has cast doubt on his beliefs - what if the
penny had nothing to do with his problem?  What
if her conclusions are correct?  God, what if
it's not even physiological?  What if it's some
sort of mental block?  What if he can *never* do
the deed?

"Mulder."

He's startled from escalating anxiety by the
too-close sound of his name.  Whirling, he
colors before her careful approach, backing up
until his legs touch the bed.  "Hey."  It's the
only thing that comes to mind, though he feels
it's utterly stupid to say.

"Hey yourself," she answers with a brightening
of her features.  "Sleep well?"  She stops a few
feet from him, slight concern marring her brow.

Take it slow, he tells himself.  "Like a rock. 
You?"

"Never slept better," she says, her warm gaze
telling him that his presence was more than
partly responsible for her good rest.

He looks away, his heart speeding up with joy. 
Truthfully, he knows that her warmth next to him
does more for his relaxation than a whole bottle
of Sominex ever could.

"Good."  The word comes out as a croak of heavy
emotion, and he clears his throat before
attempting, "Shower's free."

"Taken care of," she replies.  At his
questioning look, she adds, "I've been awake
since seven, Mulder."

He glances around for his watch, and spies it on
her night stand.  "Jesus, what time is it,
anyway?"

"9:30."

Strapping on his watch, he apologizes, "Sorry. 
Didn't mean to oversleep."

"It's okay.  I didn't have the heart to wake
you."

Silence reigns for a few seconds as he wonders
what to say next.  Or if he should say anything
at all.  Maybe the whole fiasco was just a
nightmare like the one he had earlier; he was
certainly tired enough from the trip for his
mind to create all sorts of scenarios.  It
wouldn't be the first time.

But then again - how had he ended up in Scully's
bed?  Against his will, his eyes dart to the
scene of his embarrassment, then to her.  No, it
was no dream.  He sees a brief flash of regret
in her gaze before she smiles and backs away,
beckoning with her fingers.  "Come have
breakfast."

As he watches her turn, he notices her bare feet
below the hem of her jeans and swallows.  Forget
the food; she's delectable enough to totally
satisfy him in those tight jeans and loose
sweater just a shade darker than her cheeks.

Damn it, why does this have to happen now?  All
the familiar responses to her are there,
multiplied tenfold.  The quickening of his
pulse, the flaring of his nostrils at her scent,
the dampness between each of his fingers... all
physiological signals of arousal.  Except for
the most important one.

"Pancakes?" he manages to ask, stopping at the
kitchen table at the sight of the heaping
plates.

Scully shrugs and sits.  "I felt like cooking. 
Sit down, Mulder."  She nods at the pile of
paperwork he'd not noticed, towering between the
place settings like a welcome wall of sanity. 
"We can get some work done while we eat."

Work - that's what he needs.  Something to take
his mind off an executive sized envelope winging
its way to Chicago.  He sits with a relieved
smile, reaching for the syrup and pouring it
generously on his pancakes.

He knows she expects a little resistance from
him, and he provides it with a chuckle.  "Won't
we get those files sticky?"

She takes the bottle from him and does the same,
wiping the tip with her middle finger.  He
watches in stunned silence as her tongue darts
out to lick the sweet stuff.  Slowly, oh so
slowly, he thinks he hears the rasp of rough
skin against rough skin.  He's almost sure he
can feel it against his own tongue as it
responds in kind, coming out of hiding to wet
his suddenly dry lips.

Her finger leaves her mouth and she looks up,
her face a model of seriousness.  He doesn't
know if she did that on purpose, or if, in his
sex-starved brain, he's reading every gesture of
hers as erotic sign language.  Most likely the
latter, he thinks, as he sees her notice his
slack-jawed stupefaction.

She blushes under his scrutiny.  "Not if we're
careful and take our time," she answers.

With his fork, he stabs at the pancakes and
stuffs his mouth, looking anywhere but at her.


**********


A half hour later, they've shoved their plates
aside, the appetite for cold pancakes forgotten. 
She retrieves her glasses from her bedroom and
he does the same, still keeping his distance. 
Now and then he glances at his cell phone,
laying within a finger's reach on the table. 
She feels him will it to ring with every minute
that passes.

'Henry - please call when you receive this.'

Mulder's hastily scribbled note had been the
last to go into the overnight envelope.  Scully
had said nothing, just watched as he'd pinned
his hopes on the delivery.  At this point, she
realizes that she's hopeful as well.  But the
last thing she wants to do is make the problem
at hand the focus of their day.

She just wants to make him comfortable, that's
all.  Remembering his embarrassment from the
previous night, she doesn't want him to think
she's pushing for anything other than normalcy
this morning.  She started by letting him sleep
in;  she knows his undisturbed nights are few
and far between.

As dawn broke in her bedroom window, she watched
him sleep, taking the opportunity to study him
at her leisure.  His body had hugged the far
edge of the bed all night, she just knew it. 
And it had been so tempting to wake him with a
kiss and start all over.  This theory of his was
wrong, no doubt about it.  Their fatigue had
just caught up with them; combined with Mulder's
recent hospitalization, it was amazing he'd even
been able to produce an erection, much less
sustain it.

But she doesn't want to broach the subject yet; 
plenty of time for that later.  Right now, she
just wants to spend time with him, talk to him
on a more professional level.  Put them both
back on a more even keel.

Not that his lustful gaze at her simple clean-up
helped any.  She hadn't realized how attuned he
is to her every move before then.  Now, she
feels as if she's under a microscope; every lift
of her coffee cup to her mouth is accompanied by
a heavy sigh from the depths of his chest, every
scrape of her pen to paper is another spark to
the tinder that she knows is lying just below
the surface of his skin.

He wants her, badly.  But she's not about to lay
him open to further misery if it means another
setback in their tenuous union.  His inability
last night to take that final step is probably
based on physical health, though she hasn't
discounted the possibility that it's partially
rooted in his psychological fear of failing
those he loves.

And if waiting until he knows that mail has been
delivered is what needs to be done, then she's
all for it.  But to be honest with herself...
the wait is unbearable.  Especially when he sits
across from her, clean as a whistle except for a
dot of syrup on his chin.  A dot that screams at
her, "Lick me."

So she tries to concentrate on the files before
her, tries to remain unmoved as he begins to
squirm in his seat.  Tries her hardest to ignore
his growing impatience by suffering through his
one word answers to her boring questions.  Yes,
she knows the work is tedious, but it's the only
way she knows to pass the time.

"Scully, you don't have to do this."  He removes
his glasses and tosses them to the table before
passing a hand over his eyes with weariness.

"Do what?"  Though she knows very well what's he
talking about.  She looks at him through the
distortion of her reading glasses, his face
brought closer with startling clarity.

"Keep me busy.  Keep *us* busy."  He pushes away
from the table and pockets his cell phone.  "I
think I'll go see what the guys are up to."

Oh no you don't, she yells inwardly.  You're not
going to leave me here by myself while you
salivate over the latest babe downloaded by
those frustrated geeks.  You're saving it up for
me, remember?

"I'll come with you," she says, hastening to
follow him out of the kitchen.  "Just let me put
some shoes on."

Mulder stops and turns, giving her a pained
grimace.  "I don't think that's a good idea."

"And why not?"  She crosses her arms, staring
him down.

"I just - I need to be alone."

"Mulder, 'alone' isn't visiting the Gunmen."

He flushes and turns to the door, retreating
quickly.  "Then I won't visit the Gunmen.  I'll
go for a walk."

"Mulder!"  Her frustrated command stops him as
his hand falls on the knob.  She finds herself
pleading with his back.  "Don't do this to me."

He sighs and hangs his head, but doesn't turn
around.  "I can't be here, Scully.  I can't...."

Silently, she moves closer to him, careful to be
as gentle-voiced as possible.  "Please stay with
me.  Don't go.  I won't touch you, or speak to
you -"

He whirls, his eyes furious, though with pain,
not anger at her.  "Don't you get it?  Touching
you, talking to you -" Hands clenching, his gaze
sweeps over her, making her shiver with renewed
desire.  "It's bad enough just looking at you,
Scully.  Every time I look at you, I feel it. 
Every time you get close to me, I can smell it,
almost taste it.  And it's fucking hell because
I can't have it.  Can't *do* it."

Reaching out a hand, she whispers, "It'll just
take time, Mulder."

"*Fuck* time, Scully."  His words make her
flinch, but he doesn't stop.  "You know what I
dreamt last night?"

The soft question takes her by surprise, but she
urges him on - anything to get him to stay.  If
he walks out that door now, they may never get
to this stage again.  "What?"

"That everyone hated me... that *you* hated me."

"Mulder -"

"No - you thought I was a monster.  I *was* a
monster."  He steps closer, his hand coming up
to rub the scar beneath the hair at his nape. 
"I *am* a monster, Scully."

She catches her breath at the sorrow in the
words.  "You aren't," she manages to say,
closing the distance between them with slow,
measured steps.  "I don't want you to ever think
that."                                   

Mulder raises glassy eyes to her face and
murmurs, "What did they do to me, Scully? 
Sometimes I don't even feel human anymore."

Damn them, she thinks, fury at the Project's
meddling into their lives - their *bodies* -
making her tremble.  But she tamps down the
futility and enfolds Mulder in a loose embrace,
breathing in the scent of his helplessness and
giving back warmth.  After a moment of tense
denial, she feels his arms come around her as
his face drops to her shoulder.

"It's not fair," he mutters, the damp words
sliding across the collar of her sweater.  "I
didn't ask for this invasion."

Scully knows how he feels.  Coming to terms with
her own violation was a long, angry process.  It
takes time to realize that the body you once
thought of as inviolable is no longer so.  It's
frightening, and though the fear will always
linger in the back of your mind, you can
overcome it.

As she tightens her hold on him, she wishes with
all her heart that it really was just plain luck
at work here.  If she had the penny right now,
she'd palm it, close her eyes and will it so.

They stand for a half a minute, Scully telling
him of her faith in him with the brush of her
hands across his back.  Of her vow never to turn
away from him, no matter how many scars he
bears.

The trill of his cell phone interrupts the
quiet.


End Part Four


Hard Luck Story
Part Five
by Mish
mish_rose@yahoo.com

Disclaimer, etc. in Part One


With profound sadness, he now realizes that
she's right.  All his life, he's looked to the
implausible for answers, for the truth.  This
time, he cannot deny that his circumstances are
the result of something very much explainable. 
And that something doesn't have a damn thing to
do with luck or pennies or Henry Weems.

As he cuddles her, he's also graced with a sense
of well-being.  His problem is not beyond his
control; he can deal with it. *They* can deal
with it, whether the cause is medical or mental. 
With Scully's help, he can do anything.

"You gonna get that?"  Her question is murmured
into the steady beat of his heart.

"Get what?" He rubs his nose into her neck,
totally oblivious to the outside world.  He
could happily stay here forever.

"Your phone."

Finally, at her statement, he hears it.  It
rings insistently, vibrating in his pants
pocket, demanding attention.  With a sigh, he
pulls away and reaches for it, pressing the
button with an impatient thumb.

"Mulder."  He doesn't release her, though,
keeping an arm around her waist.  She smiles up
at him and he returns the gesture as she wipes
the dampness from his cheeks.

"Agent Mulder?"

The tinny voice is distracting, and he answers
absently, "Yes?"  He loves the way her blue eyes
are vibrant through the lens of her glasses.

"Did you send this to me for a reason?"

Jesus, he thinks, startled at his own lack of
awareness.  He'd managed to forget what they'd
been waiting for.  "Henry?"

"Yes.  You asked me to call you, Agent Mulder." 
The bland voice is slightly exasperated, or as
close to exasperation as a timid soul like Henry
Weems can summon.

"You read my note... did you open the envelope
yet?"

"No.  I'm almost afraid to."

Mulder grins, catching Scully's inquisitive
gaze.  It doesn't make any difference now, but
what's the use in going this far and not all the
way?  "Open it, Henry."

"Okay, let me put the phone down."

As he listens to the shuffle of the man at the
other end of the line, he brings his hand up to
Scully's cheek and brushes away the mussed hair,
smiling at her obvious impatience.  She purses
her lips as if to say, "Well?" and he chuckles,
realizing she is more caught up in the end of
this journey than he is right now.

The sound of rending paper reaches his ears,
then a few seconds later, Henry speaks.  "A
penny?  Why did you send me a penny?"

"I didn't.  Agent Scully did.  She thought you
could use a bit of luck."  He's grinning now, at
Henry's huff, but more so, at the roll of
Scully's eyes.

He can just imagine Henry's eyes mimic Scully's
as the man answers, "Just what I need - more
luck.  Thanks."

Scully shifts from one foot to the other and
Mulder stills, his smile fading.  Something's
happening, something all too familiar.  A
pleasant buzz sets up residence in his belly as
he catches a whiff of her hair.  Swallowing
hard, he croaks into the telephone, "Henry?"

"Yes?"

"Whatever you do, don't send it back to her." 
Mulder's nostrils flare as his eyes rake over
the parted, cherry red lips just inches away
from his own.

"Oh, I won't.  A penny saved it a penny earned,
you know."

If Mulder wanted to, he'd laugh at the
sentiment, particularly in reference to *that*
penny.  But at the moment, laughter is the
farthest thing from his mind.

"Agent Mulder?"  Henry's voice sounds as if it's
coming from a deep well.  "Agent Mulder?"

Mulder lowers the phone, hitting the 'power'
button before dropping it to the floor. 
"Scully?" he breathes, both hands coming up to
cup her face.

"Yes?"

Arousal surges within him and he swoops to touch
his lips to hers, groaning, "I don't think I can
make it to the bedroom."  Her gasp of surprise
is lost as he takes her mouth with his own.


**********


Scully is still not used to Mulder's kisses and
this one is devouring.  It takes her by storm
and she's amazed that he can venture into the
sexual so soon after admitting to her that he's
doubtful of what precipitated this whole mess.

After all, just because Henry is now in
possession of the penny, it doesn't mean that
the facts have changed.  Or does it?  Her mind
races to catch up with what's happened in the
last minute as she opens her mouth, confused by
Mulder's immediate ardor but unwilling to
question its source.

Sanity and lack of oxygen force her to lean
back.  Mulder lets her go but continues his
amorous assault, his mouth touching her cheek,
her neck, every bit of uncovered skin between
her mouth and ear.

"Mulder," she says, trying to slow him down. 
"You should take it easy -"

"Fuck easy," he growls, his hands settling over
her ass to make his intentions known to her.

She gasps at the feel of his hardness prodding
her belly, her mouth falling slack at the
realization that things have *definitely*
changed.  If possible, his whole body is harder
than it was last night before their tryst came
to an abrupt end.  Certainly, the part of him
that's beginning a slow thrust against her
softness is more insistent, straining against
the denim that covers both their skins. 
Reaching for penetration through double layers
of heavy fabric like a battering ram through
tissue.

"Jesus," she whispers, his hot, wet mouth
rapidly sucking all the blood in her body
southward.  "Mulder, this is incredible...
impossible."  Though her lips speak of
skepticism, her hands tell a tale of desire, no
matter what the cause.  The effect is the same
as they slide down the cotton of his tee, only
to sneak up his back on the return journey, this
time taking the barrier with them.

Mulder pulls back from his plunder of her throat
and his hands finish the job hers has started,
whipping the t-shirt over his head.  "It's not
impossible... it's time," he mutters, lowering
his head once again as he fumbles with the
buttons of her sweater.  "Help me, Scully."

"Here?"  One look at Mulder's passion-dark face
tells her that the question is irrelevant; he
wants her now, and the fact that they're
standing in the open space between her couch and
dining room table makes no difference.  But the
floor?  Maybe if they were teenagers....

Mulder looks at her with dilated, wild eyes. 
"Yes, *here.*  Because I'm not sure if...."  He
trails off and goes back to work on her sweater. 
"Shit!"

His expletive brings home to her his growing
frustration.  Moments ago, he was sure that his
physical problem was just that - physical.  Now,
with the penny safe in Henry's hands, his
arousal can be linked back to his first
instinct.  And he's unwilling to wait a second
longer to test the theory he so fervently
embraced last night.  And though she's reticent
about allowing him to open himself up to more
disappointment, she cannot deny that she wants
this just as much as he does.

But in an effort to slow him down just a bit,
she puts her hands over his and says, "Let me,"
in a voice made shaky by growing lust and a
burgeoning fear.  His intensity is something
she's witnessed before, when hot on the trail of
a UFO, or lost in the mind of a killer.  It's
never been directed at *her* - certainly not to
this degree of awesome power.

As she slips the buttons free, she senses his
gaze follow every pearl as they fall to the
side.  She's glad she didn't bother with a bra
this morning; but at the same time, she wonders
if the sight of her bare chest will incite him
further.  Holding the edges of the sweater
together, she looks up, willing him to take a
moment and look at her. *Really* look at her.

But her fear is groundless, she realizes, as she
meets the eyes that moments ago were feral and
almost unrecognizable.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.  "We can take it slow,
okay?"

His need has not abated - she can tell from the
clench of his hands at his side and the tick of
his cheek.  But he's noticed her trembling hands
and obvious trepidation at his uncharacteristic
behavior and is trying to school his ardor into
a more manageable slow burn.  She wants to cry
at the way this gentle man recognizes her fear
and has made concessions to it.

A sheen of tears blur her eyes and she smiles,
letting her sweater fall open to run her fingers
over his chest and arms, carefully avoiding the
patchwork of gauze he's sloppily applied to the
bullet wound.  "You just scared me, that's all,"
she murmurs.  "I'm okay.  Anything you want to
do, we can do.  Anywhere you want...."

"Jesus, Scully," he says, as if in pain, but
pleasure at her capitulation fringes the words. 
"I don't want to hurt you."

Hurt her?  She's been wet since that first kiss
minutes ago.  She's as ready as she'll ever be.
Her arms encircle his neck and she brings her
mouth to his.  "You won't.  Trust me."  Between
kisses flavored of maple syrup and bitter
coffee, she sets him free.  "Make love to me,
Mulder. *Now.*"


**********


He needs no more encouragement - just a
relatively safe place that will guarantee his
comfort *and* hers.  With a short smile, he
breaks away to scan the floor.

Couch?  Too far away, even though it's only a
short walk to the other side.  Floor? 
Definitely ass-bruising for her.  Shit, he
thinks.  In the time he's spent searching for
*the* best spot, they could have made it to the
bedroom.

"Come here," Scully says, taking him by the hand
and guiding him the few short steps to the
dining room table.

"The table?" he rasps, unsure if it's the most
wise decision, but thankful she's taken the
decision out of his hands.

At his panic, she grins and goes straight for
his jeans.  As he holds his breath, she makes
short work of the button and zipper, then pulls
his pants and boxers down to his knees.  He
trembles at the release of his cock from its
painful confines and his eyes slam shut, his
head falling back.  His hands flail for a moment
before one of them brushes her arm, where he
grabs in an effort to keep from collapsing with
anticipation.

"Scully - thank you," he says, knowing it's a
stupid thing to say, but it's the most accurate
sentiment at the moment.

"You're welcome," he hears her reply with a
chuckle.  It's a sweet song to his ears... but
the sound of a chair scraping the floor behind
him has the resonance of a thousand bass drums. 
"Sit."  Her free hand pushes him into the chair.

As soon as his ass hits the fabric, his eyes
open with a smile, deducing her plan at once.  A
totally inane remark pops onto his tongue, but
dies when he sees she's already got one leg out
of her jeans and is rapidly freeing the other.

She hasn't bothered with removing her sweater,
and right now, he doesn't care.  Plenty of time
later for skin to touch skin.  If all works
well, they have the rest of the weekend to
explore each other's bodies.

As she balances on one leg, his hand moves to
his cock, testing his erection with a few idle
strokes.  He knows he's looking at her like a
starving man drooling over pork chops - probably
a very unattractive picture, with his jeans at
his knees and sweat beginning to slick his
chest.  But he doesn't care; and from the way
her eyes are answering, neither does she.

They glow with blue fire, sweeping over him from
head to hips, settling over the part of him
that's unbelievably growing bigger at the touch
of his own fingers.  "Impressive," she says with
a grin, finally freeing herself from the jeans
and tossing them aside.

She thinks he's 'impressive' - if he weren't so
damned horny, he'd shout for joy.  Instead, the
grin at her compliment fades and he groans,
"Hurry, Scully.  I can't last much longer."  He
lets his eyes close again when she reaches for
her panties, somehow feeling that the mere sight
of that hidden treasure would be enough to set
him off.

When he feels the touch of her hand on his
shoulder, he jumps.  She stills, and he can feel
her suck in a startled breath.  "No, don't
stop... come on, Scully," he pleads, then feels
his own ragged breathing hitch at the touch of
her leg against his hip.

He can smell her between them, the musk of her
arousal filling his nose and mouth.  Imagination
takes over as he feels her other leg leave the
floor to settle around him; he knows she's
hooking both feet into the rungs of the chair. 
Just the fantasy of her dainty feet straining
for purchase against the narrow oak is almost
his undoing.  His hips buck up against her of
their own accord, though he tries to subdue his
reaction with a grimace.

"It's okay, it's okay," she whispers, her hands
coming round his neck to link at his nape, the
fingers tickling the short, now sweaty hair. 
"You don't have to wait for me, you know."

At the soft statement, his eyes open.  He
doesn't dare look down at the splay of her legs
where she rests on his thighs; instead, he
narrows his vision to the pinpoint of her blue
gaze, feeling the world close in around them. 
"I don't know if I can," he admits, his free
hand sliding over the silk of her hip to urge
their joining.

"Then don't."  With a smug arch of her eyebrow,
she glides up.

He tries to keep his eyes open as his hand
guides his cock into her warmth.  It's difficult
to do, though, and he lets them slip shut as the
tip nudges its way inside.  "Oh... shit," he
groans, feeling her walls stretch to accommodate
his girth.  "Ughhh."

The thought that he's reduced to animal grunts
is hilarious, but then again, he always felt
he'd be struck stupid should this moment ever
come.  And more certain is the urge to rut like
a beast.  But he denies himself, wanting to
prolong the sweet feeling of simply resting
within her for as long as he can.

His whole body tense with the exertion of non-
movement, he almost misses the tug on his ear. 
"Mulder?"

"Yeah?"  Still, he can't look.

"Move your hand."

"Huh?"

"Your hand - it's in the way, love."

At the endearment, he complies automatically,
taking a deep breath at the easy way she calls
him her love.  It creates a smile on his face
and he basks for a moment in the echo of that
simple word, resounding in his brain... until he
feels her walls close in around him.

Her gasp echoes his as she impales herself on
his cock; he can feel the tip bump against her
cervix.  "Christ!" he hisses, his eyes opening
wide... to the sight of her breasts swaying in
front of him as she begins to move.

"You okay?" she asks.

He sees more than hears the simple question, as
her throat moves.  Unbelievable.

"Mulder?"

She pauses, resting on the downstroke, one of
her hands coming around to tilt his face up. 
"Mulder."

God, but she's beautiful, he thinks.  But why is
she stopping?  "Huh?"

"Is this okay?"

Is it okay?  Is she serious?  Apparently so,
from the concerned tweak of her brow.

"Yeah."  He smiles, his once painful need to
blow his load now subsided to a manageable ache. 
"Go on... love."

He's Superman, he's Don Juan, he's the sex
machine that's a hit with all the chicks.... 

Scully begins to move again, rocking slowly upon
him as his fingers squeeze the perfect globes of
her ass.  Everything comes into sharp focus -
the sway of her breasts, framed by the pink
sweater... the parted lips dotted by an eager
tongue.  The heat of her breath as it tickles
his chin... the glasses that slip to the end of
her sweat-slickened, beautiful nose.

Jesus!  Scully is *fucking* him.  Perched on his
lap, still managing to look like a damned
schoolmarm, albeit an incredibly sexy one.

Who is he kidding?  He realizes in a second that
the woman he loves - *has* loved for years - is
screwing his brains out.  Moving with care,
concern even now making her eyes cloudy.  She's
holding back, not wanting to break this precious
moment of fragile glass wonder.  Suddenly, he
has to come. *Needs* to come - needs to give her
and himself satisfaction.

"Faster, Scully," he implores, his hips moving
of their own accord in counterpoint to her
rhythm.  His eyes tell her of his strength. "I
won't break, you know."

In answer, her features intensify, and she grips
the side of his neck with urgency, her hips
pistoning.  He feels her thighs begin to tremble
and he reacts by hooking his own feet in the
legs of the chair, using his legs to ease some
of her burden.

Please let this work, he prays, burying his face
in the scented valley of her breasts.  God,
Allah, Buddha, Elvis... whoever's listening. 
Let this work.

It starts as it always does.  A jolt at the base
of his spine, spreading through his body to his
groin.  Warmth, electricity, icy bursts of
liquid metal that shoot straight to his balls. 
His cock swells within her and he struggles to
stay inside her tight passage, his fingers
digging into her hips with a force sure to leave
marks.  But he can't stop... it's coming.

"Come on, Mulder... come on," Scully whispers
into his neck before she latches on to his
carotid artery like a leech, urging him on with
the nip of her teeth.

It's coming, and he practically lifts her with
him from the safety of the chair as it hits, a
knife of hot, furious seed that he can feel
every inch of the way from the base of his cock
to the very end.

"Ahhh... Sculleee...."  Throwing back his head,
he barely opens his eyes to see Scully move her
hands to the carved wood behind him, holding on
for dear life.  "Love you, Scully."

He stiffens as the last wave flows from him to
her, his jaw clenching, then relaxing into a
grin.  A cloak of cool darkness falls over his
face as his eyes close at last.

Minutes later, he hears a soft, "I guess
everything came out okay?" murmured into his
neck.

Laughter bubbles up and he glides his hands up
her slick back, her damp sweater tickling his
knuckles.  "Oh yeah, I'd say it did."

Scully sits up and he jerks as a spasm of spent
desire flutters through his softening cock. 
Down boy, he thinks.  Enough excitement for now. 
Time to think of the woman that gave you such
pleasure.  He knows she didn't reach orgasm, and
with sure fingers, he also knows it wouldn't
take much to push her over the edge.

He brings one of his hands to the spot they are
still joined and Scully hisses, "Not now, okay?" 

"Too much?" he asks, regret at his selfishness
furrowing his brow.

Nodding, she quickly brings her mouth to his,
her lashes falling over emotion-filled eyes.  It
hits him just how worried she was about him. 
The realization makes him humble; whatever she
wants, whatever she needs from him now, it's not
sexual.  As she kisses him, he brings his arms
around her once more and holds her tight,
telling her with his embrace that he owes her so
much more than physical release.

His hands lift her slightly, and he mutters,
"Sorry," at the wince of discomfort she cannot
hide when his penis finally slides from her.  He
thinks she wants to clean up, and he moves to
rise, but is surprised when she relaxes into
him.

"Not yet."  She lays her cheek against his
heart; he takes her hand and brings it to his
lips before quieting along with her.

He doesn't know how much time passes and he
doesn't care.  Time stands still for him as they
caress each other and murmur words of love and
commitment.  They are content in each other's
arms, enjoying the touch of skin against skin.

It is only when her telephone rings that he
allows his satiated muscles to tense.

"Let the machine get it," she says, not moving
an inch.

A whirr as the recorder comes to life, then
Scully's voice fills the room.  A voice very
different from the husky purr he's come to know
and love in the last half hour.

"'I can't come to the phone right now... please
leave a message and I'll return your call as
soon as possible.'"

At the beep, her mother's voice says, "Dana,
would it be possible for me and your Aunt Janie
to spend the night at your place tonight?  The
exterminator came this morning, and the house
smells like insecticide.  And you know how
sensitive Janie is to chemicals... are you even
there?  Dana?  Still out of town on a case?  Oh,
well, I have a key -" *Beeep.*

Scully sighs into Mulder's chest.  "Well,
Mulder.  Looks like my good luck has taken a
hike."  She lifts her head and smiles.  "But I
still have a check for $2375... care to spend
the night with me in a hotel?"

Before he can answer, the telephone rings again. 
His eyes widen with panic, mirroring hers.  What
now?  After the recording, a masculine voice
begins, "Mr. Mulder?  This is Jeff.  Jeff
Easterly, your landlord?  Anyway, just looking
for you to tell you the building has been okayed
by the fire department.  You can come back
anytime.  Sorry about the inconvenience."

Click.

He remembers the disarray he left behind in his
apartment in his rush to get to Chicago.  Dirty
laundry on the floor of his bedroom, not a thing
to eat in the refrigerator; he'd meant to take
care of all that this weekend.  But he doesn't
want to blow her money on a hotel.

"Um, Scully?"  Maybe he can sneak over there to
clean up a bit; their first weekend together
shouldn't be spent amidst smelly socks.

"Yeah?"

Again, the telephone rings.  He rolls his eyes,
knowing that this time, it's bound to be Skinner
with another case.  Why can't they get a break?

Scully laughs, and mimics her own voice on the
recording as it plays, inching ever closer to
his lips.  When the tone sounds this time,
they're in the middle of a kiss.

Kissing is good, he thinks.  Bad luck or good,
nothing can top kissing.

"Dana?  This is Ellen.  I hate to do this to
you, but I need a favor.  Well... Mark finagled
a pass for me to meet Barbra Streisand at the
White House tonight and we want to make an
evening of it... how do you feel about
housesitting? The kids are staying at Mom's but
she's allergic to the dogs and I don't have time
to board them.  Call me before two, okay?"

Click.

"Think she found a penny?" he asks, bringing his
hand up to tangle in Scully's hair, his lips
plying hers with short, deep kisses.  "Because I
know someone whose luck changed when she picked
up a penny.  Classic X-file. *Classic.*"

Scully does the same, nipping at his lower lip. 
"Her husband works for the Secret Service,
Mulder.  That isn't luck, that's his job."

"So... you're saying what happened to us isn't
an X-file?"

She pulls away and pierces him with steady eyes. 
"You want to debate the events of the last
twelve hours, or you want to make me come in
Ellen's hot tub?"

As he opens his mouth to choose Door #2, Monty,
the telephone rings.  Jesus, he thinks.  Can't
they get a break here?

"Agent Scully - Skinner here.  Tried to get
Mulder but I'm having trouble... anyway,
homicide in Pittsfield, Virginia I think you'd
both be interested in... well, Mulder anyway. 
The file is being messengered to your office
within the hour.  Local PD is being edgy about
it, but an anonymous tip says we need to look
into it.  We can't sit on this too long - gimme
a call."

Click.

Mulder grins.  "I'll go to my place and shower,
then pick up the file at the office.  Meet you
back here by noon?"

Scully smiles in return, wiping his damp hair
from his forehead.  "I need to call my mother
and Ellen, as well as fill out the 302 and fax
it to Skinner.  What say you fax the file to me
here by noon?  I'll meet you at the Pittsfield
Coroner's Office by two.  How's that?"

"Looks like things are back to normal," he says,
giving her a quick kiss.

"I'd say they are," she mutters, finally leaving
his lap and reaching out a hand.  "I was hoping
we'd have some time alone."              

He takes it, stands, and pulls jeans and boxers
up in one motion.  "The traffic should be light,
Scully.  We can be in and out by late this
evening."  He pulls her close and whispers, his
forehead touching hers, "Besides, I think I'm
gonna get lucky tonight."

She squeezes his ass and warns, "I'd *better*
get lucky tonight, Mulder.  You're the one that
made me give away my penny."

"So now you're saying my theory was correct?"

"Mulderrr."  She pulls away and scoops her jeans
from the floor.

With a smile, he watches as she walks to her
bedroom, her backside swaying under the hem of
the sweater.  He walks after her, arms spread.

"Come on, Scully.  Admit it."

Yes, things are definitely back to normal. 
Well, with a little nakedness and mind-blowing
sex thrown in.  He could really grow to like
this version of normal.  After all, there's
ordinary... and then there's *extraordinary.*

Then there's 'extraordinarily lucky.' A feeling
he likes most of all.


END


Many thanks to Galia, as always, for simply
being my dearest friend, not to mention the best
webmistress ever.  Now, I'm going back to
"Julia" - I promise! :)

And Musea - ah, nothing like smutfic research to
make the ladies come out of hiding!  Thanks to
Forte, for her usual kick-ass beta... Aud, for
beta and the <ahem> 'heads-up' on Harry Reems...
Blackwood, for her unique, inspiring, assuring
encouragement... Diana Battis for the offer of a
title (which she'd *better* use herself! - don't
make me come after you) and mountainphile...
well, her SO really, for answering a rather
delicate question. <g> You all are the best. 
But y'all knew that already, right?  We are
Musea, hear us roar!

mish_rose@yahoo.com - a penny for your thoughts?