Title: The Hunter's Moon: Part I: Girls' Night Out (1/4)
Author: Amber
amber_mb@hotmail.com 
Rating: PG? More fantasy and innuendo than action for part one.
NC-17 at the end.
Classification: UST
Keywords: MSR
Spoilers: "Syzygy," "Never Again." Allusions to "Pilot," "E.B.E.,"
"Pusher," and "Unusual Suspects."
Summary: Scully's Girls' Night Out disturbs Mulder.
Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and the Gunmen belong to Chris Carter, 1013,
David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, James Wong, Glen Morgan, and Fox.
Ronnie and the girls are mine. Please feel free to send feedback, but
be gentle; this is my first time :)
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Note: I wasn't crazy about my title, but much like many an episode, the
more I thought about it, the more I came to like it. Dana, as Jose
Chung pointed out (thank you, Darrin Morgan), is a variation of Diana,
the goddess of the hunt and the moon. You can add whatever connotations
to "hunting" that you like.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Federal Bureau of Investigations
Washington, D.C.
September 2 3:13 p.m.

"So we're on for this evening?" The lovely brunette smiled. "A
girls' night out, no partners, no cases, just wild women on the town,
right Dana?" Her brown eyes sparkled as Dana Scully gave a look that was
two parts wry amusement and one part skepticism. Veronica "Ronnie"
Greene was one of the few single FBI agents who managed to balance a
social life with her career. Too many of the agents, especially the
female ones, dedicated their lives to doing whatever it took to get
ahead. Ronnie firmly believed that playtime was necessary, and she was
determined to help her fellow female agents loosen up and enjoy
themselves. She had been organizing social events for a small circle of
agents, but this was her first time to invite Dana. They'd met while
working on an S & M serial killer case, and Ronnie had decided that
Dana needed her help more than anyone she'd met in a long while. "7:30
at the Hunter's Moon." She waved as she strode away.
Dana turned with a smile and slipped into the basement office that
she shared with her partner. Fox Mulder was seated at the desk,
reading a case file, with his feet propped up. As always, the sight
of him sent a small shiver down her spine, which she hid beneath a
professional demeanor. "Mulder, do we have anything we need to look
into this evening?"
The tone of her voice was casual, too casual. Mulder was a
bit worried; he'd had a thing for his deceptively delicate, red-haired
partner since the moment she'd knocked on his door and he'd announced
that was no one was there but the FBI's least wanted. He forced his
voice to sound as casual as hers, "Hot date?" To his ears, his voice
sounded too casual, too.
She straightened the already-neat files on her desk. "No. One of
the other agents asked me to come to a girls' night out at the Hunter's
Moon, but if we have work, I won't go."
Mulder grinned and fought to keep the satisfaction out of his
voice. No guy, other than him, would be lusting after her, at least for
tonight. "Go. Have fun. We don't have anything that won't keep." He
felt a little guilty for his pleasure that she didn't have a date and
that because of his quest, she didn't have much contact with people
other than him. Besides, he had plans to hang out with the Gunmen
tonight; they had some new technotoys they wanted to show off.
Scully's eyes finally met his. "You're sure? You won't
investigate any leads without me?"
Mulder experienced a stronger stab of guilt. She shouldn't have
to ask if he would run out on her, but he'd done it so often in the
past that he couldn't blame her. "I promise. I'll hang out with the
Gunmen," his lips curved into his charmingly quirky smile, "and I'll
stay out of trouble."
Scully nodded and decided, what the hell, she'd go.


Lone Gunman Headquarters
7:15 p.m.
That evening Mulder knocked at the entrance to the Gunmen's
headquarters. Frohike let him in. "I thought you might bring your
luscious partner tonight. I've got some goggles, stolen from a secret
Russian lab, that work like X-ray vision. I was hoping to try them out
tonight." His eyebrows wagged suggestively.
"Down boy," Mulder grinned. He'd have to borrow those
goggles and use them while they were away on their next case. He'd bet
that seeing through the cute flannel pajamas Scully favored wouldn't be
that difficult. "Scully is at a girls' night out with some other
agents."
Byers straightened his tie. "Mulder, do you think it was a
good idea to let her do that?"
Mulder's eyebrows rose. "I encouraged her to go out." He
shrugged, "She should have friends besides me and you guys."
Langly tossed long blonde locks over his shoulder. "Mulder,
Mulder, do you know what women do on those girls' night outs?"
Mulder's mouth compressed. He'd never thought to ask what his
lovely partner would be up to.
"Strip clubs," whispered Frohike with a lascivious look. "I'd
love to watch Agent Scully hungrily eying some strapping hunk." He
shook his head, "Although I'd much rather she eye me." Mulder
interrupted him with an evil look. "Sorry, man. But," he shrugged,
"girls' night out is code for a bunch of women going out to troll for
men."
Byers leaned against the desk. "We did an expose` on the
origins of the 'girls' night out' concept a few years ago. We
discovered that the idea was spread by a secret government paramilitary
group whose purpose is to keep women from taking over the world."
"Yeah," Langly continued, "see, the group knew that women
have cooler heads and are more likely to seek a compromise than a
battle. So, to protect the military-industrial complex, the group
knew that they had to keep the majority of women out of power. The
group was the impetus behind the sexual revolution, and they created
the Chippendales as a commercial means of diverting women, while raising
money to subsidize further campaigns."
Byers picked up the theory, "They manipulated the media,
promoting the idea that women should view men as sex objects; hence,
the whole 'cute butt' movement, as well as the establishment of a
market for magazines like "Playgirl." 'Girls' night out' became the
media-supported catch-phrase for encouraging women to obsess on sex
rather than power."
Frohike added, "Those strip clubs are hot beds for one night
stands. The clubs don't allow men in until after the strippers have
worked the women into a slobbering frenzy." He nodded at Mulder with a
leer.
Mulder felt ill. "You're kidding. You're messing with me,
right?" He'd encouraged his sweet, innocent Scully into going to one
of those evenings of iniquity.
Byers shook his head, "Sorry, Mulder." He handed Mulder a copy
of the issue that contained the expose`. Mulder skimmed the article,
which seemed to be filled with story after lurid story about women's
escapades, all of which began as a night with the girls and ended up as
a tryst with a sexy stranger. As he dropped the paper, he pulled out
his cell phone. This was going to stop, and right now. He called
information and got the address of the Hunter's Moon.
Frohike called to his back as he headed out the door, "They
don't let men into the strip club until AFTER the performance, but by
then, you may be too late." To Mulder's sensitive ears, Frohike's
laughter was pure malevolent evil.
As Mulder drove, he considered calling Scully's cell phone,
but he decided, in case the Gunmen were wrong, a covert operation was
called for. . . unless she was at a strip club, in which case he was
getting her the hell out of there before some dumb pretty boy with the
body of a Baywatch lifeguard could put his dirty paws, or anything else,
on her. Mulder accelerated as images of Scully flashed through his
mind. Scully surrounded by drunken sailors, being propositioned by burly
leather-clad bikers, being titillated by yuppy scientists giving her
encyclopedic recitations of facts, or even being seduced by horny
literature professors quoting seventeenth century erotic love poems.
He ran a stop light; if a cop happens to stop me, I'll tell him that
it is a life-and-death emergency.

The Hunter's Moon
7:31 p.m.
At the Hunter's Moon, Scully sighed appreciatively. She'd
heard talk of some wild nights out, but the Hunter's Moon was an elegant
jazz club rather than some sleazy meat market. The club was busy, filled
with attractive professionals out for an evening of relaxation without
the elaborate games of seduction common to many clubs. She was relieved
she wouldn't have to spend the evening fighting off or freezing out a
series of lounge lizards.
Ronnie caught her eye with an enthusiastic wave and Scully went to
the table and pulled out one of the empty chairs. "Dana, welcome to the
best jazz club in D. C." She licked her lips seductively, then winked,
"The guy who plays sax tonight has lips that will inspire your wildest
dreams and naughtiest fantasies for weeks."
After Dana ordered a glass of wine from the waiter, she
studied her companions, four women plus Ronnie and herself, all under
forty, all familiar from the Bureau. She forced herself to tune into
the conversation. Ronnie introduced everyone to Dana then went over the
agenda, "First, we order food, then we top it off with something
decadent for dessert, along with this week's installment of those
fabulous stories; finally, the show starts at 9:30. After, we can
make plans for next week."
"You forgot this week's partner poll," a blonde named Jenna
whispered.

The Hunter's Moon
7:49 p.m.
Mulder finally convinced the waitress to place him in a
partitioned booth behind the women by using a twenty and pleading puppy
dog eyes. He had been immeasurably relieved that the Hunter's Moon
wasn't a strip club, so, he decided, that he would only spy...stay, he
corrected himself, long enough to make certain that the women weren't
going to corrupt his partner. He liked her exactly the way she was,
proper, reserved, and maybe a little bit repressed.

A pouty voice caught his attention, "I don't think we should
let Dana in. It's not fair, she'll win every time."
Scully's back stiffened as she prepared to defend her partner.
Ronnie grinned, "Not necessarily, just because he's
gorgeous...and all. . . Byronic, doesn't mean that he'd win."
Scully's voice was cautious, "What is this poll exactly?"
Mulder leaned back toward the partition, his ears
straining.....Byronic? him?
"Whose partner is the sexiest...we each tell an example of the
sexist thing our partner has done. So far, Lorna has won four times."
A woman with a brownish-blond bun tipped her head with a shrug. "Show
Dana the picture," Ronnie gestured with a playful smile.
Lorna removed a picture from her wallet of herself with her
partner.
Scully gasped, "He looks like Keanu Reeves in 'Point Break.'
Where have they been hiding him?"
Mulder scowled. Damn movie was the most far-fetched depiction
of the FBI ever, and damn Keanu Reeves spent most of the damn movie
running around either half naked or in a skin-tight wet suit.
"Undercover. We've went into a couple busts as a married
couple."
"And what kinds of things has he done to win the poll?"
Mulder thought sourly that Scully sounded a little too
interested.
Lorna resembled a cat with a whisker full of cream. "Um...."
her eyes closed as she seemed to savor the image, "answering his hotel
door in red bikini briefs." To Mulder's disgust, the women ah'ed over
that. "For one assignment, he had a specially made temporary tattoo with
my name. He put it on his back, the left shoulder blade, and during
the last assignment, he tipped me back into this low dip and kissed
me." Mulder rolled his eyes, what drivel, the guy was probably gay,
but the women were sighing....loudly, and he had a sneaking suspicion
that it was his lovely partner who had whispered, "Lucky." Mulder was
completely disgusted. At the very least, he could count on the fact
that his reserved Scully would never participate in such low-brow
nonsense, she wouldn't ever stoop to...
"I'm in." Mulder's jaw dropped. How could she? How could she
use him like that? Sharing their private moments? Describing bits of
their lives in order to win a sexy partner...Mulder's train of thought
derailed...why am I upset about this? His mouth quirked as he
recognized the implications, after all he was a pretty bright guy, he
congratulated himself. By participating, Dana Katherine Scully was
tacitly admitting that she found him, Fox William Mulder, sexy. Well,
well, well. The quirk broadened into a full-fledged grin. This little
excursion was turning out to be well worth the time and effort.
The poll began right after the women ordered. Ronnie
explained the rules. The story had to be something that had happened
during that week, and it had to be something that was melt-your-knees
sexy. Other than that, anything goes.
One of the other women at the table, Christen, Scully thought
was her name, asked to see a picture of Scully's partner. Scully was
surprised; she thought that everyone knew Mulder. Gorgeous,
rebellious, and insistent on flaunting his non-traditional beliefs,
Mulder wasn't exactly low profile, but then Christen had only been at
the Bureau for a couple weeks. She searched her wallet and finally
found a picture her mother had taken of them standing together at
Maggie's Christmas Eve dinner. She smiled fondly at the shot; they
were gazing into each other's eyes, in earnest conversation. Her
mother, who was constantly asking when she was going to make an honest
man of her partner, liked Fox and had insisted that he spend Christmas
Eve with them since he only visited his own mother on Christmas Day.
Mulder wondered what the picture looked like that the women
were murmuring over appreciatively. Also, he wondered how he could
manage to search Scully's wallet on Monday at the office in order to
find out.
The other women went first, so they could give Dana time to
prepare her tale. The forerunner was Lorna again, who had described in
excruciatingly minute detail how her partner introduced her to their
new case by arriving at her door wearing tight, black leather pants, a
black leather vest, and carrying a red rose; he was going to be a
drug-smuggling musician working as a courier for a major mob boss and
she was going to be his band manager, the one he was controlling with
sex. Mulder had nearly gagged, especially when the women applauded.
While the other women shared their "entries" in the contest,
Scully sorted through a seemingly endless catalog of possibilities.
Mulder did a million small things that were sexy. Faint color flushed
her cheeks; any of Mulder's titanic passions, all of them, were equally
appealing. She thought that he was as sexy when he was vehemently
defending his beliefs as he was when he was teasing her. Some of the
incidents she found most arousing were too small to adequately describe,
like his boyish smile before he hit her with one of his more outlandish
theories, the sheepish expression he always wore when he would
convince her to go chasing an outrageous story, the light glinting off
his little professor glasses when he was reading a case file, his
enthusiasm for slide shows, or the flash of his tongue as he munched
sunflower seeds....any of those never failed to turn her on.
Then it was her turn, and suddenly, she knew the incident she
had to describe:

It was Wednesday, and I had walked over to the reflecting pool where
Mulder and I frequently meet to relax, breathe some fresh air, and
absorb some sunshine during our lunch hour. He was already there,
sitting in a shaft of sunlight, which gilded his light brown hair gold.
One heavy lock fell across his forehead as he glanced up at me,
welcoming me with a little smile. He'd already finished his sandwich
and was just ready to eat his dessert, a ripe, red-gold peach. I sat
down next to him and just watched him. He held the peach firmly,
sideways, his fingers unyielding, but careful not to bruise the tender
fruit; then he bit into it the way most people do an apple. His first
bite was a healthy one. His eyes closed as his teeth sunk delicately
into the ripe fruit. He moaned then, low and appreciative, as the
juice wet his lips, making them slick. He licked away the juice, then,
turning the peach, bit into it again, gently, carefully. A drop of
juice hovered at the corner of his mouth and started to slide toward his
jaw when he wiped it away with his thumb, which he then slid into his
mouth and sucked. His eyes closed again with the third bite, which made
a sweet, wet crunch as he consumed it; then, he sucked at the raw,
golden flesh, licking delicately the rough pit at the peach's core.
When his eyes opened, he smiled and offered me a bite.

By the time she finished, Scully's normally pale blue eyes had
turned ocean dark; she smiled. There was a long moment of silence,
then a great deal of throat-clearing.
Mulder shifted restlessly; his arousal was pressing
uncomfortably into the zipper of his jeans. He remembered offering
Scully a bite of his peach, and while he'd wanted badly for her to lean
over and place her mouth where his had been and to take a bite, he'd
had no idea that she'd seen him eating in quite that light. Her face
hadn't reflected a bit of sensuality or even a glimmer of vague
interest. He wondered if she truly thought that him eating was sexy, in
which case the peach industry was about to see a boom, or if this was
just an example of her competitive spirit.
Mulder heard ice clinking against glasses; then Ronnie said,
"We'll take a minute then vote. Afterwards, I have our literary
dessert to go with our Death by Chocolate Cake. The latest piece of
work by our anonymous writer is called 'The Stake Out.' " She turned to
Scully to explain the origin of the stories, "Jill and I found these
fabulous stories on the Internet. 'Steele-Eyes' Skinner..."
The pouty-voiced Jill interrupted, "I prefer 'Bald and
Beautiful' Skinner..." Mulder rolled his eyes.
Ronnie raised an eyebrow, "Regardless, he assigned us to act
as watchdogs for anti-government groups after the last bomb threat
against the FBI. He wanted us to look for any group that might be
publishing threats to the FBI over the Net. But as we were going
through the listings, we found these sexy stories about an FBI agent and
the partner he lusts for."
Mulder froze; it couldn't be the same story; it couldn't be his
most recent story, but he was all too afraid that his worlds were about
to collide and his little secret was about to be exposed. Well, at the
very least, he could duck and run, so he wouldn't overhear Scully
dissecting his fantasies. He threw down some bills and dashed for the
door before he even found out whether or not Scully's story won the
partner poll.
Moments later, the votes had been cast and counted. Scully won
5-1; only Scully voted for Lorna. It wasn't that she didn't think her
partner was the sexist or that she felt obligated to vote for someone
else; she voted for Lorna because she figured that she would give just
about anything to see Mulder in tight, black leather pants.

After the waiter brought their desserts, Scully took her copy of
"The Stake Out" with some trepidation. She didn't know what to expect.
. . a mini-romance novel? a semi-literate short story? She smiled,
maybe something Mulder would enjoy like soft core porn? She began
reading:

"The Stake Out"
Her hair shone gold in the moonlight instead of its usual,
lovely burnished red. He caught his breath as his partner settled more
comfortably into the passenger seat of the car, snuggling her cheek
into the butter-soft leather. He fought the urge to lean over and to
taste her softly parted lips and instead settled for gently brushing a
silky ribbon of hair away from her cheek. He froze as she smiled and
nuzzled the seat, but didn't waken. He wondered if she was dreaming,
what she was dreaming, if she was dreaming about a caressing phantom
lover, or if she could possibly be dreaming about him. He sighed, if
only she was dreaming about him.
He leaned back into his seat; his head flopped back against the
seat rest. He considered moaning out his frustration, but was afraid
of waking his delectable partner. He sighed. He'd loved her for so
long; since the first moment he'd saw her, he supposed, although he
hadn't recognized it until one night on a stake out much like this one.
He was waiting for her, and when she appeared, flushed and wind-tossed
like Diana fresh from the hunt, she carried a bag. He'd joked that if
it held a ham and cheese on wheat, he'd be in love. She'd replied that
he was in luck, it was turkey on white. At that moment, he'd realized
that he'd both meant his declaration of love and that he had wanted her
to return his feelings.

Scully paused for a moment. . . the incident seemed familiar. Then
she shrugged. Any set of male/female partners in the FBI would have
had similar experiences of spending time watching a place alone in a car
at night, and no doubt countless of those partners had also brought
food or, she smiled as her particular experience came back to her,
drinks.

He turned his head to look at her. . . beautiful, she was so
beautiful, and in sleep, she seemed even more deceptively delicate,
angelic. Her powerful intelligence, strength, and courage were in her
face, but muted without her lovely piercing ice blue gaze. He tore
his eyes from her face, checked the dark and quiet house again, then
gave into the temptation to fantasize. Just for a moment, he promised
himself, after all, he didn't want to miss his suspect or to embarrass
himself. He shifted his hips uncomfortably; it was all to easy to do
and had happened much too often; she'd just never noticed.
He imagined: he would lean over and place his lips softly,
gently against hers, a bare whisper. Her eyelids would flutter open and
she'd give him the warm, inviting, sleepy smile that haunted his dreams.
He'd lean over and kiss her again, this time to taste, to capture, to
preserve, to treasure that smile. His mouth would move smoothly over
hers. Her lips would part on a gasp of surprised pleasure; her tongue
would flick out to taste the sensation of his mouth on hers and would
accidentally brush his lips. With that delicate provocation, he'd
deepen the kiss, begging entrance to her mouth with his own tongue.
She'd open for him, and he'd explore her heavenly flavors, thoroughly
and deeply. His fingers would thread gently through the silken length
of her hair then would slide down to cup the back of her neck. He'd
fill his hand with her hair, and tug, easing her head back, tilting her
face up so he could taste her even more completely, could savor her
more fully. He would. . .
A sudden noise from the house shifted his attention. Damn. He
had to relinquish his fantasy at one of his favorite spots. He gently
reached over and brushed his index finger down her cheek to wake her,
one of his favorite methods. He supposed he could've touched her
shoulder or spoken her name, but this way he had an excuse to touch
her, to satisfy his longing for her, even if it was just for the
barest second. She came alert quickly, too quickly, as the stake out
turned from private contemplation to serious work.

Scully set the story aside and savored the last bite of her
supremely decadent dessert. The chocolate melted in her mouth, rich,
luscious, and creamy, what she frequently imagined her partner's mouth
would taste like. Her body began a low, insistent throb that only grew
worse during the jazz musician's performance. The sax player was
incredibly skillful, and the music built the throb in her with
insidious eroticism. Scully tried to focus purely on the music, and she
tried valiantly to lust and sigh over the handsome saxophonist, but her
partner's face superimposed itself over the sax player's, along with a
tantalizing image of herself appearing at Mulder's door in a slinky
dress and carrying a bottle of champagne and a bag of chocolate-covered
strawberries. By the end of the first set, Scully was determined to
leave before the music, her fantasies, and the mysterious writer's
lingeringly seductive influence convinced her that strawberry and
champagne seduction was both her style and the right thing to do. As
she rose from the table and made her excuses, Ronnie stopped her with a
smile and wink, "I'll let you know about the plans for next week.
You'll have to give Lorna a chance to reclaim the sexiest partner
title."

Alexandria, VA
Apartment 42
10:31 p.m.
Mulder hadn't needed to stay to listen to the women,
especially Scully, discuss "dessert." He already knew how "The Stake
Out" went; after all, he'd written it. He grimaced. This, like so much
of the entire evening, was also the Gunmen's fault. Several weeks
ago, Frohike had claimed that Mulder absolutely had to read these
stories they'd found while surfing the Net.
"Cyber-porn?" Mulder figured that was about the only thing that would
bring that particular leer to Frohike's face. It was the one he usually
reserved for Scully.
"No, dude." Frohike's glasses reflected a tiny image of his
hands holding a sheaf of papers. "Internet erotica. . .I saved you all
the ones featuring lovely redheads."
Mulder skimmed the first one. "Trite." Then he read the second,
"Sadly, most porno films have better dialogue than this." After the
third one, his voice moved a note past dry to extremely sarcastic, "My
god. . . I have a photographic memory, do you realize this drivel is now
stored forever in my brain?" After tossing the fourth story aside in
disgust, Mulder said, "I could write better than this, and I haven't
done any creative writing since my angst poetry period in college and a
bad reincarnation fanfic episode of my favorite science fiction
program, which by the way, was almost universally reviled."
Langly's dimples flashed as he draped his arms over his chair.
"Okay, Agent Mulder. Put your money where your PC is. Write a better
story. Byers can judge. If the story isn't better, the loser buys
cheese steaks."

Mulder scowled and picked up the basketball out of the corner
of his living room. It was late, but he began bouncing it anyway. His
ego had accepted the challenge, and he'd written his first story about
an FBI agent and the sexy red-haired partner that he longs for. His
first story was, Mulder's forehead furrowed, pure fantasy fulfillment.
It began with a tense scene in which the partner catches the agent with
an assisting officer in a compromising situation that he had done
absolutely nothing (that part was stressed in great detail) to
encourage. The partners argue and she ends up shoving him against the
wall and they make love in great and graphic detail. He considered
his second story a great deal better since he'd decided to leave his
hero hanging. He could desire the partner, fantasize about her,
contemplate his love for her, but he wouldn't actually make love with
her. Although he liked to believe that the decision was made for
literary reasons, in actuality, it was more a decision that if he
wasn't getting any, his literary counterpart shouldn't be either. Thus,
his hero was left fantasizing about and longing for the partner he
privately loves.
This second story had the female partner pulling away from the
agent, rejecting the emotional intimacy of their relationship. She
meets another man who convinces her to get a tattoo to mark her
rebellion and the rejection of her and her partner's relationship. The
other man turns into a dangerous psychopath, and her partner has to
rescue her after spending long hours alone, lonely and longing for any
excuse to go to her. Mulder had been careful that the partner hadn't
had sex, or even any real desire, for this other man--there were things
Mulder didn't even want to contemplate--instead the agent only makes
love to her partner in a fantasized dream sequence that allows him to
claim her, to erase any minor attraction she might've experienced for
this other man. He imagines worshiping her body, devoting time to
kissing and licking her tattoo, claiming it and transforming it from a
symbol of rejection to one marking her as his possession, the circle a
symbol not of the end of a cycle, but a representation of the completion
they find in each other. The story ends after the fantasy with an
uncomfortable scene between the partners, in which neither can
adequately express their emotions.
When Frohike had finished the first story, all he'd said was,
"That was hot!" After the second story, he shifted uncomfortably in his
chair and whispered, "Your kung fu is the best!"
Byers had agreed, and without Mulder's permission, Langly created
a website, www.fbi.erotic.com, and posted both of Mulder's stories.
Although at first he'd been angry and afraid that Scully would
unwittingly uncover his fantasies, his feelings about her, once he saw
the flatteringly increasing number of hits on the site, Mulder had
accepted the site's existence and rationalized leaving it up and running
since he figured that Scully wasn't very likely to see it. She tended
to use the Net only to search for medical knowledge, so it would be a
one in a million link that would expose her to his literary fantasies.
He'd gone on and wrote two more stories, one about his fear of losing
her to a life-threatening illness (unnamed just in case), and then just
earlier this week, he'd posted, "The Stake Out." Fortunately, in this
story, he hadn't included any X-filesque details, as he had in the
others. A dull throb pulsed his temples. He thought that of the ones
he'd written, that one at least was probably general enough to be safe.
He tried to reassure himself; there was no reason for Scully to connect
him with the author of that story. . . he hoped.
Had he known that because of his story, all night long, Scully
twisted and turned in her bed, tormented by erotic dreams about making
love with her partner in the front seat of a rental car, Mulder
would've panicked.

End Part I.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Title: "The Hunter's Moon: Part II: 'The Anatomically Correct Ken doll' "
(2/4)
Author: Amber
amber_mb@hotmail.com 
Rating: PG
NC-17 at the end.
Classification: UST
Keywords: MSR
Spoilers: "Pusher," "Small Potatoes," "Detour," "Quagmire," "Bad
Blood."
Summary: Mulder reacts to some provocative pictures of Scully.
Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and the Gunmen belong to Chris Carter, 1013,
James Wong, Glen Morgan, and Fox. Ronnie and the "Ken doll" are mine.

Part II:
Federal Bureau of Investigations
Washington, D.C.
Friday September 12
4:30 pm

Throughout the week, Scully found herself drifting off,
fantasizing about "The Stake Out," wondering about and nearly lusting
after the author. Granted, this week's case, an open-and-shut
operation that involved a missing mummy, wasn't particularly
mesmerizing. To Mulder's Boris Karloff-induced disappointment, she and
he had proven that the crime was a scam for insurance money, despite
the museum curator's claim that the mummy came to life and was seeking
revenge on all the descendants of those who disturbed his tomb. The
missing mummy was a hoax, and the deaths were murders; the only weird
element was that the mummy wasn't found where the man had claimed to
have left it before he committed suicide by throwing himself out of a
fourth story window. Since it was more straightforward than their
usual investigations, the case had given her too much real stake out
time to think, and she found herself curious enough about the mystery
writer's next possible story to agree to another Girls' Night Out with
Ronnie, in spite of the reluctance engendered by the cryptic note,
which said, "This week you have to come, Dana. We are going to see
something that I promise will strip away your inhibitions."

Monday September 15
8:50 am
The plain, white, letter-sized envelope arrived in the
inter-office mail. As Mulder picked it up and noticed 'Dana' scrawled
across the front, 4 x 6 inch pictures fell out. He was about to
return them absently to the envelope when he noticed that they featured
his Scully and, he blinked twice, a man who looked like a
g-string-wearing, surgically-enhanced version of himself...slightly
smaller, straighter nose, firmer, squarer chin, and a poutier, fuller
top lip, a better partner, damn it, for the bottom one. It was as if
God had decided to correct every one of the irregular features that he
occasionally felt insecure about.
Scruples wavering, then gone, Mulder opened the envelope and
found a note. . . from Ronnie. He couldn't trust the blasted woman
after all. He'd thought that since he'd checked out the first Girls'
Night Out, any others would be harmless enough. Apparently, she was
just lulling him into a false sense of security, and the Gunmen and
their insane girls' night out theory were right. Every detail of that
lurid expose` flashed through his mind, a cavalcade of horrors, one
night stands, bizarre sex acts, kissing. His sweet Scully had sampled
her first evening of iniquity, and he had photographic as well as
written proof.
The note read: "I'm glad you joined us. I told you that you'd
be surprised. I thought you'd appreciate a little memento of the
evening's highlight. By the way, you left too soon; his name is Eric,
and he wanted to slip you his number, and probably something else--I'm
only partially teasing. He said if you want to get together, give him a
call." --The number followed then a couple of blank lines down.--
"You have to be the luckiest woman alive; you work with one, smart,
gorgeous, all-business version and could be dating the other more
manageable, flexible version. Just kidding. But seriously, I've been
to this place over twenty times and I've never even heard of one of the
dancers giving a woman his number. I'd always thought that it was
against policy, fraternizing with the customers, or something. Anyway,
I hope you can join us again this Friday."
Mulder was tempted to tear up the note, or at the very least to
"edit" it. By the time he'd finish with it, it would look like some of
the leftover files from the '50s. At the very least, he could
"accidentally" spill coffee on the stripper's phone number, blurring it
beyond recognition. Instead, he flipped through the pictures and
examined them carefully. He frowned; they appeared to give a
photographic history of the highlight of the evening's "entertainment."
One had a woman holding a dollar over his lovely Scully's head; her
expression was oblivious and detached, maybe even a bit bored. Next,
his look-alike was ripping off a policeman's uniform. Mulder paused;
was that what she found attractive? a uniform? His brow furrowed. He
didn't have a uniform. The FBI "uniform" was a suit and tie, and even
on preplanned busts, the agents didn't have much in the way of
uniforms, just black jackets with FBI in large yellow block, over
bullet-proof vests.
He paused again and tapped the picture thoughtfully against his
mouth...although, that one time with the "Pusher," hmmm; Scully had
seemed to respond to him more deeply than before. Was it, could it have
been the bullet-proof vest and the headset?
He wondered how he could orchestrate an opportunity to show up at
her place in a uniform. He certainly couldn't just rent a cop costume
and pop up at her door, handcuffs dangling from one finger as he
lounged against the door frame, could he? That's probably what the Keanu
Reeves/ "Point Break" partner would do, damn him. He set the photo
down. Maybe he could throw a costume party, but he didn't have the
number of friends to make that workable. He didn't trust anyone but
Scully, and that made even casual friendships difficult. Besides, if
he had her in his apartment, turned on by his rented uniform, he'd want
to be alone with her, so she could divest him of it, hopefully in a way
that would involve tearing materials and popping buttons. He grinned at
his fantasy image of Scully, her usual icy-reserve melted with the
strength of uniform-induced flaming desire.
He shook himself as the clock clicked loudly as it hit 9:00.
At best, he probably only had a few more minutes before Scully arrived.
He flipped through the rest of the pictures--one of the impostor
walking toward a surprised Scully, then a close-up of her with an
embarrassed expression--at least she didn't appear to be enjoying
herself. The next shot froze his blood. The impostor was moving in to
kiss her. It uncomfortably reminded him of Eddie Blundht, and the way
that he and Scully had never discussed her willingness to kiss him.
Damn. . . and now she was doing it again, kissing a man who looked like
him and yet wasn't.
The final shot caused his stomach to clench. Scully's face was
hidden, as the dancer appeared to be giving her a body hug. Her
forehead rested against the side of his neck; her chest was pressed
hard to the rock-like musculature of his. However, what was most
striking was the dancer's face. His doppleganger had an odd expression
of longing shadowed with a hint of vulnerability. He knew that look; it
was one that he frequently saw in the mirror. That stripper wanted his
Scully for real, damn his perfect-toothed smile. Mulder scowled
blackly. He'd bet that his doppleganger was born with that perfect grin
rather than having to suffer two and a half years of orthodontic hell.
Mulder tossed the picture onto the stack. He could feel his
hands turning into fists. A red haze seemed to form around the pictures.
He'd been spending his free time pouring out his longing and desire into
his computer screen, and she'd went out and replaced him with some
obviously anatomically correct Ken doll. His brows raised as he heard
the click of her heels coming down the hall. He hastily crammed the
pictures and the note back into the envelope and set it on her
desk---right in the middle with her other mail. He would just see how
cool she could be when faced with her nefarious evening activities.
--Some small rational part of his mind reminded him that he didn't have
a claim on her or on how she spent her time, but the rest of his brain
was screaming that his woman had betrayed him.
Scully gave him one of her trademark "hello" smiles, and he
thought how innocent she looked. . . unbesmirched by her nocturnal
goings-on. "Has the mail arrived?"
"Waiting for something--special?" He handed her the stack of
envelopes. 'The' envelope was second from the top.
Her eyebrows raised for a second. Then she opened the top
envelope, glanced at the contents then tossed it away. Moments
later, she opened the plain white envelope, gasped and quickly shoved
the pictures back inside.
Time to play. Mulder faked concern. "What? What is it?
Crime scene photos?" Crime scene, indeed!
"Um, no." Scully started to slide the envelope into a drawer
when he snatched it away.
Mulder opened it and feigned surprise. "Oh, Scully. I'm
shocked." He considered tsk-ing, but was afraid that would push it too
far. "Aren't you the same woman who said that men who patroned
strippers were lowlifes, too weak to form attachments to real women, so
they objectified them in order to project their lust without ever having
to deal with mature emotions?" He fought down a surely smug grin at
her expression. Sometimes a photographic memory was a true blessing.
"A-hem." Her voice took on the teacher/scientist lecturer tone
that made him want to rip her clothes off. "Actually, I believe the
strip, I mean, exotic dancer experience is very different for men and
women." She studied the pattern of pencils on her desk. "Men have a
tangible physical reaction to watching women take their clothes off. It
is very sexual. In contrast," she cleared her throat, "women, from
what I observed that night, experience primarily embarrassment. That
emotional, rather than physical, response somehow helps with female
bonding, probably due to the fact that women seek shared emotional
experiences in order to cement their friendships."
That was his Scully, he thought fondly, always the scientist. He
allowed the grin to bloom; she'd delivered her theory to her stapler.
He walked slowly around his desk into her sight line, stood next
to her, and half sat on her desk, facing her. Mulder badly wanted to tip
her face up, to force her to look at him, to really look at him and to
see his jealousy. In his mind he could hear Frohike's voice taunting
him, 'Those strip clubs are hot beds for one night stands. The clubs
don't allow men in until after the strippers have worked the women into
a slobbering frenzy.' His eyes slid quickly over her face. "Are you
saying you didn't enjoy salivating over beefcake all evening?"
Scully hoped Mulder hadn't noticed the distinct resemblance
that the "beefcake" bore to him. Her pale eyes finally met his, honest
and straightforward. "I enjoyed the female companionship. I liked
having other women to talk to and to laugh with." I enjoyed the partner
poll, even though Lorna won this week by one vote, she added silently.
"But actually watching the strippers dance was the single least erotic
incident of my life." The most erotic point in the evening was reading
the latest effort by the mystery writer, a lovely ode to the fantasies a
man has while watching his partner practice at the gun range.
Mulder badly wanted to ask what was the most erotic incident
of her life, and if by any chance it involved him. Was it a night spent
in a Florida forest singing "Joy to the World" and wishing vehemently
for a sleeping bag? A tense moment in which life and death were only
separated by how much control he had over his own mind? A
literary/philosophical discussion of "Moby Dick" on an island at
midnight? The day she watched him eat a peach? Or, and more likely,
did the most erotic time in her life not even involve him? He settled
for, "Can you honestly say that you don't find him attractive?"
Mulder wasn't sure what response he wanted from her, but he
nearly cursed aloud when he realized that he'd unwittingly chosen the
most flattering shot of the stripper to wave in front of her face. The
man's genuine hunger for Scully was visible from the tensed ridges of
his washboard abs to the hollowed, chiseled cheeks, to his piercing. .
. damn him anyway. Why couldn't the man at least have big buck teeth?
Scully smiled the Mona Lisa smile that drove him nuts, and not
for the first time, he wished that he had ESP and could read her mind.
"I didn't say that I don't find him attractive, just that
stripping wasn't a big," her eyebrows rose, "or even a small turn-on.
I don't know; it may be a leftover primal instinct. Men find the
stripping sexy because of the times when only primitive Alpha males
could mate with the Alpha females, and stripping gives them access to
women who would otherwise be out of reach. On the other hand, primitive
women wanted to own a man in order to secure her and her children's
survival, so for women, watching an Alpha Male share himself with a
room full of women isn't appealing. It's just threatening." She seemed
to be warming to her theory. "I think a private one-on-one strip tease
would be erotic, whereas watching as part of a crowd just wasn't."
Surreptitiously, Mulder slipped the note out of the envelope,
palmed it, and stuffed it into his pocket. The Ken doll would do some
private dancing for Scully over his dead body. He dropped the pictures
back into the envelope and returned it to her. He wanted badly to
spread his legs, pull her between his thighs, and offer to give her what
she wanted, a private dance. He'd strip for her, slowly, but with great
enthusiasm. Instead, with a silent nod, he slipped away from her side
of the desk, taking with him an idea for his next story.

End Part II
(2/4)

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Title: "The Hunter's Moon: Part III: 'The Capture' " (3/4)
Author: Amber
amber_mb@hotmail.com 
Rating: R for sexual situations . Also, sappy, so beware, if you
don't like it mushy, don't read any further.
NC-17 at the end.
Keywords: MSR
Spoilers: "Folie a Deux," "Little Green Men," "Beyond the Sea,"
"Anasazi," "Emily," "War of the Coprophages," "Syzygy."
Allusions to "Irresistible," "Paper Hearts," "Tooms (Squeeze 2)."
Summary: Scully discovers the identity of her mystery writer and
confronts him; much pleasure ensues.
Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and the Gunmen belong to Chris Carter, 1013,
et. al.

Part III:

Alexandria, VA
Apartment 42
September 20 1:14 am

Mulder had regretted posting the story only seconds after he
had done it. Posting it had been reckless, dangerous, and he'd sweated
for a week, hoping he could keep it out of Scully's hands. It was too
soon, too recognizable. At least he and Scully had been out of town
on the Friday in which "The Fantasy" would have been used for "dessert"
at Ronnie's regular Girls' Night Out. In order to keep it from her, he'd
fabricated an excuse to stay an additional day in San Antonio. Just to
be safe, he would make sure that he posted another story before this
Friday, insuring that this week's "dessert" would be innocuous. His
mouth quirked; it would have to be a doozy, "The Fantasy" was worth a
second week as dessert, if he did say so himself. But now it was time
to make magic. He turned on his computer, cranked up some mood music,
and began typing.

Annapolis, MD
September 20 7:14 p.m.
Scully accessed the Net and typed in www.fbi.erotic.com. All
for a fix of her fantasy writer, she had suffered untold embarrassment
both at the "stripperfest" and in that tense scene when Mulder caught
her with the photographic evidence of her illicit activities. After all
that, she wasn't about to miss her mystery writer's new story. Ronnie
had gladly, even eagerly, passed on the Internet address when she'd
asked for it. The page came up; she decided to save and savor the
three older titles that she hadn't read yet. She found "The Fantasy,"
opened it, and began to read.

The connecting door on her side was closed, but he knew that
it would be unlocked. He rested his forehead against the door for a
moment breathing deeply and fighting the urge to reach for the knob.
His body begged him to open it, and a voice in his mind whispered, "What
would be the harm? You could go in and see if she's asleep. You could
just sit in the chair and watch her breathe. You could forget your fear
of losing her, your torment, your guilt; you could just absorb her
flawless beauty, wallow in your desire, indulge in your fantasies. You
wouldn't even be taking a risk; she couldn't reject you, not asleep.
You wouldn't be risking your heart."
The other, more careful part of his mind asked, "What if
she's not asleep?"
That insidious, tempting voice chuckled, "Well, that could
be even more interesting."
He rubbed his forehead against the door and barely restrained
from banging it against the doorframe in an attempt to knock some sense
into that whispering part of his mind. He was thinking of his own
selfish needs, not hers. He felt the sigh begin in the depths of his
soul. It poured out in a well-deep rush. He watched, almost
dispassionately, as his hand reached for the knob and turned it. The
temptation was too strong tonight. His will, he chastised himself, was
weak, but god, he'd almost lost her. The maniac they were pursuing
had been pursuing her. He'd captured her and was preparing to kill her.
The remembered fear caused his gut to clench; if he'd been only moments
later, he would have been too late. Providence, luck, a supreme being,
fate, he didn't know which one to thank that he hadn't been too late.
An image of her frightened face still swam in front of his eyes.
He would just peek in on her, he promised himself. He just
wanted to reassure himself by watching her breathe. It wasn't sexual,
or at least, for the most part it wasn't. His mouth twisted and he was
honest, at least with himself. He wanted her; he always wanted her,
anytime, anywhere, under any circumstances, but the desire was tempered
by his love, which was every bit as strong as his lust.
In the next room, the bed creaked as if a body were tossing to
and fro. The creaking was followed by a loud whimper. Concern closely
chased by relief crashed through him. Finally, he had an excuse to go
to her. He pushed open the door and crossed to the bed, refusing to
acknowledge the part of him that was eagerly devouring the sight of her
lying on her side with the jade silk man's-style pajama top slipping
off her shoulder, her skin alabaster in the faint light. The sheets
were twisted around her, a testament to her nightmares.
She whimpered again. He hurried to her bedside, knelt over,
and gently brushed the silken red strands from her forehead. "Wake up,
baby," his voice was gentle, hushed. His fingers slid down to the
curve of her cheek. "C'mon, open those gorgeous blue eyes." His thumb
rubbed her cheekbone then trailed down and across her full bottom lip;
like rose petals, he thought.
Her eyes flickered open as his hand slid away as if it had
never caressed her. "It's you. I was dreaming of the attacker, and
then," her smile was warm and sleepy, "my dream changed; I woke up."
He smiled at her gently. She was always so open to him in the
middle of the night. "Do you want to tell me about the dream?" He
grinned playfully. "Banish the bogeyman?"
She rolled slightly onto her back. "No. It's gone, and I
don't want to think about it again." Her voice was hesitant, "But, would
you stay? Just until I fall back to sleep?" Her eyes were already
starting to drift shut. Her voice was husky, "Sometimes, I think you are
my personal dream catcher. I never have nightmares when I know you are
close by."
As he nodded solemnly, his heart ached. He'd lie on a bed
of nails if she asked. Staying in a chair next to her bedside was no
hardship; he'd done it before and without her even having to ask. He
found great comfort and satisfaction just in being near her. His grin
this time was self-mocking; sadly, it was only when he contorted
himself into a chair next to her bedside that he was able sleep well,
soundly, deeply, peacefully.
He pulled the chair close to the bed and made himself as
comfortable as possible. He drifted off to the sound of her breathing
and the sweet, faint scent of her perfume.
The dream came quickly that night and began as it always did.
He stood next to her bed; she gazed up at him. "Hurry, please hurry. I
need you, darling."
His fingers began slipping the buttons of his shirt out of the
holes quickly until he noticed her pleasure. She enjoyed watching him
undress for her. Her eyes were midnight dark, hot and hungry, flashing
with desire. Deliberately, he slowed down. He toyed with the next
button, running his fingertip around the button several times before
sliding it from the hole. His hips did a slow hard grind as the last
button slipped free and he shrugged out of his shirt. Her light,
musical laugh delighted him. "That's it, G-man, give me a little
one-on-one strip tease; do it just for me."
He rolled his shoulders and let the roll ripple down to his
hips, rocking them up and back. He unbuckled his belt then pulled it
free, slowly, slowly. Dropping the belt to the floor, he toyed with
the button on his pants; his eyes locked on hers, daring her to look
away. She didn't as he flicked the button free then inch by inch moved
the zipper down. His breath lodged in his throat; the anticipation was
killing him. His body was burning, hot and ready just from the
anticipation, from the sensation of her eyes first locked on his and
then from the blaze of midnight blue fire down his body. She was
staring as his pants slipped down his hips; he knew that his arousal was
completely obvious to her, and he couldn't hold out any longer. He had
to finish his strip tease seriously, quickly. He grasped the elastic
waistband of his briefs and pushed them down....A thump in the room next
to hers brought him to groggy wakefulness just as his dream partner was
reaching out to touch him.

Scully set the story aside with a sigh. Luscious. Her body
felt warm, hungry; the mystery writer had done it again. Familiar,
too, like the others. Scully's mind skimmed back; the lover-man agent
did a striptease. A striptease. It was strange that only a few days
after she'd discussed stripteases with Mulder that her erotic mystery
writer would choose to include one in his story. A vague kernel of
suspicion took root in her mind. Even though she'd wanted to save and
savor the other stories, she opened the first one on the list, "The
Fight." As she read, her suspicions grew and solidified. There was no
way that the sexy mystery writer could've created the details that he
did, all the way down to the red-haired partner shouting, "Sure, Fine,
Whatever," right before she shoved him up against the wall and began
ravaging him, without having been in Comity himself. Anger came close
on the heels of suspicion. She had actually felt guilty about lusting
for this mystery writer; she should've known. This whole escapade was
just another chapter in her on-going saga of desire for her partner. She
printed out copies of "The Fantasy" and "The Fight." Then, despite the
late hour, she stormed out of her apartment and headed for her car.

Alexandra, VA
Apartment 42
1:45 am
Mulder shuffled groggily to the door. He'd dozed off after
finishing another one of his odes of lust and love to Scully. This one
had the agent faking an injury so that his partner would hover over and
take care of him. The story hadn't been hard to write since he'd pulled
that particular scam a few times himself and he'd enjoyed her fussing to
no end. He idly wondered if it made him masochistic for the way a
part of him thrilled when he was cut or bruised. Of course, when the
payoff was the lovely Dana Scully leaning in close with that sweetly
sympathetic, empathetic expression, and the soft way she always said
"Oh, Mulder," he didn't think too many men would think he was crazy for
appreciating the value of a little pain.
The banging continued, insistently, but he didn't need to wonder
who it was for long. "Mulder, it's me. Open up." She sounded pissed.
"Okay. Okay." He tugged on a loose grey t-shirt, checked his
boxers to make certain he was decent, opened the door cautiously, only
about six inches, and peeked out. He knew that Scully had to be pretty
angry to be out this late. "Wha'z the matter?"
Scully's eyes narrowed. She refused to be softened by his
sleepy hazel eyes or his pouty bottom lip or the bulging bicep of his
left arm, which was charmingly flexed over his head against the
doorframe. Her mind went a bit fuzzy; she wanted to smooth his
sleep-mussed hair, to brush the boyish fall back off of his forehead. To
run her fingers through it to the thick hair at the back of his skull,
to grip the silky strands and yank his mouth down to hers. Then she'd.
. . she stopped, she was fantasizing his little Comity tale, damn
him.
Her hand smacked him in the middle of the chest. Mulder
stumbled back and Scully strode into his living room. The stack of
papers she held slapped against him. He caught most of them, but
stumbled back again when she advanced on him with a dangerous gleam in
her eye. His butt hit the couch with a thump.
He glanced down at the papers. He gulped. The jig was up,
and he was apparently in quite a bit of hot water. He closed his eyes
for a moment. She had him so crazy that he was thinking in cliches.
"Are they yours?"
He wondered if he could distract her with some of the
tried-and-true ploys: he fixed her with the sad, puppy eyes, the
expression that had convinced her to investigate a giant bug
masquerading as a person.
Scully could feel herself melting; that look always persuaded
her to do things she knew she shouldn't. Her eyes narrowed and she
deliberately stiffened her spine. Clearly, he knew what effect that
expression would have on her. He was doing it on purpose.
As Mulder recognized the steely expression, the one that kicked
butt and took names--one of which tonight would be his,-- he played his
trump card. He deliberately dragged his index finger along the edge of
one of the pages; he sucked in a breath as blood welled out of the
cut. Painful, but effective.
"Oh, Mulder." He smiled smugly as she headed for the bathroom
and retrieved the first aid kit.
He wondered if he should grumble the way he usually did when she
patched him up, but decided that the least said, the better. He
affected an expression that he hoped reflected noble suffering as she
took his hand in hers and gently cradled it so that she could better see
the cut.
"This is deep; I'm sorry, Mulder, but this will probably
hurt." At times like this, Mulder understood why her father was so
disappointed that she joined the FBI instead of practicing medicine.
Scully would've been a damn fine doctor. His breath hissed in as the
antiseptic trickled over the deep cut. Her soft sympathetic hum soothed
him as much as the gentle way she blew on the cut soothed the sting.
This is what made the pain worthwhile, he sighed. His sacrificed
finger was well worth the sweet reward. Scully carefully wrapped the
band-aid around his injured finger then continued to cradle his hand in
hers.
"Now, are they yours or not?" Her voice was softer, but no
less determined than before.
So much for diversionary tactics. Mulder didn't know what to
do. He didn't want to lie, didn't want untruths of any kind between
him and his best friend, his partner, the woman he loved. He couldn't
lie. He couldn't meet her eyes, but he silently nodded.
"Why? Why write the stories? Why put them on the Internet?"
Mulder slipped his hand out of hers. He didn't know how to
tell her, how to give her an explanation. Why he wrote them was simple,
but a risk to explain. Why he posted them was more complicated. Maybe
he posted the stories and left them available even after he knew that
she'd read two of them because some part of him subconsciously wanted
her to know that he desired her, that he was longing for her, that he
loved her. If he hadn't wanted her to know, why would he have played
with fire? He'd posted a story that quoted reality, and let it join
two other stories that she would recognize as herself and him. Hell,
he'd included some of their conversation verbatim, as if he were daring
her to catch him, or daring fate to expose the feelings that he'd
hidden for so long. He'd given Scully the clues to lead her to the
exact conclusion he must have wanted her to reach. He could feel
Scully's eyes on him, yet he still didn't speak. He didn't know what
to say.
Dana sighed then rose to her feet. He was refusing to even meet
her eyes and he was refusing to talk to her, again. She glanced at
him. He was slumped over, hands clasped between his bare knees, head
down almost touching them. He looked so defeated she almost relented,
but then she remembered all the times she spoke first, confessing her
loyalty to him, confessing her trust, her friendship, the way she'd
clung to their relationship even after the FBI had separated them.
Then, there were all the other times he'd refused to speak to her. He
hadn't told her where he was going, or had told her that it was safer
for her not to know, even though that had been much, much worse,
knowing that he was in danger and that she wasn't there to protect him,
to add her strengths to his. To be fair, he'd been strong for her when
she'd needed him to be; he'd supported her during her cancer and when
she'd lost her father, her sister, and Emily. But, this time she
needed him to tell her what motivated him, to say the words. Were the
stories a lark? a joke? Or was he declaring long-hidden, long-denied
feelings? Not likely, she shook her head and started for the door.
"Wait." Mulder's voice was rusty, as if from lack of use.
Scully stopped three steps from the door; her hand was reaching out for
the knob. "I wrote them for me, and I. . .I wrote them for you, so you'd
know. . .how I feel." She slowly turned to face him, stunned; it was
more than she'd wanted, more than she'd hoped. It was hard to
process--the fantasies, the desire were real and they were for her.
"When were you going to tell me?"
Mulder sighed. "I don't know, tomorrow, next week, never."
His chin was tipped down, but his eyes met hers.
Vague, but she understood. "Why the Internet? Why the
stories?"
Mulder returned his hazel gaze to his linked fingers. "How
could I tell you in person? When I wrote the first story, I never
thought you'd see it. I'd written it for me to experience with you
something I thought I never would, and I wrote them to prove that I
could write something well, something passionate and moving and real.
Then, I just couldn't stop, even when I knew you'd read one of them.
I think that I wanted you to know, but I couldn't tell you."
Her voice was soft as she walked back toward him and sat
gingerly at the other end of his couch. "Why not?"
His mouth twisted, "You're my best friend and the best partner I
can imagine, a better person than I deserved and certainly a better
partner than the men who assigned you to me thought I'd be getting.
Hell, they gave me a priceless gift when they gave you to me." His
head dropped into his hands as he laughed, short and bitter, "It was you
who were short-changed; you got stuck with Spooky Mulder, Monsterboy,
the bureau embarrassment." He paused, "I couldn't ask you for anything
else; I can't ask you for anything else, you've already given me more
than I deserve."
His hazel eyes locked with hers, "That's true, but it's not the
whole truth." The left corner of his mouth kicked up, "I was also
afraid. I didn't want to disrupt the balance of our partnership; I
didn't want to risk losing you," his voice was uncharacteristically
hesitant, "and I didn't want to risk myself. I never saw a clear
signal that you might want me. You were never jealous, or threatened,"
his mouth quirked again, "even when I deliberately tried to make you
feel that way."
"Dr. Bambi?"
He nodded.
She scooted marginally closer to him. "What about Detective
White? I was pretty clearly jealous then."
Mulder shrugged, "I thought you were just really, really angry
since you thought I was screwing around on the job." He winced, "Pardon
the expression," then hurried to add, "which I wasn't, screwing around,
I mean. I wouldn't."
Scully nodded slowly; she knew. It was all in his story, even
the rather damning admission that for a second, he'd felt a flash of
male triumph that she'd seen clear evidence that another woman desired
him.
Mulder's voice was reflective, "And then there are your ethics."
Scully's eyebrows rose. Mulder smiled at her obvious surprise. "I
respect your ethics. Your principles are rock-solid, and if the FBI
discourages dating among its agents, you would abide by those rules,
regardless of your own wishes. You are so by-the-book."
"It drives you crazy." She added almost absently.
He smiled again, "It drives me crazy, but I respect that about
you. You keep me from slipping when I would. You make the system work
for you and for me when I would just walk away, or," he added wryly,
"even more likely, would spit in the face of authority. Without you,
the powers that be would've gotten rid of me long ago." He shrugged,
"And then there is the partnership dynamic. I was afraid that if we. .
. took our relationship to the next level that I might become too
protective. I might try to stop you from taking risks, from doing your
job." He added silently, and I'd rather be celibate for the rest of my
life than steal that from you.
Scully shook her head. That wasn't an issue. "A romantic
relationship between us wouldn't change our working relationship." She
was certain about that. "You never stopped me from doing my job, even
when you had legitimate reason. You supported me when I wanted to go
back into the field after my abduction. You were very sweetly
concerned for me when I had cancer, and you could've went to Skinner and
told him about my nose bleeds. You could've easily convinced him that I
was too sick to work, and I wouldn't have blamed you, but you stood by
me instead." She added silently, screw the rules. If she had to choose
between the employee handbook and her partner, there was no choice.
"I just didn't want to have to break in a new partner."
Scully recognized the ploy to use humor to distance
himself. She also knew that after giving her this much truth, they
could probably put their relationship back on its previous just-friends
footing. He could treat her with affectionate professionalism
interspersed with moments of intense emotion and playful teasing. Maybe
the innuendo would feel more meaningful, but she would be able to go
back to dealing with him with quelling looks and the occasional witty
rejoinder.
Alone in bed at night, each could hug the knowledge of the
other's attraction; they could pull out the memories to examine from
all angles, to dream, to fantasize, to treasure, while pretending during
the day that this confrontation never happened. Then, the next day
while together at the Bureau, all those feelings would be set aside. It
wouldn't be perfect, but it would work. They could still be just friends
and partners.
Scully paused; for once she didn't want to back off, to shove
her emotions into a tiny corner of her mind so they could be ignored.
For once, Dana Katherine Scully wanted to take a risk, a big one. It
was time, time for her to take action. She couldn't wait for Mulder
to take the lead in this; god, it could be another five years before he
decided to do something, and she was tired of sitting back, waiting for
Mulder to make a move. Her eyes closed for a moment. She drew a deep
breath, held it for a moment, then slid next to him on the couch. His
bare knee burned hers through the heavy denim of her jeans. She laid
her hand over his. "Mulder, I want you." The words were simple and
they came more easily than she would've thought. "I want to make love
with you tonight."
Mulder thought that his heart stopped. He rubbed a hand
absently over the middle of his chest; there it goes. Now it was
nearly pounding its way out. "Are you positive?" His voice was again
hesitant, unsure. "I don't think that I'd be able to stop once I start
touching you. It's been too long; I've," he sighed deeply, "I've
wanted you too long to let you go, and I don't think that I could deal
with your regrets. . . it would . . . kill me, I think."

End 3/4
There are two versions of part 4/4--an R version and an NC-17 version.
The dialogue is identical in both, but the sex scene in the NC-17
version is more explicit.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Title: "The Hunter's Moon: Part IV: 'The Capture' " (4/4)
Author: Amber
amber_mb@hotmail.com
Rating: NC-17 for sexual situations--this is the explicit version of Part
III. Also, sappy, so beware, if you don't like it mushy, don't read any
further.
Keywords: MSR
Spoilers: "Folie a Deux," "Little Green Men," "Beyond the Sea,"
"Anasazi," "Emily," "War of the Coprophages," "Syzygy." Allusions to
"Irresistible," "Paper Hearts," "Tooms (Squeeze 2)."
Summary: Scully discovers the identity of her mystery writer and
confronts him; much pleasure ensues.
Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and the Gunmen belong to Chris Carter, 1013,
et. al. Ronnie, the Ken doll, and the girls are mine.

Part III continued:
Scully rose and moved to stand in front of him. Her hand
brushed over his where he still rubbed his heart. Her throat clenched;
he looked like a little boy preparing to take an oath. She gently pushed
him back until his back rested against the cushions, kicked off her shoes,
and knelt over him. As she eased her weight onto his lap, his breath
hissed from his lungs and she froze until he nudged her with his hips, his
hands coming up to clasp her arms. "Mulder, I've never been more certain.
I don't want you to stop touching me; I don't want you to ever let me go.
I want you to show me all of the things you wrote about. Make love with
me Mulder, show me that those things are real, tangible. I want to touch
them." Her voice fal tered, "I want to touch you."
His voice was gravel. "Then touch me."
Scully's left hand cupped his jaw, fingers splayed so that she
could feel both his silky neck and the stubble of his chin. Her other
hand moved to his forehead. She softly traced his eyebrows, then the
faint lines around his eyes that worry rath er than laughter created. Her
fingers kissed his cheekbone, ghosted across his mouth, then curled into
her palm as if to hold the sensation of his lips on them. Mulder fought
to keep still, to let her just touch him when part of him was demanding
that he crush her lips beneath his. The other part of him wanted to
stretch out every second, to let her linger and caress forever.
Fortunately, Scully's body was making demands of its own. Her tongue
slicked over her lips; then she leaned forward as if i n slow motion.
Mulder could feel her breath heat his lips, could smell her perfume, and
the darker, sweeter scent that was just her. He wanted to give her one
last chance; he owed her that. He tried for a light tone, "Do you want
me to strip for you?"

She leaned back then smiled; she appreciated his generosity, but
it was driving her crazy. She teased him back. "Later. You aren't wearing
enough right now. When you strip for me, I want you in full G-man
regalia. I want the whole suit, from the perfectly, knotted,
conservatively patterned tie to the shiny wing-tip shoes. Oh, and the
trench coat, I love the trench coat." She trailed a finger down his
cheekbone and tapped his chin.
His body came alive beneath her. He knew she had to feel his arousal
impudently pressing against her. He would've smiled cynically that yet
again he wasn't waiting to be invited to take liberties with her, but just
then her lips brushed his in the lightest of butterfly kisses.
"Mmmm," her mouth returned to his again, just as lightly.
Then again and again. Mulder's hands tightened on her arms then slid to
her back and pressed her chest into his. He could feel her smile against
his mouth. "I'm teasing you, Mulde r. How much can you take?"
He grated out, "Not much more."
"Prove it." She reached for the hem of his grey t-shirt and
drew it up and off. "Show me just how close to the edge that I've pushed
you."
His mouth crashed down on hers. His tongue didn't beg
entrance; it demanded it and she willingly opened for his invasion. His
tongue explored the recesses of her mouth then tangled with her own
tongue, inviting her to mount her own campaign. She met the challenge;
her tongue swirled through his mouth. He was sweet, rich, luscious, just
as she'd imagined. His chest rubbed insistently against hers; her nipples
budded, painfully hard.
He pulled back only long enough to whip her shirt over her head;
then his mouth returned to hers, devouring her. In delicious contrast to
his ravaging, starving mouth, his hands cupped her naked shoulders then
slid across her back as gently and lightly as a master musician strokes a
beloved guitar. He flicked the back catch of her bra and drew the straps
down her arms without his mouth breaking contact.
The first brush of his naked chest against hers sent a spasm of
desire through her. Her skin burned where it skimmed his; her breasts
firmed and ached for his hands. Her nipples were diamond points, yet his
hands were still lightly caressing her back. Scully moaned in frustration
and rubbed her breasts against him; his chest hair was light and silky,
but to her sensitized nipples, it was torment. She fit her mouth over
his, fighting for a new angle, a deeper penetration, some small relief
from the hunger coursing through her.
His hands finally moved the way she wanted, hard and unyeilding,
but not to her breasts. Instead, he gripped her buttocks, clenching the
soft mounds and crushing her against him. She couldn't breathe, but she
didn't want to. Her breasts were flattened against the wall of his chest,
and his arousal was steel against her, even through the denim of her
jeans. He lifted her, grinding her against him. His mouth pulled from
hers with a wet suction and moved desperately across her face, her chin,
her neck. "Beautiful, so beautiful," he whispered. Then he lifted her
until her breasts were on level with his mouth. "Lovely," he breathed
then he took one pink pearl in his mouth and began to nibble. When he
suddenly sucked hard, Scully's head d ropped back; her hair tickled her
shoulders. Heat spiked in the area between her thighs; she was burning
and trapped. Her jeans had become a prison, chafing tender, swollen flesh
that longed to be naked and open to the man below her. She gasped as
Mulder relinquished one reddened bud and turned his attention to the other
pouting, neglected nipple. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, not
noticing the crescents her short, neat nails were leaving. Mulder
treasured the tiny pain; she was marking hi m, claiming him. Her fingers
slipped up the back of his neck into his hair. They flexed and held him
tighter to her throbbing breast as she felt the light scrape of his teeth.
Sensation blazed through her. She fought loose of his hands. "Mulder, I
need you."
His control was nearly in tatters. Mulder carefully slid her off his
lap to stand on melted soft legs before him. He dropped to his knees in
front of her. His face was level with her bare stomach, but it was a
familiar position. Her fingers glided into his hair, and for a long,
sweet moment, he wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed his cheek
into her. An eye in the storm.
The words seemed torn from his soul, "I love you."
Scully was stunned, not by the sentiment, but that he'd spoken
the words aloud. She wrapped her arms around him, then leaned down to
press her cheek against his hair. It surprised her that with her body
raging for his, calling to his in a howl of hunger, that she could feel
this sweetness, this almost maternal tightening in her chest, "I love you,
too." She straightened and savored the long moment. Mulder hugged her
hips more tightly. He hadn't said those words to a woman, never. He
couldn't, not when his sister was missing, not when he blamed himself, not
while the guilt he carried owned him. But, she'd given him peace, enough
that he could say it, and mean it, to her. "Love you, Scully." He sighed
into her silken skin.
"Then make me crazy G-man."
Joy mingled with passion in a cocktail that packed more punch than any
alcohol ever could. She thought she heard Mulder mutter, "Sure. Fine." He
brushed a kiss above her belly button. "Whatever" rumbled against the
waistband of her jeans.
Scully pinched his earlobe teasingly. He nuzzled her belly with
his nose then smiled up at her, "I mean, yes m'am, right away." She could
see something new in his eyes; he'd finally set down his burden, at least
some of it. Then she stopped thinking as he stroked off her jeans.
Mulder leaned back onto his heels and examined her legs. He'd never seen
them in all their glory. "Perfect." Long, smooth, firmly muscled. He'd
received little more than brief glimpses of her legs, once in Bellefleur,
Oregon, once while she was in the hospital and her gown slipped, and then
on rare occasions when her skirt would ride up, giving him the barest
flash of thigh. He grinned; now was his chance to worship her gorgeous
legs.
"Sit down on the couch." Scully had never heard his voice so
smoky. She followed orders in a haze.
Mulder knelt, grinned, then lifted one small foot. His fingers
stroked her sole gently. "Have I ever told you that I was a leg man?"
She fought to focus. "I thought, oh!" He'd replaced his
fingers with his mouth and had moved from the sole of her foot to her
toes. "I thought you'd be a breast man, considering your favorite type of
film."
He lifted her other foot and gave it the same attention. He
caressed her ankles, her calves, her thighs, then began moving up. "I
only watched those for educational purposes."
Her laugh was a little desperate. "What kind of education?"
His mouth began his hands' northward journey at her ankles. "I
wanted to learn things that I could use to please you." He licked the
inside of her right knee.
"Really?"
His mouth rubbed against her skin. "No, but I was so hungry for
you that those films were the only way I could find relief, although now I
can finally put some of that knowledge to work." His blazing hazel gaze
met hers; the teasing and the affection shone from them; then his head
swooped down.
"Oh, god! . . . Oh. . . god!" His hands clasped her hips
firmly, his fingers unyeilding, but gentle. His mouth moved tenderly on
her swollen core. His tongue was gentle, licking and probing, slow and
sweet. Scully's back bowed; her heart pounded as the tension coalesced
into a shattering starburst of pleasure. "Oh, god!"

Scully didn't know how long her eyes were squeezed shut, but her
body was still trembling with delicious aftershocks. When her eyes
finally fluttered open, Mulder was pleased to note that they were midnight
dark with her passion and dazed. As she smiled at him dreamily, his tongue
slicked across his lips, savoring her taste.
Mulder stood on shaky legs and wondered that it had taken so
long for him to finally arrive at this place, with her. Now that he'd
given her pleasure, he could find the completion he'd been seeking for
five long years. He shoved his boxers down and stepped free of them.
"Magnificent." Her tone was reverent. His body was
beautiful, perfectly formed and masculinely proud. Scully was surprised to
find her desire throbbing again when she met hazel eyes that had turned to
emerald heat, and a body that was clearly so desperately ready for hers.
She'd thought that she couldn't possibly feel hungry again, certainly not
so soon, but she wanted him again, badly. She slipped her legs up onto
the couch, grinning. "This is going to be a tight fit."
For a moment Mulder wondered if she was giving him the kind of
compliment that every man dreams of hearing. He glanced down then quickly
back up to meet her eyes.
Scully was surprised at the husky, seductive laugh that rumbled
out of her throat. "Well, that too, but I was actually referring to the
couch."
Mulder's body trembled as he knelt over her, gently nudging her
knees further apart. When her body finally cradled his, he kissed her. "I
think we can manage, and next time, we'll do it on the floor." His voice
turned gutteral. "There, we'll have plenty of space. Then we could try
out. . . . " he trailed off as he slid into her a bare inch then withdrew.
Her gasp and the flex of her thighs gave him the strength to continue
teasing her, ". . .try out the table, my desk, our desk at the offi ce. . ."
Scully fought to respond his words rather than to his second
all-too-shallow thrust and withdrawal. "Promises, promises."
He thrust into her again, this time a bit farther. Heaven, she
was tight, sweet, hot, wet heaven. "Then we'll make love in your bed."
He started to withdraw again, but Scully couldn't take anymore.
She wrapped her legs tight around his waist, clenched her inner muscles,
willing him to stay, and fused her mouth to his. She was frantic. Animal
noises she didn't recognize, had never made before, came low out of her
throat.
Mulder finally lost the last thread of his control. With a
growl, he let go. His hips bucked wildly, grinding into hers then
withdrewing only to thrust into her again and again. Her hips met his
every thrust; Scully felt the tension rising again, impossibly hotter,
higher than before.
"Give to me Scully; trust me; I love you."
Her heart seemed to stop as her world exploded once, twice.
"I trust you. I love you. Mulder." As his body shuddered, he collapsed
onto her, damp and trembling as her arms tightened around him.

Long moments passed, then Mulder carefully shifted so that
he first faced Scully on the too-narrow couch, then he rolled onto his
back, tugging her on top of him.
Her smile was lazy, sated. His was smug. "So, Dr. Scully did I
make the grade?"
She shifted enough from the comfortable pillow of his chest to
whisper a kiss over the mole on his right cheek, just a bit above his jaw.
"All that studying paid off, but you may have to be tested, again and
again, just to make sure you are retaining all your knowlege."
He brushed his hands lightly across her back, tender as a dream.
"I have a photographic memory," he promised. And sometimes it truly was a
blessing; he'd never be able to lose a second of their first time in one
another's arms.
He snuggled her closer, reaching for an afghan that had fallen
from the arm of the couch to the floor. He gently covered them. Mulder,
in one of his all-too-typical mercurial mood shifts, suddenly turned
serious. His voice was gruff, with an underlying tone of neediness that
Scully recognized. "Dana, I need to hear it again."
Scully sighed, her heart near bursting. She lived for the few
times he called her by her first name. The occasions were rare and
seemingly only times of great stress or that once when he was teasing her
about Sheriff Hartwell, vampire law enforcement officer. "I love you."
He looked embarrassed. "Again, but this time with my name."
She smoothed the frown line between his eyes. "Oh, Mulder, I love you."
He cleared his throat then captured her hand and brushed his
lips over her finger tips. "Um, I think I could live with you calling me
by my first name, at least when we're alone," he ahem'ed, "or making love
in bed or where ever." His lighter tone still carried the weight of the
door he was inching open for her, "Besides, only my partner calls me
Mulder."
Dana knew. It was only the people who loved him who called him
Fox, despite his claims to the contrary. His parents, his sister, her
mother. She stacked her hands under her chin and looked into his face.
"You expect me to call you, no, to mo an out in the heat of passion, a
name that many people refuse to believe is real?"
He loved the teasing glint in her eyes. She squeaked as his
arms encircled her and gave her a warning squeeze. She laughed softly,
then deliciously, tauntingly wiggled up to whisper into his ear, "I love
you," his body hardened beneath her, " Fox" came out in a breathy moan as
he sank into her again..

Later, Scully was again sprawled bonelessly on top of Mulder, this
time on the floor. She traced lazy patterns on his lightly furred chest.
"Mulder, I do have one question, well, comment, really."
He raised his eyebrows. "I, um," she sighed. "I would've thought
that your fantasies, the ones you wrote about, would've been, you know,
kinkier. Less about emotions and more. . ."
"Mechanics?" He suggested wryly.
"Yeah."
"More bump and hump? More," she cut him off with a hard kiss.
"Why so tame?"
His hazel eyes were serious. "I was writing about you, writing for
you. What I feel for you," he toyed with a strand of her hair, "goes
beyond mechanics. It is emotions, not just slap and tickle." Then his
eyes glinted, "As for kinky, maybe th ose stories that were posted weren't
the only ones I wrote, maybe I have a treasure trove of hidden stories
that feature this gorgeous, petite red-head, handcuffs, velvet whips,
feathers, ice, and a partner who lives to serve her every erotic whim."
"Um, sounds promising."
Mulder kissed her forehead, "But that's just a maybe. If you want
to know for sure," he gave her a poor-put-upon-me sigh, "I guess you'll
have to seduce it out of me."
"An agent's gotta do, what an agent's gotta do." Her fingertips
found a flat male nipple and rubbed. "How do you feel about one-on-one
strip teases?"
Mulder's breath shuddered out as Scully's nimble fingers
slipped down past his belly button, "Yours or mine?"
He moaned as she touched him. "We can take turns."
His body shuddered, "Scully," as her hand massaged him into
iron-hardness, he switched their positions and swiftly entered her. "Dana,
I think that you would've made a great Mata Hari. My secrets, my soul, my
heart are yours."
As their bodies soared to the heavens once again, Scully
whispered, "I love you, Mulder." And with the words, for the first time
in history, the huntress brought peace to the fox.

The End
(4/4)