TITLE: The Video AUTHOR: Jess EMAIL: jessica@amazon.com RATING: NC-17 DISCLAIMER: Oh yeah right... *dripping sarcasm* DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Anywhere, just let me know. SPOILERS: none, though you'd better know who Diana is... CONTENT WARNING: Some slapping of the proverbial salamis CLASSIFICATION: Ripe, juicy smut-chutney. SUMMARY: Diana gives Mulder a gift. AUTHOR'S NOTE: What can I say... I missed Mutual. This isn't Mutual, but it should start to satisfy various people masturbation-fic needs. Darla, stop snickering. Oh and obviously there will be a sequel when I have time and the urge. Do your good deed for the day and email me. It had been a very long week, eight mutant aliens gestating in people's innards aside. Mulder tossed his bag into his bedroom and, loosening his tie, flopped onto his couch. He wanted nothing more at this point than to slip into the grateful oblivion of sleep, to forget about the case, about the bodies and the widows and the stinking guts flung up onto the ceilings, and about Scully sitting on the edge of the bed with her head cradled in her hands. He sighed and turned restlessly toward the TV. Perhaps some porn? he flipped idly through cable channels, pausing briefly to contemplate QVC. "Meanwhile, I've quit the F.B.I. and become a spokesperson for the Ab-roller." He smiled grimly and moved on, searching for the tell-tale panting and grinding. Finding none, he settled back on QVC and closed his eyes. Cable no longer held the excitement it once had, the air of the forbidden. He needed a couple new videos. Something with beautiful blond big-breasted women and guys who could come even when they looked limp as a week-old carrot. "Whatever was in that nuclear plant has escaped and is now rampaging across suburban America. At what cost have you remained so loyal to her, Mulder? How many people have to die before you will admit that she has failed in something that you and I are now being asked to clean up? What does it take? Does she have to stand next to them before you'll admit to her new allegiance?" Pressing his fists to his eyes until he saw red, Mulder wanted to feel the pain. Wanted it to sink in. Betrayal was such an ugly word. God, he thought, when did I become such a stupid fuck? He could call her, of course. Pick up the phone and dial her number, always first on his speed-dial. Could say, "hey Scully, you know that shit about 98.9%? I think I've found that 1.1% you were trying to tell me about." But that would require stooping, and his lanky body wouldn't allow it, wouldn't let him bend to look her in the eye, no matter how righteous she might be. And besides, she hadn't exactly seemed thrilled to be with him this time. Avoiding him in a little swirl of ever-moving black trench coat, stepping around him as if he were contaminated. And perhaps he was, contaminated by proximity. "You want to know who I trust implicitly, now, Mulder? You really want to know? I trust myself. It just seems safer that way." The knock on the door startled him, and set his heart pounding. She did it again. How did he know? He stumbled to his feet, prepared to take her in his arms, apologize, beg, fall to his weary knees and bury his nose in the hot, smug smell of her. He should have looked through the peephole. "What do you want?" Diana looked back at him with that strange inscrutable face, the one he'd once thought hid mysteries and wonders. "I have a gift for you. Can I come in?" Her voice was calm, but he knew her. He knew the slight rise in inflection. Something was bothering her, gnawing at her. Opening the door a bit wider, he invited both her and her guilt inside. "What do you want?" It seemed the operative question. She shuffled over to the couch and sat, without removing her jacket. "I'm sorry, Fox." He no longer winced at the name. It just didn't really describe him any longer. He hadn't been "Fox" since she walked out on him, and he was almost grateful for the reminder of the change. "For what? For fucking me over? What?" She looked up and sighed. "Yes, for that. I've been? let go." It sunk in slowly. He narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms, mimicking his own posture in the gunmen's office. Let her feel the weight of his disbelief, then, instead of Scully. "What does that mean?" "It means I have to go now." "Why can't you give me a straight answer anymore?" She stood and brushed her jacket off, as if sitting on his couch had covered her in a fine film of hair or dust, Mulder-detritus. "Because there isn't one worth giving out. I didn't come here tonight to do anything other than say good-bye. I won't see you again." He softened. It wasn't like he wanted her to be hurt, just to leave him alone to lick his never-closing gut wound. If she went, maybe this time he could get it to heal. After all, he knew a good doctor. "Why, are you in danger?" "No more than ever," she said, and he wondered what that meant, exactly. "You said you had something for me?" he asked. "I do," she said and slid over to him, moving without moving. It had driven him mad in bed, once. Now it was simply disconcerting. She reached into her pocket and handed him an envelope. From the weight and feel of it, a video tape. "What's this?" "The answer you seek," she said and kissed his cheek. He was vaguely surprised that her lips were warm. "Ask me to stay, Fox," she whispered, "and I will." He shook his head, holding the package as if it were a bomb. "I can't do that." "I know," she sighed and slunk past him to the door. Pausing there, she looked down at the envelope. "I hope you will understand what giving that to you has cost me, once you've seen it." And then she was gone. No puff of smoke, no whipping wind, just gone. He looked down at the envelope and wondered if he should even open it, or if it would contain something to harm him. That was the level of trust at which they operated, he realized. The sad thing was, if Scully had given him an envelope, he wouldn't have hesitated to tear into it, expecting something wonderful or at the very least, exciting. He remembered this past Christmas and the book she had given him about past lives and their interpretations. It was such a lovely gift because it was about him, not something she would have enjoyed and therefore assumed he would like as well. "I wanted to get you an autographed copy of the Bible," she had said with a distinct twinkle, "but I thought this would interest you more." He ripped the top off the envelope with one sweep of his hand, figuring if he were going to die, there were less glamorous ways. But there was no blinding flash of light, just the jiggle of the tape inside. No label, rewound. Plunging it into the VCR as if it were poisoned, he pressed play and sat back. Black and white. Ah, a security camera. He sat up then, watching in horror and surprise as he saw a door open and his gray-toned doppelganger follow Scully into the room. He heard his voice saying: "You were wrong, and you know it. Those claw marks could only be caused by one thing." She looked back at him, setting her coat on the motel room bed. God, a motel room. Wasn't anywhere safe for them? "I don't know that, Mulder, not until I've seen this thing." He could remember the conversation. Thinking she was being stubborn, and feeling annoyed and put-upon. Of course, he had been wrong that time. But later that week, he would be right. She stretched and cracked her neck, the sound like popping corn in the quiet room. "Scully," he said, crossing to stand right behind her, crowding her, "you want to grab something to eat?" She shook her head without turning around. "No thanks, Mulder. It's bed-time." He nodded and slipped out of the room through the connecting door. For a moment she just stood there, staring at her coat. Mulder felt the worst sort of voyeur, staring at her bent head. How many times had he longed to see her in her most private moments? But presented with the strange reality of her, he was instantly ashamed. She began to unbutton her shirt, slowly, slipping it from her shoulders till he could make out the dark crease of her cleavage and the black edge of her bra. Oh Scully, he thought and fought the temptation to touch the screen, to trace the dove-gray outline of her skin. Who else had watched this, he wondered, suddenly blindingly angry. She toed off her shoes and unzipped her skirt, moving into the bathroom. It was like watching any stake out, except that this colorless form was his normally fiery partner, unzipping her skirt and stepping out of her pantyhose. Brushing her teeth, she crossed back into the room in nothing but her underwear. He had an irrational urge to yell "take it off!" and then giggle hysterically. Instead he watched her finish preparing for bed and then switch out the light. For a moment, he was disappointed, until the dark screen turned green, and her form was visible again. Who did this? Who used night vision to watch them sleep? She slid the bra from her shoulders, her breasts suddenly illuminated against the dark background. He actually gasped, shocked at her fullness, at the sight of her totally exposed. She rubbed her palms over her nipples and he felt himself react, hardening. His conscience screamed "turn it off", but his finger remained glued to the "play" button. Sliding off her panties, she settled on the bed, three-quarters toward him. His heart was pounding, throbbing and she ran her finger tips across her breasts as if they were too hot to touch. He knew he shouldn't see this, that somehow this wasn't what she would have wanted. Scully seemed so far removed from his filthy habits, from his porn-drenched existence and yet here she was, warm little hands on her belly, fingers grazing her sex. She let out a soft moan and he was unable to keep from touching himself. Why on earth would Diana give this to him? Why would she want him to see this, and what truth did it contain? That Scully was a sexual being, he already knew. Ed Jerse had taught him that rough lesson, amongst other things. Like he could not control his small partner, could not bully her into being his alone. Perhaps it was Diana's revenge. A form of torture, knowing he would see these images in his head for the rest of his life, playing and replaying them as he struggled on alone. He should stop now, before the image of Scully dipping one finger into her own body and writhing like a snake was burned too deeply onto his retina. But it was too late. He had seen it and it was like witnessing a birth, a miracle. He was transformed. She rubbed herself viciously now, grinding the heel of her hand into her skin and moaning over and over: "oh God, oh God, oh God," and then "fuck me, oh god, fuck me." He wanted to cover his eyes and then peer through his fingers like a child at a horror movie. He wanted to jump into the room and go wake his grayer self, screaming: "do you know what's going on in there, you triple-x watching fool?" Gasping, she pushed her own legs wider and slipped two fingers into herself. He moaned out loud and nearly missed what happened next. She pushed her fingers in and out, thrashing, and then she began to moan: "oh Mulder, oh god, oh Mulder?" He felt like someone had just hit him in the gut. Frantically rewinding, he pressed his hand against himself and listened, wishing his ears could swivel like a fox. "?oh Mulder, oh god, oh Mulder?" And then she came, charging ahead feverishly, drawing in air and spitting it out as his name, a stream of him. "Mulder, Mulder, Mulder?" And he came with her, barely touching himself, pumping into his jeans headless of what this meant or why it felt as if the world had splintered into a thousand icy-hot pieces. When he came to, he saw she had curled up on her side, beginning to sleep. Barely registering in the room was his room's TV, the bumping, grinding sound of a skin flick. His alter-ego lay alone on the other side of the wall, watching some barely-remembered woman get fucked from behind by a man she didn't even know while the woman he worshipped lay in hot, wet flesh and blood, trying to forget that she had just brought herself pleasure without him. How many nights had been like that, on opposite sides, wanting each other and neither sure how to express it? How often had he lain there, half-watching the bouncing breasts and dripping cunts and wanting her as she touched herself? touched herself for God's sake. He groaned and leaned back, realizing the gift Diana had given him. The trust she had tried to restore. This knowledge? what was he supposed to do with himself now? Creep into her room some night on some assignment and ravage her? Perhaps she didn't want the real thing, anyway. Perhaps, like him, she was frightened of the implications of actual intimacy. Of the possibilities for failure. He stared at the small sleeping figure of his love, curled fetal and tender under the cover of another nameless hotel bed. This was not what she had wanted for herself, he was sure. And it was not what he wanted for her. The ringing of the phone startled him, drew him up gasping as if he'd been underwater. "Mulder." "Mulder, it's me. What's wrong? Diana just called me and said you needed to talk to me." He laughed, actually laughed, watching as she slept undisturbed on-screen. "Diana called you? God, remind me to kiss her if I ever see her again." Silence. He smiled into the phone. "I didn't mean that literally, Scully." A sigh, resignation. "What's wrong, Mulder? I assume there is actually something wrong, right?" "No," he whispered to her, "there's nothing wrong." I'm just watching you sleep, he wanted to tell her. "Mulder," she said slowly. "Diana called me. Why?" "She's gone, Scully. She's out of the game. She told me I'd never see her again." He knew she was struggling, trying to make sense of what was happening tonight, of her place in the scheme of it, and trying to figure out why he sounded like he'd been pumped full of happiness. "I'm sorry, Mulder." "No you're not," he chastised her. "Don't lie. You're thrilled she's gone because now you've got me all to yourself." She snorted, gently. "I'd rather spread you around," she said. "You can be a little much for one person, sometimes." "Would you really?" he asked, wistful. "I'd want to hide you away somewhere, covet you." For a moment, she did not reply. He could feel her turning over their strange conversation in her mind. "What's going on, Mulder. Tell me. No talking in circles." He thought about the challenge, about the way she had called his name, how desperate she had sounded. "Diana gave me something tonight." "Yes?" Her voice, warm and awake now. "A videotape." Cautious. "Uh huh?" "Of you. Last week. In your hotel room. Alone. Thinking about me." Out in a rush, like water from behind a breached dam. Silence. "Scully, you were so beautiful when you came." She gave a little gasp and then a cough. Then a squeak, her voice high. "Someone was filming me?" "I think someone is always filming us." "Oh God, Mulder?" she whispered and he sighed at the familiarity of the words. "I shouldn't have watched it, Scully. But you were so wonderful and alive. I couldn't stop myself. I'll give you the tape, if you like. Destroy it." "You saw me?" That same squeak, only now he recognized it as fear. "Yes. You were glorious, like a sunrise. I've never come so hard in my life." It was out before he could stop it, slipping from his mouth like honey. Then the anger in her voice, the indignation. She had, after all, been violated. By Diana. By him. But he was prepared. "You masturbated to a video of me? My God, what the hell is going on?" "No," he said, soothing her, "not masturbated. I didn't even have to touch myself. The sight of you, the sound of you, was enough. It was enough." She was quiet then, absorbing his words. Then she spoke, and shocked him for the millionth time that night. "You owe me for this. I did not give you permission to see that. I didn't even want you to know that. And to have her? that bitch? handing me to you like a present? you owe me. I may let you survive this, Mulder, but you will have to pay for it." He smiled and leaned back on the couch, feeling the disgusting warm and wonderful squish of fluid at his waist. "Scully, I will willingly pay for the rest of my life." They were silent for a beat, listening to each other's breath, establishing their reality. "Is she really gone?" Scully asked. "Really, not El Rico-gone, but never-to-be-seen-again gone?" "Scully," he murmured, "I'm surprised by your lack of compassion." "Is she?" "She was never here, Scully," he told her. "Not really." "So there is no emergency, right? Nothing's really wrong?" "No," he said, "everything's wonderful." "Then I'll see you at the office tomorrow." Her sleeping form flopped over on her back, arm out, breasts white above the covers. "Yes." "With the tape," she said. "I can't keep it?" "You have till tomorrow morning, eight am," she said. "Get busy, Mulder." He knew he would spend the night watching her still body, not rewinding. Sleeping with her, in his own way, matching his breaths to hers. "Sleep well, Scully," he whispered, touching her screen image, almost surprised to feel the cool glass beneath his fingers. "You too," she said, sleep invading her voice. "I'll kick your ass tomorrow." "I know," he said as the gray Scully shifted again, sighing in her dreams. "What else is new?" end email me and I'll rub mini-Mulder's belly for good luck in your name