**WARNING! NC-17 CONTENT AHEAD!**
**DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDERAGE OR OFFENDED BY SEXUAL CONTENT**

***DISCLAIMER***: All "X-Files" elements and references
in this story belong to Fox Broadcasting, Chris Carter,
and 1013 Productions, and I am making no money from it.

Do not archive or link to this story without permission.

==========

Battle of the Bulge
by shannono
shannono@iname.com

SRH, MSR, Mulder first person; only general spoilers;
NC-17 for smut and general naughtiness.

Summary: Mulder's got a problem, and being Mulder, he 
simply must share all the details.

NOTE: And now for something *completely* different ...

Other notes at the end.

=====

Battle of the Bulge
by shannono


I get a lot of grief for the clothes I wear to the office. 
Yes, I hear the comments, the rumors about where I get the 
money to buy Armani on a government salary, but like all 
the other snide remarks, they don't really sink in. I'm 
used to ridicule, and while it sometimes stings, it's a 
drop in the bucket compared to real pain. I should know; 
I'm the ultimate connoisseur of pain.

What I never bother to explain to anyone is that there's a 
good reason for the expensive clothes. Even my "on-the-
road" suits, which are much cheaper knockoffs, probably 
cost more than nine-tenths of the other male agents' suits. 
Yes, it eats up a pretty hefty share of my salary, but it's 
not like I spend a lot on anything else. And it's not like 
I have much of a choice.

You see, I have very long legs and a relatively small 
waist, which makes it extremely difficult to find pants of 
any kind that fit well. Jeans aren't so bad; they're 
usually a little baggy when I buy them, but I learned a 
long time ago that they shrink nicely after a few hot-water 
washes.

Suit pants are another story entirely. They're either too 
baggy or too short-waisted. The crotch hangs to my knees, 
or it makes me feel like if I sit down, my voice will jump 
three or four octaves.

Oh, yeah. That's the other problem. I'm ... well, not to 
brag or anything, but I'm fairly well endowed. That means I 
have to walk a thin line between pants that don't bag all 
over the place and pants that still allow a little extra 
room on the left side. Alterations can only do so much, so 
the net result is that I usually have to pay a little more 
for a suit that will fit right.

We won't even get into my troubles with shoes.

At any rate, I imagine I should have my closet insured for 
several tens of thousands of dollars. I have six Armanis, 
gathered over the course of the past decade, and about a 
dozen knockoffs, plus some solo pieces left over from sets 
that were only half-destroyed.

That's the reason for the knockoffs in the first place. I 
like the Armanis best, not because they're expensive or 
designer, but because they fit. But I have a tendency to 
lose suits on the road, due to strange acids or mudbaths or 
gunshot wounds or sudden rainstorms. And Accounting doesn't 
like to see a thousand bucks turn up on my expense report 
when I lose one of those. They complain much less about the 
three-hundred-dollar ones, believe me. So I keep the 
Armanis for the office, and take the others on the road, 
even though they don't allow as much freedom of movement. 

Today, I'm wishing for an Armani with every molecule of my 
body. Particularly the ones between my legs that are 
feeling rather crowded right now. 

Today, my partner decided to wear the lavender suit.

Yes, *that* suit. The one that follows every curve on her 
body, in a color that sets her skin glowing and turns her 
eyes a deep, dark shade of violet. The one she's only worn 
on the job once before, on a particularly steamy late 
spring day two years ago.

Oh, I remember. As if I could forget. There I am, two days 
out of a psychiatric ward, and she stands in front of me in 
that little number, writing off everything we saw and did  
to "folie a deux." Which left *me* with the torture of 
riding down three flights in the elevator with her, stony 
silence between us and pressure building in my groin the 
whole time. That day, the Armani hid a multitude of sins.

I'm not going to be so lucky today.

She's just emerged from her room, which is across the hall 
this time instead of next door, and I'm standing transfixed 
in the doorway of mine, eyes glued to the curve of her hip, 
encased in soft, light purple linen. In the back of my 
mind, I know she's going to look over at me in a minute and 
see me staring, but I can't seem to stop myself.

Unbidden, my gaze slides up her body, catching sight of the 
swell of a breast as she turns to pull the door shut. Her 
hair brushes the side of her neck, shining against her pale 
skin, and I swallow convulsively.

I'd pray to God for help if I thought it would do any good.

She does turn then and sees me still standing there, my 
hand on the door handle, my mouth hanging open. I'm 
surprised I'm not drooling yet. She takes a step forward, 
her eyes studying my face, and it's all I can do not to 
slam the door and run for a cold shower.

"Mulder?" she says, in a concerned tone that sends hot 
shards of arousal shooting from my ears straight to my 
groin. "Are you okay?"

Oh Jesus. I have to answer her. I've got to snap out of 
this, and damn fast. I've got a growing problem to contend 
with, and this is no time to lose the battle of the bulge.

I snap my mouth shut and swallow. "Fine, Scully," I say, 
relieved at the casual sound of my voice. "You ready?"

Oh, no no no. Don't look at me like *that*, Scully. A 
little concern is one thing, but that worry line on your 
forehead, coupled with the lifted eyebrow, is more than I 
can handle right now.

So I head her off and start down the hall, not even looking 
back to see if she's following. "It's after eight; Sheriff 
Oh is going to be wondering where we are," I say, blindly 
throwing my mind into work and willing my body to shut the 
hell up already. "And our flight's at 1:30 and we've still 
got to check out when we get back and drive almost an hour 
to the airport."

I hear the clicking of her heels behind me as she hurries 
to catch up, and I force myself to shorten my long strides  
so she can catch up. Good job, Mulder, I think, in that 
sarcastic inner voice that keeps up a running commentary on 
most of my life. No, running away won't raise her 
suspicions at all.

My mouth keeps going, apparently on a completely different 
plane of reality from my brain. "I'm just about packed 
anyway, but if Oh keep us there for long, we may have to 
call back over here so they don't toss our stuff out in the 
street."

I ramble on inanely, kicking myself mentally with every 
meaningless word I spew out, but I can't seem to stop the 
flow. Shut up, shut up, shut up, I chant to myself. Jesus, 
what the hell is wrong with me today? It's not like she 
hasn't given me a hard-on before, just by standing there 
and being who she is. Everything she is.

What is it about *this* day that's turning me into a 
gibbering idiot?

I reach the car and open the door quickly, flicking the 
locks without even thinking about it. I'm in and turning 
the key by the time she gets her door open, and when she 
slides into the seat, her breathing is a quick and a little 
ragged.

Oh shit. Don't do this to me ...

I deliberately don't look at her as I drive, although I do 
manage to put a dam on the logorrhea as I turn onto the 
street and head for the tiny little police station. It's 
tucked on the main street, between the post office and an 
old-fashioned general store, and I almost missed it the 
first time, despite the specific instructions. The entire 
town is done in Alpine style, copied for no apparent reason 
from some resort town in north Georgia, as the sheriff told 
us, and the nearly-identical buildings tend to run 
together. Despite all that, though, it's kind of a nice 
little town. Peaceful.

I'm feeling a hell of a lot calmer as I climb from the car 
and wait for Scully at the front end. Well, at least my 
pants are comfortable again, and her breathing is back to 
normal. As long as I keep my mind on the case and away from 
her, I should be okay.

So I start reviewing the entire case in my mind as we walk 
toward the door. A simple situation of telekinesis, easily 
explainable, although I have yet to convince either Scully 
or Oh of that. Which is the reason for this last little 
visit before we leave town; Oh wants us to take a look at 
his report before he files it and make sure he's covered 
everything in case something like this ever comes up again.

Well, at least he's thorough.

I'm jolted from my thoughts with all the subtlety of a 
bucket of cold water as Scully slams to a stop in front of 
me. My reflexes are off, like everything else about me 
today, and when I manage to halt my forward momentum, I'm 
pressed against her from the backs of her thighs to the 
back of her head.

Great. There goes all my careful concentration. If this 
keeps up, so to speak, I'll burst right through the seam of 
these pants.

I manage to gather enough of my wits to take a hasty step 
back, my skin still tingling from her warmth, and look 
ahead to see what stopped her. Ah. The door's locked, 
apparently. She reached to push it open and came up short 
when it didn't move.

She turns to face me, and I fight the sudden urge to cup my 
hands over my groin as if I'd found myself unexpectedly 
naked. "I thought you said Sheriff Oh was expecting us?" 
she asks, that eyebrow arching up again, and I feel a 
twitch from below. Jesus, does she have any idea?

"He ..." I pause to swallow, my mouth and throat suddenly 
terribly dry. "He said he'd be here," I say, stepping past 
her, careful not to touch any part of her, and peering 
through the tinted glass into the office beyond. No 
movement.

Chagrined, I step back and glance at my watch again. 
Definitely after eight; eight-fifteen, as a matter of fact. 
Well, shit. Now what?

No sooner has the question formed in my mind than I hear a 
car and turn to see the sheriff's car pulling in next to 
ours. He's clambering out in a minute, a sheepish grin on 
his face.

"Sorry, folks," he apologizes, hurrying past us to open the 
door and push it open. "Got a little tied up this morning."

I bite back the automatic response that pops into my mind, 
but it's too late; Scully's already thought the same thing, 
and a tiny smirk forms on her face. And that only makes my 
already big problem even bigger.

Armani, where are you when I need you?

On autopilot, I follow Scully into the office, looking 
everywhere but at her. She slips into a seat in front of 
the sheriff's desk, and I slide into the matching chair 
next to it, my eyes latching onto the nameplate sitting on 
the desk that says "SHERIFF JERRY OH." I read it over and 
over again, as if it's the most fascinating thing ever 
written.

Oh man, have I got it bad today. I am absolutely dreading 
three hours on a plane next to her, just as much as I 
usually look forward to it. If I can't get my hormones 
under control, I shudder to think what her reaction will 
be. Because there's no way she won't know what's, well, 
*up*, not when we're stuck side-by-side for that long.

I'm sure she's noticed it before. I mean, after seven years 
of this kind of togetherness, she'd have to be blind not to 
notice. And she's not only not blind; she's trained to 
observe, to see every little detail of everything going on 
around her. Hell, I'm fooling myself to think she hasn't 
noticed what's going on in my pants today.

Not that she'd ever say anything, of course. Not in public, 
at least, and never on the job. She might, *might* throw 
off some comment in private, something dry and sarcastic 
and enough like something I'd say to bring me up short. 

She does that -- steals lines right out of my brain. I 
don't know if she's always had that sense of humor, but at 
this point, I don't care. It's as much of a turn-on as 
everything else about her.

Like the look I feel her giving me now as we wait for the 
sheriff to finish setting up the office for the day and get 
to his desk. I can barely see her from the corner of my 
eye, but I know which one it is. That half-amused, half-
concerned look of affection mixed with exasperation, the 
one she pulls out whenever I'm doing or have done something 
she doesn't quite understand.

Yeah, she knows what's going on. And she's probably 
chalking it up to nothing but hormones, natural bodily 
responses that I can't be responsible for. She probably 
thinks I just need to get laid or something.

Yeah, right. There's only one cure for what's wrong with me 
today, and she's sitting in the next chair.

Sheriff Oh finally makes his way over and offers each of us 
a copy of his report, and I gratefully fall back into work, 
reading his explanations and nodding thoughtfully. It's 
actually quite good, I realize; he's managed to cover both 
the scientific and supernatural aspects of the not-quite-
solved case without slighting or dismissing either 
possibility. We should get him to write *our* reports.

I hear a low sound of approval coming from Scully and grin 
for a moment as I realize she agrees. How'd someone like Oh 
end up in this tiny little town, and why'd he even need us 
here?

"Looks great to me," I say, flipping the report shut and 
sliding it onto the desk. And then I decide to go ahead and 
ask. "I have to be honest, sheriff. I'm wondering why 
you're out here in the middle of nowhere. From what I've 
seen, you're a damn good investigator. You could have been 
working anywhere. Maybe even the Bureau."

Oh smiles at me across the desk, his eyes twinkling with 
amusement. "Ah, but you see, Agent Mulder, there's nowhere 
I'd rather be," he says. "I spent six years in the Navy, 
traveling all over the world, and when I got out, I wanted 
peace and quiet, so I came here." His smile widens into a 
grin. "And it didn't hurt that I was in love with the music 
teacher at the elementary school."

I smile and nod, hoping I look casual and gracious and that 
I'm not blushing. Because I certainly can't say what I'm 
thinking, which is that he just voiced my biggest reason 
for staying right where I am. 

"That's lovely, Sheriff," Scully says, and I glance over to 
see her smiling at him as she places her own copy of the 
report on the desk. "It is a nice town."

I have to agree with her there. The Alpine style might be a 
little strange, but the place is quiet and serene, clean 
and welcoming, with rolling hills on all sides and the 
nearest interstate nearly a half-hour away. Thankfully, 
this case was more luck and magic than anything, so for 
once I'm not left with a bad aftertaste in the back of my 
throat.

This is the kind of place I'd pick if I ever settled down, 
off in the middle of nowhere, with most of the modern 
conveniences but few of the hassles. I'd write articles for 
underground magazines for fun and live off the income from 
my emergency fund, which, by the way, is what happened to 
all that money my father had. It goes to the work these 
days, whenever I need it, but when the work's over, it 
won't bother me to use it anyway.

Yeah, this little town would be nice. Scully could take 
over for Sheriff Oh when he retires, which'll probably be 
in another ten years or so, and I'll be one of her deputies 
if she wants. I'd love watching her stare down anyone who 
dared question her ability to do the job.

What, you think I have a single fantasy these days that 
doesn't involve her? Even the innocuous little ones like 
this? At least I don't have to worry about this kind 
popping any seams.

I suddenly realize that Scully and the sheriff are still 
talking, and I'm immediately thankful for the small part of 
my brain that always manages to keep up with at least the 
general thread of conversation, even when I'm out of it. 
Something about the Navy ... oh, they're comparing Naval 
base stories; it seems they've lived in several of the same 
places, including Okinawa, where Oh's parents are from. I 
get a brief image of Scully wearing a short silk kimono and 
nothing else, before I manage to pull my wandering brain 
back on-task.

I check my watch, trying to be unobtrusive but knowing 
we're on a tight time schedule if we want to make our 
flight and be back in D.C. before dark. See, that's 
something I know about Scully that few people do; she hates 
to drive at night, almost as much as she hates to fly. She 
does both, of course, but she's much more agreeable to the 
idea of me doing the driving at night than she is in 
daylight, because even with contacts or glasses, her eyes 
are still overly sensitive to the brightness of headlights.

That's fine with me, of course. It gives me an excuse to 
drive her home from the airport when we get back from cases 
late at night. But this time, she drove her own car to the 
airport, so she has to drop me off before she can go home. 
I'm determined to make sure she doesn't have to do it in 
the dark.

I shift in my seat, preparatory to standing, and both 
Scully and Oh turn to look at me. I concentrate my 
attentions on her. "We'd better get going, Scully, or we'll 
miss our flight," I say, shooting a smile at the sheriff as 
I rise. "Sheriff, nice meeting you."

Scully recovers quickly from my rather-too-hasty actions 
and stands as well. "Yes, very nice to meet you, Sheriff 
Oh," she says, reaching out to shake his hand across the 
desk.

"Nice to meet you both," he replies jovially, apparently 
not taken aback by my suddenness. "You two come back and 
visit sometime when you're not working. It really is a 
great town."

"We'll do our best," I say as I shake hands. "You know how 
to reach us if you need us."

"Sure do," he says, escorting us to the door. "Have a safe 
trip home."

"Bye," Scully says as we step outside.

Silence falls as we walk toward the car, and I pull the 
keys from my pocket, heading for the driver's side, as 
usual. A flurry of motion surprises me, and before I 
realize what's going on, Scully has snatched the keys away 
and is standing beside the car, opening the door.

"Get in, Mulder," she snaps, and damned if my traitorous 
cock doesn't jump in approval at the order. Shit, now I'm 
in deep trouble, and it's only going to get worse. The only 
thing more arousing than Scully in that suit, is Scully in 
that suit and angry.

I'm smart enough this time to keep my big trap shut and 
just get in the car. Scully barely gives me time to fasten 
my seat belt before she's peeling out of the parking lot, 
sending gravel flying.

She relaxes a little once we're on the road, and I breathe 
a silent sigh of relief. That means she's not really *that* 
angry, and her little outburst is probably all I'm going to 
see of it. Well, that and a few questions. I won't get away 
clean.

"What was that all about, Mulder?"

See?

I sigh. "Sorry, Scully," I murmur. "I don't know why I'm so 
antsy today."

She sighs as well. "S'ok, Mulder," she says, giving a 
little shrug. "You were right anyway. We're on a tight 
schedule."

Whoa. I was right? I mean, I know I was right, but ... 
she's actually saying so? Even after I've just embarrassed 
her in front of some of the best local law enforcement 
we've seen?

Well, hell, I'm not stupid enough to look a gift horse in 
the mouth.

"Yeah," I say. "I guess we should have checked out before 
we left this morning. We could have spent a little more 
time talking to the sheriff."

She smiles briefly. "He was nice," she says, deftly 
maneuvering around a huge piece of tire tread lying in the 
road. Her tone is dry as she continues. "While you were so 
*distracted* in there, did you hear him say he'd met my dad 
once?"

That gets my attention, and I look over at her. "He did?" I 
ask. "Uh, sorry, I must have missed that."

Her smile softens, and I'm caught up again in her 
indescribable beauty, watching her lips part and move 
almost as if in slow motion. It takes a second for me to 
register that she's even talking, and another second for my 
brain to catch up with my ears.

"Dad came through on an inspection tour not long after 
Jerry enlisted," she's saying. *Jerry*? I think, but she's 
still talking and I force myself to listen. "He said Dad 
was very formal but still genial, stopping to talk to 
nearly every man aboard. He was very impressed."

It's easy to hear the note of pride in her voice, and 
before I can stop myself, I'm saying, "I wish I'd met him."

She stops breathing for a moment, I swear, and she glances 
at me, just long enough for me to see the water glistening 
in her eyes. She turns back to the road and swallows once, 
then nods.

"Yeah," she says softly. "Me too."

There doesn't seem to be anything I can say to that, so I 
just lean back and let her drive the last few blocks back 
to the hotel. I'm still watching her out of the corner of 
my eye -- it's one of my favorite pastimes, after all -- 
but thankfully, my body seems to have given me a break.

Of course, it doesn't last.

We're walking down the hall toward our rooms, Scully a few 
feet ahead, when she suddenly lifts her arms over her head, 
linking her fingers together and pulling back. The move 
tugs up the hem of her jacket, exposing not only her entire 
rear end to my view but also about an inch of bare skin 
above the waistband of her jacket.

Oh God, I hope I have something looser than these pants to 
wear on the plane.

"Ahhh," she sighs, twisting back and forth at the waist as 
she walks, in an amazing display of both coordination and 
flexibility. "That's much better."

I swallow a lump the size of a grapefruit and manage to 
say, "Back problems, Scully?"

She glances back at me as she lowers her arms back to her 
sides. "Just a little catch," she says. "The mattress is 
too hard."

Yeah, it's not the only thing. I'm close to begging for 
mercy here, but I just can't stop my mouth. "Need a back 
rub?" I say suggestively, the innuendo coming out 
automatically after so many years of practice.

Dammit, I knew that was a bad idea; she's raising that 
eyebrow again, and her mouth is pulling to the side in one 
of those little smiles she's gotten so good at lately. 
Another ten seconds and I'll have her pinned to the door, 
and all those rules against consorting in hotel rooms will 
go right down the proverbial drain. Hell, rules about 
consorting in hotel *hallways*, for that matter.

"You know, Mulder," she says, drawing my name out as if she 
were Scarlett O'Hara, "this *is* a nice little town."

I have *no* idea where she's going with this, but I nod 
obediently.

"And today *is* Friday," she continues, tilting her head 
down just enough that she's looking up at me through her 
eyelashes. The secretive smile is still in place, but it's 
not until she lifts one hand and slowly tucks her hair 
behind one ear, while running the very tip of her tongue 
across her bottom lip, that my addled brain makes all the 
connections.

She's not just flirting. She's propositioning. And she's 
proposing this little mid-American town as the location for 
Ground Zero.

Even reduced blood flow to my brain doesn't make me dumb 
enough to let *this* pass by. Two seconds later, I actually 
*do* have her pinned to the door -- gently, of course; 
don't want to scare her off just as she's gotten her nerve 
up -- and if she didn't know what was up with me before, 
she certainly does now.

Her eyes widen a bit as I press against her, but I think 
it's mostly surprise that I actually took my cue this time.
I reach for her hands and intertwine our fingers, bringing 
them up to my mouth and brushing my lips across her 
knuckles.

That eyebrow goes back up, the smile returns, and she parts 
her lips. "Mulder," she says, again making my name sound 
like her favorite word. "Maybe you should have brought 
along an Armani."

I freeze and stare. How the hell ... "How the hell did you 
...?"

She laughs, a low little chuckle that goes right to my 
groin, and then she makes it even worse -- or better, I 
guess -- by pressing her hips against me.

"I'm very observant, Mulder," she positively purrs, her 
gaze dropping for a split second down to my crotch before 
she looks me in the eye again. "And I've been observing 
alllll morning."

That's it. Something inside me snaps, and the next thing I 
know, I've got both hands wrapped around her head, and my 
tongue is counting the ridges on her molars. She doesn't 
seem to be objecting, judging by the moans I'm hearing -- 
well, I guess the lower-pitched ones are mine, but hers are 
in there, too. Nice harmony.

I realize she's got a death grip on my upper arms only when 
she wrenches one hand away and goes digging in my coat 
pocket. I'd ask why, but I'm too busy making like a Hoover 
against her lips, and it doesn't matter anyway, because in 
a second she's shoving my key into the door and flailing 
for the handle. 

Luckily for us, she's got more manual dexterity left than I 
do. She gets the thing open in a few seconds and we stumble 
inside, still sealed together like suckerfish, banging into 
walls as we make our unsteady way toward the unmade bed. I 
try to simply fall back on the mattress and drag her down 
with me, but she yanks her mouth away long enough for one 
word: "Clothes."

Oh yeah. Sex *is* usually easier when you're naked, isn't 
it?

So we start pushing and pulling, trying to strip each other 
and ourselves at the same time without ripping our clothes 
to shreds. We're mostly successful, although the only 
reason her suit keeps all its buttons is that I'm coherent 
enough to realize that I want to see her wear it again. 
Every day, if possible ... although, come to think of it, I 
much prefer the birthday suit she's now wearing.

We should be timing ourselves; I imagine we just set some 
kind of world record for getting undressed. *Now* I fall 
back onto the bed, pulling her so she sprawls out on top of 
me, her legs spread and our crotches perfectly aligned. Oh 
God, maybe *too* perfectly; I'm about a quarter-inch from 
sliding inside her, and it's way too soon for that.

To my great relief, she lifts her hips minutely and brings 
her mouth back to mine for another exploration. But then, 
before I can raise a protest, she yanks away, sits up on 
her knees, grabs my cock in her hand, and slides right down 
onto me. My hips arch automatically to meet her, and we 
groan, once again in harmony, my ragged baritone blending 
beautifully with her husky alto. My kind of music.

She drops forward again, her hands hitting the mattress on 
either side of me, and her hips start pumping. A tiny 
little compartment of my brain wants to slow this down, but 
after the morning I've had, I can't refuse the prospect of 
sweet release just around the corner.

She sits up straighter, grabbing for my right hand with her 
left to brace herself, and starts bouncing like a pogo 
stick. Her right hand slides across her hip and she presses 
her fingers between her legs, and the sight of her touching 
herself while she fucks me goes straight to the head of my 
cock.

I am there. I am *so* there. I am desperate to wait, to 
make this last -- not to prove my "prowess," but because 
this is the best thing that's happened to me in my life and 
I don't want it to end. Ever.

I lift my free hand to her breasts -- oh my God, I'm 
allowed to *touch* them now -- and run my fingers across 
her nipples, pinching each lightly, and her eyes open and 
latch onto mine, and she says the second word she's said 
since we kissed. "Mulder," she moans, dragging the two 
syllables out into the sexiest sound I've ever heard, and I 
am coming. My hips are out of control, pumping and 
thrusting, and it takes me a few seconds to comprehend that 
the deep, primal yowling sound I hear is me.

Jesus, this is the best sex I've ever had, and it's already 
over, less than ten minutes into it. I sure as hell hope I 
get seconds. And thirds.

By the time I've got enough wits gathered to think about 
checking on Scully, she's already taken care of herself. I 
manage to focus on her again just in time for her to go 
rigid and then shudder and buck, her breasts shimmying 
entrancingly as she gasps and moans. Her inner muscles 
spasm around me, and suddenly all I can do is calculate how 
long it'll take for me to be able to do this again. I don't 
much like the answer, but I think it's the best I'll be 
able to do.

That train of thought lasts just long enough for Scully to 
finish shaking and flop down across my chest like a 
boneless cat, her arms limp against the sheets. I'm 
recovered enough that my own arms are following orders 
again, so I bring them up to wrap around her back and shift 
her around on top of me until I think we'll both be 
comfortable. I slip out of her in the process, and we both 
keen somewhere low in our throats at the loss of each 
other.

Don't worry, Scully. I'll be back really soon.

I don't say it out loud, but she hears anyway, I think. Her 
head shifts to the side, and I hear a murmur that sounds 
like "Promise?"

Yeah, Scully. I promise.

A few moments pass in silence before she lifts her head and 
speaks again. "So," she says, her voice raspy. "Did that 
take care of your not-so-little problem?"

I bark out a quick laugh and tighten my arms. "Woman," I 
say in a low growl. "You *are* the problem." I press my 
lips against her hairline and speak against her skin. "Do 
us both a favor, will you?"

"Hmmm?" She slides her legs back and forth, making every 
hair on my body stand on end, and I pull my hand up to cup 
her head, tilting her face up to mine.

She's got the most wicked grin on her face I've ever seen, 
and I cut about a minute off that recovery time estimate. 
"Unless you want me to split a seam," I tell her, lowering 
my head so the rest of my statement comes out against her 
lips, "don't wear that suit to work again."

If anything, her grin turns more dangerous. "Mmmmm," she 
says. "I love it when a plan comes together."

I jerk back about an inch. "You mean ..."

"I planned this," she confirms, her eyes sparkling with 
humor. "Maybe not *exactly* like this; I couldn't be 
completely sure how you'd react. But the suit, and the 
stretching in the hall, and the innuendoes, yeah."

A memory pops back into my head. "You knew about the suits, 
didn't you?"

She nods, still grinning like, well, a well-satisfied 
woman. "As I said, I'm *very* observant," she says, her 
eyelids drooping a bit as her hands start to wander over my 
bare skin. "It's what I do with those observations that 
really counts."

"Mmm-hmmm," I answer through a brief kiss. "And what are 
your observations telling you to do now?"

The grin is back, stronger than ever. "Tell you the rest of 
the story," she says, just as her strong fingers wrap 
around my on-the-road-to-recovery cock. I manage not to 
yelp, and she leans in close to my ear and tells me, "Our 
flight is now on Sunday, our rooms are booked until then, 
and I've got a stash of food and takeout menus in my room."

God, I love a take-charge woman. On the other hand ... I 
execute a quick tuck-and-roll maneuver, and our positions 
are reversed. She gasps in surprise, then laughs raucously, 
not a little chuckle or giggle like I usually hear from 
her, but a full-bodied belly laugh. I take back everything 
I've said so far; *that* is the sexiest thing I've ever 
heard.

"Hey, Scully," I say, shifting my hips until I'm positioned 
just perfectly between her legs, as she tapers off into 
giggles. "You up for another battle with this bulge?"

"Oh yeah," she lets out, nodding slowly. She drags her 
fingernails down my back until her hands are cupping my 
ass, and she gives one good squeeze. "This is one fight 
neither of us loses."

Well, then, I think, swooping down for another one of her 
soul-searing kisses. Let the battle begin.

=====END=====

AUTHOR'S NOTES

This story is dedicated to Lysandra and is intended as 
homage, pale imitation though it may be, to her inimitable 
and entirely too fun style. The only difference? I actually 
let them *consummate* all that UST. ;)

This idea was actually a result of several chat discussions 
concerning certain *bulges*; Scullyfic talk about POV; a 
need for humor to balance the 85K of angst I was in the
midst of writing; and, of course, an extremely demented 
state of mind. (Yes, more so than usual.) The title just 
popped into my head and wouldn't leave me alone, and then
Mulder started whining in my ear, and you know how he gets
when he thinks you're not listening to him ...

Great big thanks to Dreamshaper for a fantastic beta job, 
and huge thanks go to Robbie for her unwitting inspiration, 
the beta read -- and the sheriff's name. ;) 

Feedback is better than Mulder in Armani. No, really. <g> 
shannono@mindspring.com or shannono@iname.com