Title: "Mighty Workings" (1/1) Author: Plausible Deniability Address: pdeniability@hotmail.com Category: S, a little H Rating: *NC-17* (sexual situations, mature language) Spoilers: none Keywords: real UST (of a very awkward sort); unreal RST (of a very strange sort) Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the television program "The X Files" are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox Broadcasting, and Ten-Thirteen Productions, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. Summary: Paper-thin motel walls pose a problem for Agent Mulder. THANKS to my cyber-Goddess, the talented Dasha K., for her inspiration and advice, and to Becky for her wisdom and her red pen. ------ Hear ye not the hum Of mighty workings? John Keats, "Addressed to Haydon: Sonnet x" **** "You want the last slice?" I ask Scully, opening the lid of the pizza box invitingly. "No, thanks. You take it." I lift the wedge of Little Caesar's finest and shovel it into my mouth. A piece of sausage drops onto the bedspread, and I quickly pick it off and eat it before Scully notices. It's my room, but I don't want her thinking I'm a slob. "I'll take the receipts from 1995 to mid-1997," she suggests with a yawn, dividing the file folders on the motel room desk into two neat piles. "You can take mid-97 to the present." "Okay," I agree from my comfortable position on the bed -- only my mouth is still full, and it comes out sounding a bit more like "Ogha." We are staying in the sort of cheap motel that the FBI number-crunchers seem to love. The bed has no headboard, and so I am slouched with my back against the wall. She carries one of the two stacks of folders over to me, and drops it summarily into my lap. "Thanks." She returns to her seat at the desk and I open the first folder. We are looking for some connection between the local pet shop and a series of grisly murders. All of the victims owned reptiles -- snakes, iguanas, miniature alligators. The pet store employees have already been cleared, but Scully and I are wondering if there might still be some link between the shop and the murders: something strange the victims bought, perhaps, or a supplier their pets had in common. We are quiet for a while, both of us poring over the shop's chaotic records. Then I hear it -- a faint, distant moan comes floating through the wall behind me. I raise my head for a second, alert. Is someone ill? Has someone perhaps been injured? A beat passes, and then another moan follows. Only this time it is crystal clear that the sound has nothing to do with sickness or trauma. I have heard this same moan many times before -- but rarely outside of adult movies. As if to confirm my suspicions, a muffled female voice groans, "Oh, yeah, baby. Right there. Yeah, that feels so good..." I look in alarm toward Scully. Did she hear that? But she remains working in unconcern at the spartan little desk, flipping steadily through her first folder of receipts. I let my breath out slowly in relief. It would certainly be...awkward, if my proper and self-possessed female partner were to hear something so uncomfortably erotic. Particularly since I am sitting not ten feet away from her in a seedy motel room, sprawled on a king- size bed. I go back to puzzling over the pet shop paperwork. Maybe the victims all visited the store on the same date. Perhaps I can find some sort of pattern. More low moans waft in from the other side of the wall. I look over my shoulder nervously. Jesus, Scully's going to hear it if they don't keep it down. She looks so collected and professional, working there at the desk. She has her hair tucked behind her ears in that cute, no-nonsense way she has. She's mostly turned away from me, but I can still see enough of her face to tell that she is thinking very seriously about the case. The desk lamp sheds a warm glow on her pensive profile. She looks reassuringly *pure*. But the moans are getting harder to mistake. "I see a lot of receipts for dog food," I say loudly. She turns, and gives me a questioning look. "Is that significant for some reason?" "Not really significant," I answer, hoping to cover up the sounds. "Just interesting. Don't you think that's interesting? I thought people mostly bought dog food at grocery stores." "Mulder, why are you shouting?" "I'm not shouting." She eyes me critically. "If you say so..." She turns back, and resumes her search through the pile of receipts. From behind the wall, a long low moan rises and falls. "Oh, that feels good," a feminine voice enthuses. "Oh, yes, give me that great big cock of yours." Ignore it, I order myself. Ignore it, ignore it, ignore it. Then the rhythmic squeak of bedsprings begins: EE-ee-EE-ee-EE-ee. "Scully," I blurt desperately, "you want to go somewhere?" She turns again and stares at me. "Go somewhere...?" "Yeah, you know. Get some fresh air, maybe grab a bite to eat." "Mulder, we just ate a whole pizza." She has a point. But I have to get her out of this room. Sooner or later she is bound to notice that there is a funky Love Connection taking place on the other side of the wall. The noises are growing louder by the minute. "Well, let's walk our dinner off, then," I insist. "Clear our heads." "Mulder, we have work to do." She turns her back to me again, and methodically begins sorting her sheaf of receipts into a series of little stacks. Apparently she has hit on some sort of system. A stack for cat receipts, maybe, and another stack for parakeets. On the other side of the wall, the sound of bedsprings intensifies. "Oh, god, that's good!" the man hollers. "Fuck, you're hot!" Okay, Scully had to have heard *that*. Helen Keller could have heard that. The circa-1970 light fixture on the wall beside me is actually rattling. I look over at her, my forehead creased with trepidation. But she just keeps working quietly. And then it hits me: of course she heard it. She's probably heard all of the sounds just as clearly as I have. The little hypocrite! She's not deaf, she's just a very impressive actress. She's pretending she hasn't noticed what's going on. For some reason, this bothers me. It bothers me even more than my previous apprehension did. Now I know that she's aware of the happenings on the other side of the wall. That means I have to wonder what she's thinking, and whether it might even be turning her on. Not only that, but I have to sit here and try to equal her pretense of obliviousness with a matching performance of my own. "Give it to me harder," the mystery woman cries on the other side of the wall. "Oh, God, I love the way your big cock feels!" Scully doesn't even bat an eye. What a consummate little fraud. Well, two can play at that game. I make an ostentatious show of sorting my receipts into piles the same way she is doing. One potato, two potato, three potato, four... I have no idea what my piles are supposed to signify, but at least it looks like I am working diligently. "Oh, baby, I'm gonna make you come so hard!" the man bellows. Scully's hand never hesitates for an instant. She is a robot, an automaton, a paper-shuffling machine. I can't help but marvel at her concentration. What is going on inside that inscrutable head of hers? I know what's going on in my head: How the hell can they make so much *noise*? I thought stuff like that only happened in porn movies. I've certainly never had any woman scream about my cock that way. And how can Scully pretend there's nothing odd about that? Unless maybe I just haven't been doing it right all these years... EE-ee-EE-ee-EE-ee-EE-ee. God, I can't stand it. This is like watching an X-rated movie with my mother in the room. I force myself to continue sorting. Yes, the receipts with blue ink in this pile, the ones with black ink in that one. One has a coffee stain, so I decide that deserves a pile of its own. A special pile for coffee stains; let's see Scully match that sort of productivity. I glance over at her. She must have ice water in her veins. She just keeps working, as if it is perfectly normal to conduct an investigation over the din of vigorous sex. The paint is practically flaking off the ceiling, and it isn't fazing her at all. The moaning escalates in pitch and volume. "Yes!" sobs the woman's voice ecstatically. "Oh, God, yes -- like that! Fuck me!" All right, that tears it. I can't take it anymore. Maintaining the polite impervious mask that Scully seems to expect is too much of a strain. I have to say something. I clear my throat. "Jeez, it sounds like somebody's getting a real one-gun salute next door..." Scully's head turns slowly, and she freezes me with a look. "Mulder, I hardly think that's any of our business." I can't believe it -- I'm just trying to break the tension here, and she's lecturing* me? "I know it's none of our business. That's why I find it odd that we're just sitting here working meekly, as if nothing the least bit out of place is going on." She doesn't answer. "I mean, some things I can pretend. I can pretend I don't see it when someone has a piece of spinach in his teeth, and I can pretend there is nothing uncomfortable about watching tampon ads on TV. But I cannot pretend I don't hear it when two people with exceptionally strong lungs are having torrid sex not two feet from the spot where I am sitting." From next door, as if in chorus with my words, comes another volley of noise -- an orgasmic female shriek rises over the rhythmic squawk of bedsprings. "Hey!" I yell in frustration, pounding on the wall with my fist. "Keep it down in there!" Scully's eyes widen in horror. "Mulder! Don't let them know you can hear them -- !" Oh, yes, I think. God forbid I should offend their delicate sensibilities. Sometimes Scully makes me wonder whether we even belong to the same species. **** I am having the strangest dream. Scully is trying to seduce me, only I am afraid to give in. In my dream world, it is against FBI regulations to make noise while having sex. "C'mere," she says, stepping squarely in front of me and unbuttoning my shirt. "Let's see that big cock of yours." "Scully, I have dog food receipts to read." "Oh, no, Mulder. You're going to make love to me. You know you want to." And it's true, I do want to. Scully is wearing nothing but a black silk bra and panties, and as she unbuttons my shirt she kisses her way down my sternum. I want her so much that I'm already pale, trembling, and glassy-eyed. I would love to throw her on the bed -- we are in the office, but there is a big gold heart-shaped bed right in the middle of it -- and fuck her lovely brains out. I can't, though. I might moan or something, and FBI agents aren't supposed to make noise. It's the one rule we're not allowed to break, like the Prime Directive on Star Trek. "Please," she whispers. "Please do this one thing for me, Mulder." She pushes my shirt off my shoulders, and it drops to the floor. "Please make me come." "Scully, I can't," I whine. "Let's just get a pizza instead. You like pizza, don't you?" She lifts my hand and puts it on her breast. "No, not now I don't. I just want to have sex with you. I want you to give me your big cock." "Scully, you don't really want that..." "A gentleman never contradicts a lady, Fox," comes a familiar voice from the corner of the office. I wheel around. My mother is sitting demurely on the edge of my desk, ankles crossed, watching Scully and me. "Mom!" I exclaim. "Share with the nice girl, the way you're supposed to," my mother prods. I tip my head to one side. "You know, I really don't think I can, Mom, if you're going to watch the whole thing." Obligingly, she shimmers and disappears. "There now, that's better, isn't it?" Scully asks, as I breathe an enormous sigh of relief. I hear the rasp of metal, and look down to see her lowering my zipper. She slips her hand inside the open waistband of my pants. Oh, god. This is not going to be easy. How can I help responding when she is being so aggressive? She shoves me back against the office wall, so roughly that the circa-1970 light fixture above us actually rattles. "Scully, don't," I beg. "Don't fight it, Mulder." I can't help it -- I'm hard. She wraps her hand around my erection. "But, Scully, we can't," I pant weakly. "What about the noise? What about my job?" In answer, she tightens her fingers around me. Oh, God. Already I am a sweating, trembling wreck, and she is a cool, triumphant beauty in black silk lingerie. No way I am going to come out the winner in this encounter. I hold my breath, and stare down fearfully at her creamy breasts. And then somehow our clothes have magically vanished, and I am lying on my back on the bed, blinking up at her. "Oh, baby, I'm going to make you come so hard," she growls, leaning over me, her burnished hair spilling down. "No, please," I squeak. Rules are rules. She straddles my hips, and I shiver with rapture as she lowers herself onto my erection. I bite down hard on my bottom lip. I can't make noise. I can't. She closes her eyes, throws her head back, and begins to move slowly. Her hands rest flat on my chest, fingers spread. "Oh, yeah, baby. Right there. Yeah, that feels so good..." she says, rocking up and down. My teeth are going to draw blood, I know they are, but biting my lip seems to be the only way that I can hold back the moan that is building inside me. Scully feels so damn good. No noise, I remind myself; no noise. "Give it to me harder," she breathes, undulating above me. "I love the way your big cock feels. Oh, yeah." God -- I can't help it. I moan. Oh great, I think despairingly. Now I am going to be drummed out of the FBI. What am I going to tell my mother when she demands to know what happened to my career? Twelve years of government service down the drain. But Scully is certainly doing her best to make the crime worth the punishment. She drives herself down on my throbbing erection. Her hot depths are like the promise of salvation. It strikes me that I've already blown the Special Agent gig, and so have nothing much to lose. I moan again. "That's good, Mulder," she encourages. It certainly is. I am really beginning to get into this. I reach up and set my hands on her hips. "Unnh," I groan, forcing her into the rhythm of my choosing. She seems to approve. "Oh, God, yes -- like that." "Oh, yes," I agree, thrusting up into her. "Fuck me!" Scully urges ecstatically. I am certainly doing my best. I am moaning to beat the band now, too. Jesus, this is amazing. "Yes!" Scully rhapsodizes. "Yes!" There seems no correct answer to this except -- another moan. My enthusiastic vocalization is followed by an inexplicable thud. I look up at Scully questioningly. She smiles down at me. Another thud. My brow wrinkles in confusion. THUD THUD THUD I open my eyes reluctantly, to look in bewilderment around my dark motel room. Shit. The thudding continues. I struggle up onto my elbows. Someone is pounding angrily on the wall over my bed. I reach over and switch on the bedside lamp. The sudden brilliance blinds me. "Ow -- fuck," I mutter, shielding my eyes with one hastily-lifted forearm. "For the last time," an irate voice booms from the other side of the wall, "would you shut the hell up in there? Some people are trying to sleep!" **** I have to wonder why Scully keeps looking at me strangely the next morning. Then, halfway through an unpromising interview with an alligator breeder, it finally dawns on me: she had the room against the other wall. Apparently the sound of moans really carries in cheap motels. **** END Feedback makes the hiatus go by faster. -- PD (pdeniability@hotmail.com)