IN THE HEAT OF THE NIGHT by TBishop and Keleka Rated: NC-17 Category: MSR/Lurid fiction Summary: Jailsmut Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully have defected to the world of fan fiction to satisfy their sexual urges. Sorry, Chris, but we warned you. What did you expect after seven years of UST? Feedback: Please. T Bishop - TBishop27@mindspring.com Keleka - keleka@keleka.net Read more of our fics at: T Bishop - http://members.xoom.com/arcticfox42/Tbishop.htm or http://tbishop.freeservers.com/ Keleka - http://www.keleka.net/keleka/ *** Thanks to David and Shell for beta. And to Grasshopper for archiving. IN THE HEAT OF THE NIGHT I know as soon as the word 'chiropractor' is out of my mouth that I am a dead man. I look over the roof of the rental car at my partner, and watch the fire and spit begin to fill her eyes as soon as I tell her that the subject of our case is not a 'doctor' as we thought, but a chiropractor. I had lured Scully to this little burg in east central Mississippi with the story of a doctor who attributed his 100% success rate curing cancer to treatment methods he had learned from aliens during his abduction. The story pressed all her buttons; it had all the magic words: doctor, cancer, cure, and abduction. She was skeptical--of course--but it didn't take much work to convince her we should check it out. After all the senseless death and suffering we've witnessed, how could we resist an X-File which could only be good news for mankind, if it turned out to be true? We left the Hoover building in good spirits and even managed to have a pleasant flight to Birmingham, Alabama where we rented a car and headed southwest. We hadn't gotten as far as Tuscaloosa, however, before the car's air conditioning gave up the ghost and we began to swelter in the 95-plus degree July heat and humidity. I should have taken it as an omen. Finally we reached our destination: Institute, Mississippi. Not much of a town, really. Just a bank, a post office, a Jitney Jungle supermarket, a few other tired businesses, and some dilapidated houses. Apparently, Institute's sole claim to fame is that it was once home to a military school for boys. There is even a sign at the town limits: 'Home of Mississippi Military Institute, 1824-1864.' Gee, I wonder what shut it down. I stopped at what looked like it had to be the social center of Institute, a bar and grill called 'Maud's Eats & Drinks,' and went in to get directions to the office of Dr. Homer P. Ferdwell. I know Scully thinks I like dives, both of the motel and restaurant variety, but even I have standards. Cigarette butts stomped out on the floor. Loud country music blaring on the juke box. The heavy feel of fry grease mingling with the scent of stale beer. Nope. Maud's was not my kind of dive. As soon as I walked in the door, a stark silence overtook the place as all eyes turned to look at the stranger in his Armani suit and $200 shoes. 'City slicker' might as well have been plastered on my forehead. I knew I was out of my element so I copped a goofy smile and slinked over to the far wall where I saw a pay phone next to the jukebox. The phone book was intact, another sure sign I was not in the city. I looked for Dr. Ferdwell in the yellow pages under 'Physicians - M.D.,' acutely aware of the continuing silence surrounding me. I suspected that the customers at Maud's were probably staring holes in my back. My anxiety level leapt significantly when I couldn't find any Dr. Ferdwell, so I turned to the white pages and found him listed: 'Ferdwell, D.C., Homer P.' Oh my God. He's a chiropractor. I jumped back to the yellow pages and this time I found him easily when I looked in the right place. His full-page ad promised relief for all sorts of ailments, and was probably the cheesiest ad I've ever seen for a chiropractor, and that's saying a lot. Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not saying chiropractors don't have their place in our health care system. God knows I received some pretty incredible and virtually immediate pain relief from a chiropractor after one of my many injuries. But I am 'Fox "Anything to Make it Stop Hurting" Mulder.' My partner, on the other hand is 'Dr. Dana "Show Me the Proof or Shut the Hell Up" Scully, M.D.' And we all know what M.D.s think of chiropractors. To Scully, they are only a few microns higher on the evolutionary scale than lawyers, politicians, and flukemen. As all this raced through my mind, I turned and saw that I was right. Staring at strangers *is* the major recreational activity of the good people of Institute. I walked over to the counter where a kindly looking middle-aged woman wearing a name tag that said 'Maud' was serving up a plate of french fries smothered in gravy to a couple of teenagers. My arteries hardened just looking at it. "Excuse me," I said, trying not to notice the amusement on Maud's face as she looked me over. "Could you give me directions to the Ferdwell Clinic?" As soon as I stated my business, conversations resumed all around me. Just another city boy here looking for a miracle I guess. Maud gave me directions in a voice that belied too many years of cigarettes and alcohol and I made a hasty exit back into the relentless Mississippi heat. And now, I stand here on asphalt so hot I can feel it through the soles of my shoes, my eyes downcast submissively, affecting the demeanor of a whipped puppy, as Scully berates me as only she can. I had considered not telling her and playing dumb when she found out, but lying to Scully is even harder than lying to my mother. My mother has only an 80% success rate, but Scully ALWAYS knows when I'm lying. And my mother doesn't pack heat. During the short drive to the Ferdwell Clinic, Scully continues to tell me what she thinks of me, Dr. Ferdwell, and the Mississippi heat. Scully can't stand feeling dirty and after several hours in this sweat box of a car, she is looking wilted and grimy. If it weren't so damned hot she might not be QUITE so mad at me. Periodically I nod and apologize, but she doesn't hear any of it. She's on a roll. When we arrive at the clinic we can't even get inside. An inspector from the State Department of Health is there, along with a half-dozen state troopers. Dr. Ferdwell is sitting in the back of one of the squad cars, his eyes clamped shut as though he's trying to pretend none of this is happening. Scully has a quick conversation with the health inspector and then gets in the squad car to talk to Dr. Ferdwell. I step closer to the squad car and lean down to listen to their conversation through the window. Scully might think chiropractors are quacks, but you can't tell it from the gentle way she questions Ferdwell. I listen long enough to know this is a very disturbed man--his aliens are ORANGE for God's sake--and we've wasted our time. No, strike that. I'VE wasted our time. I return to our car to wait for her to finish, silently practicing my apology. In a few minutes, Scully stalks back to the car where she grabs the keys from me and barks, "Get in. I'm driving." I start to protest, but she gives me her patented 'Shut up or I'll shoot you again, so help me God' look and before I know it we're tearing down the road back in the direction of Alabama, dirt and gravel flying behind us, reminding me of 'The Dukes of Hazard.' Scully should never drive when she's pissed. We travel in an uncomfortable silence for nearly half an hour before I garner the courage to speak. "I was really hoping we might find the cure to cancer here, ya know, Scully." She looks at me for a moment as though she cannot believe I have sufficient intelligence to form sentences, then her face softens as she registers what I have said. "I'm sorry, Scully. I shouldn't have dragged you down here." She's quiet, chewing on her lower lip and looking pensive. I think I've been forgiven, though she's not about to admit it yet. Just then I see the sign: 'Welcome to Reform, Alabama'; and then another, 'Speed Limit 25.' I glance quickly at the speedometer. Sixty-five m.p.h. Scully has been flying down this road since we left Institute and she shows no sign of slowing down for Reform or anything else. "Scully, you'd better slow..." Just then I see the flashing blue lights behind us. Busted. Any hope I had of being forgiven vanishes as I watch a burly sheriff's deputy get out of the squad car and spit some tobacco juice on the dry ground. I watch him hitch up his holster and look warily at us. My God. He's a giant. At least six foot four inches of pure Alabama sinew and muscle. The other deputy stays in the car, talking into his microphone, probably calling in our plates. I sense Scully's rising impatience, angry at herself for speeding, and at the deputy for catching her being less than perfect, and at me for....existing. Before I can stop her, Scully swings open the car door, hops out, pulls herself up to her fearsome 5'1" height, and visibly *bristles* as she walks crisply up to the deputy. The chip on her shoulder is just screaming to be knocked off. Uh oh. I watch for a moment as my normally taciturn partner conducts an animated conversation with the deputy. Even from this distance I can see the Deputy's reaction clearly and I know the exact moment Scully crosses the line, even before he grasps her upper arm and turns her not so gently toward the car, pointing at the hood, the universal cop's signal for 'assume the position.' I even see him mouth the words. I hop out of my side of the car, hoping to diffuse the situation with some of my Muldercharm. The other deputy, seeing HIS partner about to be outnumbered jumps out of the squad car and rushes toward me. I realize I would do the same if I were in his place and saw a suspicious character rushing toward Scully under similar circumstances. I stop in my tracks and hold up my hands in a sign of surrender. "Whoa guys," I say. "There must be some sort of misunderstanding." That seems to appease deputy number two and he slows his approach, watching me cautiously. Then I see Goober over there begin to frisk Scully, and it's obvious from the look on his face that he's rather enjoying himself. When his hand lingers a bit too long on her derriere I take umbrage and shout "get your hands off her, Goober," and storm off to her defense. No one touches MY Scully like that without answering to me! Oomph. Suddenly I have a great view of the trunk of our car and I feel my hands being jerked behind me. This guy is good. I'm cuffed and spread eagle against the car before I know what has happened. "Look what I found," Goober calls out, holding up Scully's sig sauer after he leisurely frisked her lower back. "You got a license for this, little lady?" Over the idling engine of our car I hear Scully say something that sounds like "I don't need a license, you idiot. I'm an F.B.I. agent." That's it, Scully. See if you can't charm the guy into letting us go. All I can think of is how I'm going to explain this to A.D. Skinner. Deputy number two has, by now, found my weapon and is holding it up for his partner to see. He pulls me to me feet and shoves me over to stand next to Scully, who is now facing Goober and giving him what for in language I have never heard her use before. Sailor's kids always have the most colorful vocabularies. Ok. It's my fault we're in this godforsaken place, but THIS is all Scully's doing. I'm starting to get pissed off. "Shut up, Scully!" That seems to get her attention and, thankfully, she finally shuts her yap. "Officers," I say, trying to remain calm, "we're F.B.I. agents down here on a case." "That's quite a potty mouth you'all got on you, little lady," Goober says, leaning down so his sweaty face is only inches from Scully's. Great. Be condescending, Goober. That'll win her heart. I try again. "My partner, Agent Scully, has had a bad day and I'm SURE she'll apologize for anything untoward she has said, Officer. We really need to be on our way to catch our flight in Birmingham." Silence. "Tell the officer you're sorry, Scully," I prod. More silence. I clear my throat and with my eyes I fire off some pointy darts in Scully's direction. "If you'll just uncuff us so we can show you our IDs..." I suggest modestly. Goober takes a step closer and leans down till his sweaty face is but a few inches from mine. I'm willing to bet this guy was starting left tackle for the Crimson Tide when he was younger. "I don't give a damn what your ID says you are, I'm taking you in." Scully opens her mouth to protest and I jab her in the calf with my foot. "Officer, my partner is sorry she was speeding. We were discussing the case we're down here for, and she didn't see the speed limit sign. I had just told her to slow down when you turned on your light." Goober looks at Scully, then at me, then at his partner, then back to me. "You do all her apologizing for her, boy?" Boy? Boy? Okay, I've had JUST about enough southern hospitality. When I don't answer--I mean, how COULD I without looking pussy whipped? - Goober smirks at me. "Tell your story to Sheriff Markum, boy. He'll decide what to do with you." Goober opens the rear door to the cruiser and not so gently pushes Scully in. "Hey," she cries, "my purse and computer are in our car." Deputy number two retrieves Scully's belongings while Goober makes nice and helps me into the back seat. I look at Scully and when she makes eye contact, I don't let go. "You're NOT blaming this one on me," I tell her. For a full thirty seconds we stare at each other and then....a miracle happens! She backs down. My heart soars knowing that I finally won an argument! Then it sinks again as I realize that winning the argument doesn't do me any good when the deputies have won the war. After a fifteen minute scenic ride through Pickens County, Alabama, listening to the deputies argue about which of their wives makes the best grits, we arrive at our destination: the county jail. It looks like it was built in the 1800s, with large gloomy granite stones, the facade of a western fortress, and iron bars on the windows. A more modern--circa 1930--small brick addition on the side houses the Sheriff's Department. The deputies guide us to the Sheriff's Department and once inside have us sit on an uncomfortable bench while they go to a back office. The discomfort is made up for by the chilled air being pumped out by the brave little air conditioner in the window. Maybe the cooler air will improve Scully's disposition. The deputies return in a few minutes and signal us to stand and come with them. "Where's the Sheriff?" I ask. "He's gone fishin`," Goober says, an amused sneer on his face. We walk through a door that apparently connects the Sheriff's Department to the jail, and... oh my God!...it's not air conditioned! In addition to the oppressive heat, it has that unmistakable 'jail smell,' a mixture of sweat, urine, vomit, and fear that permeates every correctional institution I've ever been in. "When is he going to be back?" "In the morning." Scully stops dead in her tracks and I nearly knock her over. "In the morning?" she shrieks. "You're not going to make us stay here over night!" I can tell Goober is really getting off on this. He walks us past a cell. From it emanates a foul odor of alcohol and vomit. I see three men passed out on the floor. Drunk tank. I've seen Scully autopsy decayed corpses that didn't smell as bad. He stops us in front of the next cell which he opens. It's empty. In the back left corner is a stainless steel toilet and sink. On the right wall is a metal bunk bed with thin mattresses and even thinner pillows. Two itchy looking army blankets were draped over the end rails. The back wall has a small barred window. The window is open, providing the cell's only source of fresh air. After Goober uncuffs Scully he gives her a not-so-gentle nudge through the door. She stumbles into the cell and when she retains her balance she turns and glares at the deputy. "I demand to see the local Magistrate," she says. "That would be the Mayor," Goober says while he uncuffs me. "Then I demand to see the Mayor," she says. "Can't. He's the Sheriff's fishing buddy," Goober says with a chuckle. Then he shoves me through the door, clangs it shut, and locks it. Scully runs up to the bars, grasping one in each hand, and actually rattles them. I would kill for a picture of this. "You can't put us in here together over night!" she shouts. Goober walks up to the bars and leans down into Scully's face. "We've only got two cells, little lady. Now, if you really want me to put your boyfriend here in the drunk tank, I will, but I don't think you'll like the way he smells in the morning." I step up behind Scully just as she opens her mouth to retort. Whatever she's about to say to Goober, I'm pretty sure it can only be bad news for me. I clamp a hand over her mouth, knowing I'll pay dearly for it later, and tell Goober that the accommodations are fine. Scully gives me a sharp elbow to the solar plexus but I hang on. Goober laughs at my predicament and leaves. I'm half afraid to let loose of Scully but if I don't I'm pretty sure she'll put some of her self defense training to work and flip me onto the floor, so I let go and back off. ****** I suppose I should speak to him, after all, we've been locked in this goddamn sauna together for almost - I check my watch AGAIN - seven hours, but I know we'll just end up fighting and, quite frankly, I'd rather not have an argument with Mulder when there's no chance of escape. He thinks I'm mad at him. He's been sitting on that top bunk pouting for hours, afraid to say anything... just waiting for me to make the first move. I, on the other hand, have stubbornly and steadfastly refused to allow any part of my person to come in contact with those filthy mattresses. The floor not being much of an alternative, I've been standing propped against this cinderblock wall, arms folded over my chest, for what is beginning to feel like all eternity. My legs are achy and swollen from the heat - it had to have been over a hundred degrees in here the better part of the afternoon. Now that it's dark outside, a slight breeze occasionally puffs in from the tiny window. But it's still hotter than hell in here. There are third world countries with more humane incarceration facilities than this. I've long ago ditched my jacket, whatever good that did, my blouse is clinging to my sweat-dampened skin; and if I don't get out of these pantyhose soon, I'm going to pass out from heat exhaustion. I'm afraid to know what I must look like. Mulder, on the other hand, he looks good in sweat... very good... too good. His suit jacket hung neatly over the end of the bunk, my partner has rolled up his shirt sleeves, slipped off his tie, and unbuttoned just enough that I'm getting a rare glimpse of chest hair. And I can't help fixating on that luscious spot right where his collar bones meet... and the almost continuous bead of sweat that's been teasing me there for the last three hours. God help me, I just want to go over and lick it right off him. What am I saying? I'm delirious - a precursor to heat stroke. I wonder if the OPC will buy that argument at the hearing? Or maybe I'll get lucky and Mulder won't file a complaint. Maybe he's just as horny as I am and wouldn't mind breaking the fraternization rule just this once. He's kissed me before. I know there's a mutual attraction, as much as we try to ignore it. So, maybe if I were to make a pass at him... no, I've got a better idea. Let's just see how much Scullyheat the man can take. Very nonchalantly, I clear my throat, just to make sure I have his full attention. He looks up hopefully, probably thinking I'm finally going to break the silence between us. That's when I tug at the front of my blouse a few times, and I loosen a couple of the buttons, slipping my hand inside my shirt and wiping at the damp skin over my breasts, rubbing them seductively before bringing my glistening fingers back up to my throat. With exaggerated drama, I sigh at the unbearable temperature of our cell. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Mulder watching my every move. Next, I take off my shoes... slowly - giving Mulder plenty of time to anticipate where I'm going with this. Then I run my hands up the length of my legs, making sure to bring them to the insides of my thighs before letting them disappear beneath my skirt. I don't dare look, but I can hear Mulder shifting around on the mattress. My hands struggle a bit longer than necessary with the waistband of my pantyhose; and I make sure to wiggle my hips as I free myself of the sweaty nylons. With unmerciful dawdling, I slide the silky stockings down my legs and off, making sure to toss them onto the floor in plain sight, so Mulder will have a continuous reminder of what he just watched me do. I put the heels back on. Mulder likes me in heels, the higher the better. I know this because every time I wear anything over three inches, the man spends a good portion of the day checking out my legs. And people wonder why I wear the stilts I do. I think I'll really torture him. Reaching under my skirt again, this time it's my panties that go; and I carefully step out of them, one shoe at a time. Then, without giving Mulder the slightest acknowledgment, I walk over to the sink and begin to rinse them under the cool water. Having completed my little laundry detail, I set them on the window ledge to dry. Okay, time for some stretching. I don't dare look, but I'm fairly certain that, at this point, Mulder is riveted by my performance. Standing where my partner can see every last movement, I begin a routine of stretches and bending - just working the kinks out, but specifically with my audience of one in mind. Hands on hips, I bend from side to side and then twist, then I lean forward, knowing full well that Mulder is getting an eyeful as my half-buttoned blouse gaps widely with each bounce... then I stand and arch my back, then stretch my arms up over my head and, finally, I do a few toe touches - backside to Mulder. Something between a growl and a moan is heard from the general direction of one Fox Mulder. Oh, yeah, he's watching all right. Hot enough for you, partner? Must be. Because the next sound I hear is Mulder's size eleven shoes hitting the concrete floor; and before I can turn around or even straighten all the way up, I'm accosted from behind. He grabs me around the waist and pushes me forward until I'm sandwiched between the wall and his obviously aroused body. My squawk of protest being completely ignored. "Are you trying to kill me, Scully?" he asks, his rough whisper shooting right to my center. Suddenly, the oppressive heat of this cell is nothing compared to the fire burning inside me. "Mulder, let go." I try to wrestle free, but my partner is an impressively strong man. Okay, and maybe I'm not trying all that damn hard to get away. "You were teasing me," he accuses. "That's a very dangerous game." Ooooh, threats, Agent Mulder? "I'm not worried." One of his hands slides down to my thigh and begins inching up the fabric of my skirt. "Then you're inviting this?" I put a hand over his and his body stiffens; he thinks I'm going to stop him. But, after only a few seconds hesitation, I guide his hand beneath the hem of my skirt and show him exactly what I'm inviting him to do. "Jesus," he breathes, as I coax his slender fingers into my dampened curls. I'm not prepared for my own reaction, the sharp gasp or the shudder, the tightening in my belly at the touch of his hand. And when he begins to work me, to slide his fingers back and forth through the slickened layers of my sex, my knees go weak, and it's only the presence of the wall and Mulder's firm grip around my middle that keeps me from collapsing in a boneless heap upon the floor. I'm moaning now, as Mulder starts nibbling on my ear, his hot tongue tracing wet patterns, and toying with the stud in my lobe. The simultaneous stimulation from both his hand, rubbing harder and faster at my center, and his mouth, sucking and licking, breathing heavy into my ear, has taken me over the top and has me completely undone... I'm lost in the heat of passion, unable to reason my way out, my only thoughts are of pleasure and seeking release. My hips are rolling with the movements of his hand, and Mulder is rocking into me, pressing his erection against the small of my back. God, I want him so much, want to feel him deep inside... want him to fill me, surround me, envelope me, own me. I try to tell him, but the words come out breathless and broken. "Mulder... please, please... need you inside." He lets me go, and when I turn to face him, he's loosening his pants. My heartbeat quickens in anticipation. A second later his slacks fall around his ankles and his boxers quickly follow. I bite my lip when I see the size of him. I've never had a man as big as Mulder and apparently my sudden apprehension shows. "I'll stop whenever you say stop. I swear. I'll stop right now even, if that's what you want." He pulls me to him and kisses me, an open mouth assault so unbelievably thorough, I'm left dizzy from the rush. Our eyes lock together and the silent agreement is made. I put my arms around his neck, and he lifts me up as I wrap my legs about his narrow hips. Mulder puts my back against the wall, and holding my stare, he positions himself at my entrance and slowly begins to push his way inside. When I cry out, he's quick to cover my mouth with his hand, his eyes offering an unspoken apology. "Shh," he whispers, and it's not until that moment that I realize exactly what it is we're doing... or rather WHERE it is that we're doing it. Gotta be quiet. Don't want the deputies to hear us and come back here to see what's going on. God, I can't believe we're doing this HERE. It'll be okay. Just gotta be quiet. Not a sound. A nod from me, and Mulder removes his hand immediately. He continues to push his way into my body, stretching me very slowly, very gently, to accommodate his generous size. When my eyes snap shut, a slight wince pinching my face as I try to keep myself silent, he freezes in place. "Too much?" The strain is evident in his voice. Forcing my eyes open, I shake my head to reassure him that I'm fine. I want this. I've dreamed of this for years. I don't want him to stop. Wrapping my arms more tightly around his neck, I bury my face against his. "Do it, Mulder. All the way," I command softly into his ear. And I focus on my breathing, concentrating on each deliberately even breath, as Mulder resumes pressing, pushing, forcing his way deep and then deeper until he's completely buried within me. "Scully, look at me." I do, offering him a smile, and he returns my happiness with a devilish grin of his own, and then whirls us ninety degrees to the right and puts my back up against the hard steel. "Hold onto the bars, honey." Oh my God. I grab a metal pole on either side of my head and Mulder begins thrusting into me. I stay with him, giving back as much as he gives, both of us pounding harder and faster. Can't get enough, never enough of this... Our voices are silent but the sound of our bodies slamming together is a bit obvious, even to the drunks in the next cell over. "Hey! What da hell? What's ya'll doin' over in there?" "Shut up and mind your own damn business!" Mulder growls at the man, his feral stare growing even darker as he continues to pump into me. "I know fuckin' when I hears it. That ain't allowed in here, boy. DEPUTY!!!" "Shit. Mulder, hurry," I whisper. I'm so close and if we have to stop now I'm going to scream. Never let it be said Fox Mulder can't perform under pressure. While continuing to fuck me like there's no tomorrow, my partner puts his lips to my ear and whispers the most obscene promise of what he's going to do to me the minute we're free of this hell hole town... and I'm gone. No one has ever spoken to me in such a way, and it's just the thing to push me over the edge. I'm coming so hard I forget myself for the moment and a strangled cry escapes me. Mulder slaps his hand over my mouth and then he bites back his own groan, as the sight of me up against the bars, back arched in ecstasy is enough to put him over the edge too... ****** I sit passively in my chair across from Skinner, trying to look as innocent as possible while our gruff Assistant Director chews Scully a new asshole. I mean that figuratively, of course. If he got his teeth anywhere near her asshole I'd have to kill him. I already got my chewing out -- for taking us down there to begin with, and for not checking my sources better in advance -- but the bulk of his wrath is directed at my diminutive partner. I use my peripheral vision to check out Scully. She's not doing too well under the A.D.'s full frontal assault. It doesn't help any that we had to come here straight from the airport, only a few hours after being released from that hell hole of a county jail. We're still wearing the sweaty, grimy, smelly clothing we wore all day yesterday, slept in last night, and wore all day today waiting for Sheriff Markum to work out a deal with Skinner for our release without charges. I suspect Skinner had to do some serious butt kissing. I know she feels stupid for losing her temper with Goober. What's even worse is that Skinner is reading outloud, word-for-word from the Pickens County Sheriff's report, the colorful language Scully used with the deputy that got her arrested in the first place. Goober was right. She DOES have a potty mouth. Scully's mouth. Oh God. Why did I have to think about that? That hot little mouth that I plan to have visit various parts of my anatomy as soon as we get out of here. That makes me think of all the various parts of HER anatomy I plan to visit with MY mouth. If I'm not careful Mr. Happy will make a surprise appearance right here in Skinner's office. I feel a chill go up my spine as I remember what I told Scully to make her come faster so the deputy wouldn't catch us in flagrante delicto. The intimate details of what I planned to do to her when we got out of that stinking jail pushed Scully over the edge so damned fast and hard that she took me with her on the spot. I had barely finished gushing into her when the deputy opened the door between the office and the jail. I practically threw Scully on the bottom bunk and then tossed myself up on top just moments before he looked in on us. If he had been ten seconds earlier I suspect we'd be on the unemployment line by now. Suddenly I sense movement in front of me and realize that the A.D. has taken to his feet. I jump to mine and turn to watch Scully as she slowly pulls herself to her feet, doing an even better immitation of a whipped puppy than I did yesterday afternoon back in Institute. I look back to Skinner and watch him take off his glasses, his eyes glued to Scully. "You're suspended without pay for three days, Agent Scully," he says in his stern, no-nonsense voice. He turns to look at me and I try to look innocent and contrite at the same time. Not an easy feat, I'll tell you. "And you, Agent Mulder. You're on background checks for three days in the bullpen. Now get out of my sight, both of you." We both mumble our "Yes, Sirs," and make for the door. I put my hand on the small of Scully's back and guide her gently through the outer office and into the hall. Skinner seems to have taken all the fight out of her. I lean down and say softly, "Come on, Scully. I'll take you home." Before I realize what's happened, Scully reaches up and grabs the knot of my tie. She pulls me down to her eye level and locks eyes with me like a starving predator. What did I just say about Skinner knocking all the fight out of her? "You're going to do more than take me home, Mulder," she growls. "You're going to make good on your promise." I gulp. "Uh, you mean...." "Exactly." We stand like this for several moments, and I know that we're attracting too much attention. For once, though, I don't care. What other agents have saved the world from destruction at least three times? Let 'em stare. I lean down a little more and Scully loosens her death grip on my tie. With my lips close to her ear I repeat what I told her last night. I see the skin on her neck break out in goosebumps. Oh yeah. She likes the idea. "Come on, Mulder," she says, breathlessly. "And this time, you're driving." ~END~ Author's End Notes: T Bishop - Keleka, you're a great new addition to the world of XF fan fic. It's been a pleasure to write with you. (even if you did only want me for my smut) I'm off to write something that my mother can read now! Life is too short to drink bad wine. Keleka - I consider myself fortunate to have the chance to study the art of smut-writing at the knee of the Smut Queen herself, T Bishop. Someday, perhaps, I'll overcome my puritanical upbringing and be able to do it myself. It was fun! Where can we have them do it next?!