TITLE: A Sketch: Chicago, Black Suit, Vampire
AUTHOR: bugs
EMAIL ADDRESS: bugs1231@my-deja.com
http://urw.simplenet.com/bugs
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Spookys, Gossamer, and anyone who finds
this fun.
SPOILER WARNING: Rush, The Goldberg Variation
RATING: R for sexual situations
CLASSIFICATION: V, H, Scully POV
SUMMARY: In Chicago to investigate a lucky man, Scully's mind
flits over some word associations.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: Sharon kindly shoved her holiday guests out the
door and gave this a read for me.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: A few lines in GV caught my attention, but the
story I saw was a mad, scribbling sketch, not the usual fanfic
deep massage of 'what it all means.'

X * X * X * X * X


"Hey, nice outfit."

Compressed laughter. Warm and low. Wrapped around each letter of
those words like his warm hands cradling my waist.

Laughing: At the shattering of all my high self-standards. First
and foremost, laundry always done on time. Dry cleaning dropped
off and picked up on Friday evening on the way home from work.

Friday evening. The rush home. His hands stretching across the
front seat. Tracing the bones in the back of my hand. My hand
gripping the steering wheel. Acceleration. Past Quick-E Dry
Cleaning. The silent promise to pick up the dry cleaning on
Saturday morning.

Bodies barely through the door. Clothing pushed aside, ripped
away. Lifted by strong, long arms. Back pressed to the wall, the
picture of Bill and me at summer camp falling and shattering,
unnoticed. The slow, delicious/painful descent, as long and
protracted as my moan. Down, down, onto his waiting cock. That
laugh in his answering moan.

Saturday morning. Dry cleaning forgotten. Snow fort of pillows
built instead. Spread open like a snow angel, my dark dog
snuffling between my legs.

1:12 PM: Numbers on the clock chuckle at my distraction. "Dammit!
Mulder!"

"What?" Lazy and insolent. Sleek fingers dancing like a theater
troop of Fred Astaires on my ankles.

"Don't 'what' me! My dry cleaning!"

"Can I 'what' you? Please?" Palms sculpting my ass into a round,
firm overturned bowl.

The contents of my closet mentally catalogued. I didn't get my
dry cleaning last weekend, for exactly the same reason.

Nothing.

"Dammit, Mulder!"

"Awww..." He signed his death warrant. "You love me anyway."

Revenge. Revenge will be mine.

My gaze slips down over my least favorite black suit with the
frayed cuffs. Smells of the last death scene it was worn to.
Gives me a rather morbid air that may suit to intimidate suspects,
I must admit.

I take in his assemble. He isn't doing much better, wearing a
brownish suit with a dark blue shirt and one of his old, horribly
patterned ties. He, however, doesn't give a shit.

I repeat. Revenge. It will be mine.


X * X * X


*Crack!*

Our eyes meet.

My laughter dissolves as the floor gives way.

He sits on the floor of the apartment below the huge hole.

"You okay, Mulder?"

Heartbeats have run off like rabbits in a meadow. I can't get
them under control.

Revenge is mine, but was it worth it?

"Yeah, it's all right. My ass broke the fall. Guess who I found?
Henry Weems, I presume?"

X * X

Now that I'm calm, Mulder's ass appears to not be broken--that
would be a bad, bad thing. We need that large muscle--I can
reflect.

Revenge. His last clean suit, ruined. I can see the wrinkles
puckering the fine cotton fabric of his beautiful shirt. His tie
shrivels like his nuts under my lashing tongue.

That slip of the mind brings up some interesting possibilities...

"So, here's the plan, as I see it: we inform the Chicago field
office about Weems, leaving it to them to secure his testimony,
you change your clothes ..."

Out of his clothes. He might get a chill. Hot shower back at the
hotel. Soaping his back, hands down his long legs, my tongue
tracing the crack of his ass...

Fluffy towels, roughly rubbing over his limbs until all his body
hair stands on end. Blow drying his hair, set on low, my fingers
running around and around his scalp...

He's reading my mind. His brows rise.

I can't hold back a smile. Okay, so he wins this point. "...We
fly back to D.C. by sunset and all is right with the world."

Vampires have to be in by sunset. At least that was his story.
The reason we had to leave work before nightfall.

I told him he was full of shit. Kept working. Somewhere in the
depths of Evidence, he found a black cape. I don't want to think
of what crime was committed with it.

Swooping down on me in my office, covering me in darkness. Hands,
cold as death, under my blouse. Teeth on my neck.

"Mulder, don't you dare mark me!"

Answer: My hair swept aside. The back of my neck, bracketing my
spine, attacked. I went limp. Lifted. Draped over the desk.
Skirt pushed up.

"Mulder. No. Not here."

The hands stilled. A reply. "No. I guess not."

No. Home. Past the dry cleaners. Past the laundromat. Race the
setting sun. Pulling the covers over my vampire, closing the lid
on his coffin.

"Come on, Scully, you're going to dump this case just as it's
getting interesting?"

I can't help the raised eyebrow. Perhaps I've overestimated the
appeal of my company.

"*Interesting,* Mulder, was when we were looking for Wile E.
Coyote. Come on, Mulder, this guy just got lucky. There's no X-
File here."

He starts chewing at this like a terrier with a bone. "Maybe his
luck is the X-File."

Crossroads. Of all the ways this scenario played out in my
imagination, that I would be the one distracted by sex was very
low on the list. He had seemed pliant enough in Pittsfield.
"Mulder. Rather than spirits...can we at least start with Tony's
friends? Please? Just...for me?" My fingertip traced up and
down his tie--imagination, or had the end turned up like
Dilbert's? My first attempt at coyness rewarded that time.

*Stab--Stab at the elevator button* But now?

My eyes flick up and down his tie.

He twitches. Very slightly. Okay. Now I feel better.

A decision. There's not going to be a free ride. Never has been
with us, never will be. Back to the ground floor, one step at a
time. On our own four legs. "Stairs."


X * End * X