TITLE:   Heated 
AUTHOR:  Joann Humby
E-MAIL:  jhumby@lineone.net
RATING:  NC17 
CLASSIFICATION: S A R 
DATE:    October 2004 
TIMELINE: Erlenmeyer Flask - final ep of S1 
ARCHIVE:  Gossamer, Ephemeral - yes. Others please ask. 

LEGALLY: We all know the score. The characters are not mine, 
never will be. But at least they get to have sex.

SUMMARY: A man and a woman. A mission to save the world. 
They're only human.

My thanks to Ann for beta help and horticultural tips!

BACKGROUND: Written for the virtual season of smut challenge 
on Fandomonium.

------------

5 Days after Deep Throat's Death

Scully insisted on regular updates. "How are your ears?"

"Scoville chili pepper scale? Serrano maybe."

"You'll be back to bell pepper before you know it."

Just so long as she didn't want to check on the status of anything 
else.

Leaving the hospital was pantomime enough, without Scully 
tracking down extra cushions for the trip home.

-------

He'd been back in his apartment for a week now. Taking it easy.

Pimento close to normal. Except for his eyes, they still stung - 
Anaheim hot.

Scully had been busy; filing reports, being interviewed by the men 
investigating the shooting, justifying her conduct to review boards. 
Off-duty, she'd been piecing together what she could on Deep 
Throat, Berube's employers, Dr Gardener's death, and the storage 
unit that had housed those humans in tanks. Just in case the other 
side's clean up job hadn't been quite good enough.

But the men who'd interrogated Mulder, first in his hospital bed, 
then in his apartment, and then yesterday in a room with no view, 
didn't seem like the type who made mistakes.

Daily phone calls between the partners had covered the highlights 
and glossed over the details - the way they did. He'd assured her 
that he was doing fine.

Reports all filed, Scully had chosen to play chauffeur for Mulder 
today. They swapped notes on the drive to the hospital, struggled 
to fill in the blanks.

The doctors gave him the all clear. A few more eye drops and he'd 
be ready to rock. They couldn't explain the damage - offered words 
like astringent, caustic, toxic, irritant instead. It was only what he'd 
expected.

Unless Skinner accepted Scully's account in its entirety, there was 
no case to pursue.

The dead man on a bridge was someone else's problem and the 
kidnap of a Federal agent was an investigative non-starter. No 
report had been filed prior to Mulder's recovery. No FBI hostage 
protocols had been followed. No evidence had been found at the 
scene.

It didn't take an investigative genius to see that the Bureau 
wouldn't be demanding jurisdiction.

Even so, hearing the all clear from the doctors should have felt 
good. They'd lived to fight another day. Against all odds.

It should have been good to see her again, no ifs, no buts, just 
good. Yet it only reminded him of how lonely the past few days 
had been, and echo the warnings of how much their work could 
cost.

He unlocked the door to his apartment and even that seemed 
strange, alien somehow. Lifeless and empty. You can't miss 
something you've never had - so they say. But sometimes he felt 
the echoes of a maybe, saw the ghost of a possibility. Not so much 
a deja vu as a could it be.

One step across the threshold and he stopped. Scully brushed past 
him, carrying bags into the kitchen as if it was a real home. He 
took a deep breath, flinched at the rush of pain.

When she returned to the living room she had a glass of milk in her 
hand. He watched her half smile as she surveyed the scene. The 
files stacked haphazardly on the coffee table, the pillows forming a 
nest at one end of the couch, the TV remote still lying on the floor. 
A few seconds later she spotted him, watching her from the 
shadows. "Mulder?"

He slowly shook his head, grateful for the dark glasses and the 
excuse of inflamed eyes.

"Come and sit down."

He did as ordered, moving to his place on the couch as if it really 
was his.

They'd talked at the hospital. Factual. One FBI agent to another. 
Reassuring. Two friends grateful for the other's presence. Cautious. 
Walking on eggshells as they looked for common ground and 
stayed away from the danger zone.

He'd thanked her for her courage - even as he wondered if the 
choice had been the right one. Her life endangered, Deep Throat's 
lost. And the thing she'd stolen - a possible alien fetus - had that 
been the tangible proof needed to crack the conspiracy wide open?

All to save him.

Why?

Ingratitude? Perhaps. But he could no more ignore the equation of 
costs and benefits than he could stop the sun from setting. What 
was it worth? What was he worth?

Irrelevant now. Intellectually, he understood that much. The choice 
had been made. He was home. So was she. Time to start again.

Home. A woman in his kitchen. Startled by the brief Neanderthal 
surge that went with that flash of an idea.

"You don't have to stay," he said. Stating the obvious in a tone of 
voice that made it sound like a plea.

"I know."

He shook his head, seeing the balance sheet gain. "He died for me, 
Scully. You could have died too. That woman, Dr. Carpenter, they 
killed her for doing her job. And no one will ever be brought to 
account for it."

"Unless we do it."

"Us against the world?"

"No - us, for the world."

He smiled for real at that.

---------

They'd snuggled up on the couch to watch TV, for no better reason 
than it felt good and because they'd nearly missed the chance. They 
were both alive. What were the odds against that?

It was warm in his arms. A relief to feel the rise and fall of his 
chest against her back. To hear his whispered breaths. So nearly 
dead and yet now, so very alive.

She stretched, pussycat purr of contact as her head found a haven, 
resting against his shoulder. She sighed as his heartbeat surged.

"Scully?"

Inevitable. As natural as breathing. As easy as a smile. Unwinding, 
she twisted her head until she could see his face. His lips brushed 
against her eyebrow and she sighed, savoring the moment. "I 
thought I would never see you again," she whispered.

Murmurs of sound, glimmers of touch, sparks along her spine 
surging all the way to her toes. Repetition after maddening 
repetition. Until at last he moved, easing her down into his lap so 
that he could see her face. Fingertips dancing lightly along her 
hairline, checking for reality, testing its boundaries. Emboldened, 
his thumbs explored further, outlining her jaw, circling her 
cheekbones, surveying the features - reading her like Braille.

She shivered, dreamily awake, and her body asked for more. Her 
eyes found his, saw evidence of too many lonely nights reflected 
there. She nodded.

He swallowed, throat tightening, tongue peeking out to moisten his 
lips.

She wanted him. Not fireworks, not champagne, not a romantic 
table for two, not even a gold ring and a long white dress. Just him. 
And her. Now.

She captured his finger as it drifted too close to her mouth and he 
gasped, stared down at her as if she was the most extraordinary 
thing he'd ever seen - and she knew that he'd seen a lot. Whatever 
tomorrow held, it would be worth it, just for that one look, the 
purity and passion.

They slid into the night together. Sought out a place where blood 
was red and bodies needed air to breathe.

"So brave," he said, though she didn't know why. "So beautiful," 
he added, though there was no reason to seduce. "So precious," and 
she smiled at that, as his tongue slid along her throat, lapping at 
pulse points, firing up nerve endings.

The bed was a concession. She'd wanted him, here on the couch, 
the place she thought of as his home. But he swept her up into his 
arms and grinned, shaking his head, telling her that he needed a 
little more room to maneuver.

It was strangely perplexing to find that he had a bed, as if some 
part of her found Mulder too rare, too extraordinary, to possess 
something so mundane. More shocking still, after a single sweep to 
discard the case notes and magazines filed on its surface, the linen 
was fresh and the quality high.

"You were expecting something a little more sack-cloth and 
ashes?" he asked.

Was she? "The day I see you wearing a hair shirt, I'll know you've 
been replaced by a clone." She fingered his sleeve, gathering up 
the fabric as if she was appraising it with a tailor's eye.

And at once the games were past and suddenly she was on her 
back, sinking into the bed, and he was hovering over her. He 
paused to study her body; his expression changing from amused to 
aroused. A soft exclamation of delight and his lips swooped down 
to capture hers. She groaned, giving him the hint of victory as his 
tongue found new places to excite.

Need demanded naked flesh and found pleasure in the simple 
friction of skin on skin.

Blue melted into hazel and she relished the differences in them 
even as she sought to make the merger more complete. Pale curves 
found warm muscle. Long fingers stole through red waves. Neat 
hands found disobedient brown hair, brushing it tenderly over his 
ears.

"Habanero," he said, the sound of surrender, a brief bark of 
laughter in his voice.

"Still hurting?"

"Hell, no."

And she laughed too. Amazed that they could still laugh. Trying to 
recall the last time she'd laughed in bed; the last time she'd felt like 
this. And then there were no last times, only this time, and she 
threw back her head, baring her throat, as long fingers slid inside 
her and his thumb erased her memories.

Eyes shut. She knew that he would be watching her, but what 
would he focus on? Fond of the inspired leap and the broad sweep, 
yet strong on details too. Perhaps he was studying his fingers as 
she surged against them. Maybe he would just focus on her face as 
her breathing became uncertain.

She forced herself to look, saw such hope and wonder there that it 
was all too much. Lungs gasped helplessly for air and she arched 
her back, insistent on feeling everything as muscles tensed and 
limbs trembled. How had he known? How could he know her like 
this?

Caught by the tide, all questions and thoughts vanished. A 
crescendo of need, impossible to resist.

Breathless, she collapsed, sank limply into the bed. He followed 
her down, milking the last reactions from her. Damp fingers and 
murmured words. Pure Mulder.

Contact suddenly too much, she pulled away, directed him to lie by 
her side. Drew him closer, seeking out the differences again. 
Measured him with fingers left shaky by the ripple of aftershocks.

His hand slid quietly along her spine, drawing out the moment, 
stretching her responses. Always testing her, making her go a little 
further than she'd planned, further than she'd thought possible.

Soon. Soon. Just a little more time. Her heart rate slowed; her 
breathing leveled out; her thoughts came back into focus. She 
smiled as she opened her eyes, acknowledging his presence, 
getting her bearings again. Ready for more.

She couldn't recall him having had the time or freedom to find a 
condom, much less the opportunity to open the packet and place it 
conveniently on the bedside table.

He caught her look of surprise, responded to it. "Multitasking."

"It's a talent," she agreed.

"I have others."

"I've noticed." She reached for the table, determined to test the 
theory.

Her mind wasn't quite so in tune as she'd imagined, tumbling 
through daydreams, driven by hormones. Plans and expectations 
that in daylight would have made her laugh or shake her head. But 
now her brain was lost in the night, bewildered by the logistics.

They suggested practicing this with a banana. She'd tried it once, 
ended up with shreds of rubber and a near naked fruit for her 
trouble. An experiment for another day perhaps.

Apparently he sensed her misgivings, found an escape from her 
hesitation by taking matters into his own hands.

Relieved, she rolled onto her back, stretching expectantly.

A single quiet look of appreciation and he was ready to act, 
moving gracefully into position. His penis brushed damp curls 
aside - playful, exploratory, found a slippery path that made her 
groan.

"Say that again," he said. Smooth and hard as he slid against her 
not even attempting to change the angle.

"Jesus," she gasped, pressing desperately upwards to meet him, 
relishing the quiet pressure even as she strained for more.

"Yeah," she added, as his steady rhythm made her melt, leaving 
her open and wet. And oh so ready. She tilted her hips, making the 
invitation even more explicit.

He took the hint, shifting his weight, angling his body. She held 
her breath in anticipation.

"I always thought you'd want to be on top," he said, as he pushed 
into her.

"So did I," she agreed, surprised that he'd acknowledged the 
fantasy.

Reality was better. Reality felt alive, heavy and warm, and looked 
at her as if she was the most important thing in the world. Reality 
was hot and hard, and she welcomed him by opening up a little 
more, running her hands along his flanks, craning her neck so their 
mouths could find one another again.

Impossible to think of anything except the here and now. 
Ridiculous to resist the chance to relish every drop of life. Had she 
really forgotten this? Or had she simply never experienced it 
before? She accepted his gentle urging and raised her legs, 
pivoting so that she could rest her feet against his shoulders.

Stubble of his cheek brushing against her toes and she groaned, 
challenged muscles that were already complaining about the 
demands to give her more. Worth it. Like everything about the 
man, about them - worth doing whatever it took.

He found her hand, slid her fingers to the place where the heat of 
their bodies was preparing an inferno. He groaned as she panted. 
Kept the pace steady and hard as her fingers circled around the 
flames. He gasped when she stopped breathing.

Shuddered as nerves misfired and tendons screamed, thrashed 
helplessly as calf muscles locked and flexed, and didn't care. Her 
fingers less controlled, more brutal now, demanding her body's 
total surrender.

And she was there again - lost in the waves, contractions hit and 
skin sang and pleasure danced along the boundary of pain before 
becoming pleasure again.

He guided her feet back down to rest in unnatural arches on the 
bed and her toes continued to curl and flex .He slumped down to 
kiss her, his hips still pumping hard and fast.

Losing himself in her, and she stroked his back as he moved, 
savoring the moment. Breathless and shaky now. Falling into her 
again and again. Wild disjointed rhythm until finally he shuddered 
and groaned, burying his face against her neck, mumbling nothing 
words into the pillow.

Cramp in her toes threatened to spoil the afterglow, but he was 
wise enough to move his weight off her, giving her the chance to 
stretch and straighten.

"Hmmm," she said, purring.

"Yeah," he agreed, gathering her into his arms.

When she woke up, he'd already left. Coffee, fresh fruit and 
croissants and a note that said he had a breakfast meeting with 
someone who used to work for Emgen Corporation and an 
appointment with someone at Georgetown University. Still on 
medical leave, he planned to make the most of his remaining 
freedom.

Scully frowned, wondering if she was disappointed, amazed to find 
that she wasn't. If he'd changed - then he wouldn't be the same 
man. If he wasn't the same man - he wouldn't be worth so much.

In any case, she was not on medical leave. Which gave her around 
two hours to get home, get changed and get down to the office. 
Scarcely any time to shower, when what she really needed was a 
long soak in warm bubbles.

----------

The call from the Hoover Building came as no surprise. Even 
before Deep Throat's death, Mulder had felt the pack closing in. 
Skinner's sudden interest in their work. The silent smoking man 
who attended every meeting. The look of near contentment that 
Blevins had worn the last time they'd met.

They'd told Scully before the Tooms' case - conform or else. 
They'd survived, but Scully had lied to protect him from assault 
charges. Skinner had warned him then - it was only his friends on 
Capitol Hill who were keeping him afloat.

The meeting was scheduled for 6:30 and Mulder felt almost 
grateful for that. Out of hours. Fewer people to witness the 
aftermath.

He'd been tried in his absence. Saw the verdict confirmed in 
Blevins' sneer and Skinner's grim expression.

Blevins looked like a man who was enjoying his job. But what 
about the Assistant Director? Mulder studied him, thought he saw 
some hesitation there. Pity perhaps? Or something more?

Whatever the emotion was, it vanished as Skinner assumed control 
of the meeting. He gestured towards the dark glasses that Mulder 
was wearing.

Nice. Not that Mulder blamed him. If he had a suspect hiding 
behind his shades, then he'd feel the same way. Fine. Let the 
interrogation begin. He tucked his sunglasses into his pocket and 
waited, mildly gratified when Skinner flinched at the sudden 
revelation of bloodshot eyes.

"Agent Mulder, if the light's still painful, perhaps you'd better - " 
Skinner waved his hand and Mulder knew he'd just remembered 
the hospital report.

As if it mattered that Mulder needed two weeks of medical leave 
when there was a dead DoD chief to atone for. "I'm fine," Mulder 
said, staring stubbornly, fixedly in Skinner's direction, sitting up a 
little straighter. He added a belated, "Sir," and Skinner's jaw 
tightened a little more.

"Agent Mulder. I don't have to tell you that your conduct in this 
case has been completely unacceptable."

"I think perhaps you do."

A brief frown of disapproval before Skinner passed the problem 
on. "Section Chief Blevins - if you could recap the charges."

Blevins looked grateful at the chance to drone his way through the 
list. The complaints looked good. Start with no authorization, work 
your way through misuse of Bureau resources, and keep on going 
until there's an important man dead on a DC bridge.

Mulder ignored Blevins but didn't take his eyes off Skinner.

The Section Chief hit the last page of the report. The charges 
against Scully alone. First item - failure to notify the Bureau of a 
suspected hostage situation involving a Federal officer.

Some aspects of the reports they'd filed were awfully thorough, 
albeit utterly fantastic and completely uncorroborated. Others were 
sketchy to say the least. With no physical evidence and only their 
own testimony to back it up, it seemed like the only things that 
could be substantiated were their mistakes.

Even if Skinner accepted what they'd written, that still begged the 
question - what the hell kind of trade did Scully decide to make? 
How could their contact, a man with years of service to his 
country, have been so foolish as to play along? Who were the 
people who'd held him hostage and killed Deep Throat? Did they 
draw their paychecks from the Federal government too? Was that 
why they were quite so confident? Was that why they'd returned 
Mulder alive - because catching the traitor in their ranks was good 
enough?

To buy any of it - Skinner would have to buy it all.

Skinner was watching Mulder even more closely now, and the 
agent tried to return the favor. But the stubborn resistance, that had 
seen him sit in silence through the charges against him, was 
starting to fade as Blevins catalogued Scully's crimes. They 
worked for the Bureau; their managers hadn't even been informed. 
Mulder swallowed - an admission of weakness that was spotted 
instantly.

The AD gave Blevins a stop signal and took over the reins again. 
"Agent Mulder, can you offer any explanation for Agent Scully's 
conduct?"

"Agent Scully wanted to have all the facts before she reported my 
disappearance."

"And got a civilian killed. Poor judgment, wouldn't you say? As 
senior agent on the X-Files, do you consider that she made the 
right call?"

"A doctor at Georgetown University had already been killed. 
Agent Scully - "

"Agent Scully made the same choices that you would have made. 
Running evidence through civilian channels instead of through the 
Bureau. Not only destroying any possibility of its use in a criminal 
case but losing it along the way. Fortunately, our investigation has 
proven that Dr Carpenter's death was accidental. Unlike the death 
of your other contact. Expensive call, Agent Mulder?"

It was over. Mulder shifted a little in his chair, a slight nod of the 
head. "What's the deal?"

No "sir" now. Strictly man to man. Skinner accepted the change of 
pace. "Section Chief Blevins - if you'd give me a moment with 
Agent Mulder."

This didn't need witnesses.

Mulder sure as hell didn't need them; he'd already lost enough, 
been humiliated enough. He was momentarily relieved that 
Skinner didn't want them either.

Blevins looked disappointed when he left.

"Don't fight this - no one's going to back you up. Agent Scully will 
go to Quantico. Teaching. There won't be any blemish on her 
record."

Mulder nodded, leaving his boss looking momentarily off-balance, 
surprised by his lack of fight. Fait accomplis were wonderful 
things.

Unfortunately, in this instance, defeat was clearly not enough. 
There was that look of something, embarrassment perhaps, in 
Skinner's eyes again. The man had clearly been ordered to make 
sure this hurt. "There's something else. The DoD conducted 
surveillance. After the death of the man you described as an 
informant. You and Agent Scully - ."

"- were the only witnesses and therefore also their prime suspects. 
Is that why Agent Scully's eyewitness account was ignored?"

Which brought them to the heart of the problem. "Not ignored - 
disregarded. Right now - Agent Scully has zero credibility."

"Sir?"

"I hope it was worth it, Agent Mulder." Surveillance photos. Scully 
entering Mulder's apartment. Lights going off. Scully emerging the 
next morning. "They've got audio, too."

Stunned, Mulder sat back in his chair, reeling from the impact. 
Recovering fast to force the anger and horror out of sight. He 
would have to deal with all that later. He certainly couldn't deal 
with it in front of Skinner. Adopting the expression and the tone of 
voice he'd used in interview rooms across the land, facing down 
killers, demanding action from police chiefs - he played it as coolly 
as he could. "Nothing we did was wrong."

"Legally? Morally? You're adults. She's an attractive woman. 
You've spent a lot of time together - gone through a lot. No one's 
surprised."

"Why was her report rejected?"

"You know why. Where there's no independence, there's no 
corroboration."

Not fair, not fucking fair. "Agent Scully's honesty and integrity 
shouldn't be in question. Our personal relationship changes 
nothing."

Skinner shook his head, looked grimly amused to hear Mulder's 
half-hearted attempt at defense. "She lied during the Tooms case - 
you were in the office when she did it! But this," he waved at the 
photos - Mulder's smiling return to the apartment, arms filled with 
breakfast for two. "I thought after the Fowley fiasco you knew 
better. The X-Files rides on the back of favors and friends. They 
hoped with Agent Scully in place, they'd see some tangible results. 
Instead Agent Scully's become just another unreliable witness. 
You've let them down. You've let yourself down."

"Agent Scully doesn't deserve to be labeled like this."

"Then let her go to Quantico. If you ever hope to work with her 
again. Stay away from her now. Your choice."

----------

A choice, Skinner had said.

Dangling the possibility that one day they might work together 
again.

Casually informing him that whilst Scully's allure was not in 
question, her honesty was. Tainted by her association with his 
work. Discredited by her presence in his bed.

One bit of his brain railed against the unfairness, cried out at 
double standards, tried to claim that none of it had any bearing on 
their professional lives. Unfortunately, he was too honest an 
investigator for that.

Lovers lied for each other, to protect and defend. Fabricated cover 
stories because the alternative was impossible to accept. Even 
monsters had allies, who saw no evil, or else who rationalized the 
evil away.

Skinner was right to be suspicious. In his place, Mulder would be 
too.

And yet it wasn't fair. Not right to split them up on a suspicion. 
Wrong to act as if Scully was just any woman, made blind and 
foolish by love.

Outrageous to suggest that separation might remove the cloud.

Not fair.

Yet why should any of this be fair? Berube, Carpenter, Deep 
Throat - all dead. The test subjects - nameless bodies in glass tanks 
- destroyed. And no possibility of justice anywhere.

Deep Throat told Scully to give away the evidence. Why? To save 
Mulder. Because this was their war and they must live to fight 
another day.

To betray that sacrifice through personal weakness? Unacceptable.

Mulder just hoped that Scully would forgive him.

Forgive him for his prevarication because he didn't see how he 
could tell her about the surveillance tapes that had stolen 
something beautiful and turned it against them.

Forgive him for his evasion because he knew that he wouldn't be 
able to face the horror in her eyes if she heard that she was now 
regarded as his tame accomplice, not as an independent voice.

Forgive him for being weak and imagining they could have it all.

---------

When the phone rang, Scully was ready. She'd tried to go to sleep 
but hadn't quite succeeded. She'd needed to hear his voice, to know 
that everything was all right even though just looking at the clock 
had told her that it wasn't. At least he'd called, a good sign she 
thought. She braced herself for whatever he might say.

"They're shutting us down, Scully."

"What?"

"They called me in tonight and they said they're going to reassign 
us to other sections."

"Who said that?"

"Skinner. He said word came down from the top of the executive 
branch."

The initial relief that he'd called was fading fast. Not fair. Not 
when they'd been so close and seen so much. "Mulder..."

"It's over, Scully."

"Well, you have to lodge a protest. They can't..."

"Yes, they can."

Not right that it could end like this. Not possible that there was no 
way out. Not credible that after all the things they'd been though 
together that he would go down without a fight. "What are you 
going to do?"

"I'm... not going to give up. I can't give up."

The X-Files closed. Separation. Reassignment. But Mulder was 
going to find another way to fight and that was right. That was how 
it should be.

Almost.

They should be together now, discussing this face to face, planning 
a campaign. Lying in each other's arms.

So why was he telling her this over the phone? Why wasn't he 
here?

Her mind raced, looking for the right response, the words that he 
needed to hear from her - to remind him, to reassure him, that they 
would be fighting on together.

The line went dead. The conversation would have to wait.

THE END