*NO ARCHIVE*   
      
   TITLE: Heated   
   AUTHOR: Joann Humby   
   E-MAIL: jhumby@lineone.net   
   DISTRIBUTION: Gossamer, Ephemeral - yes. Others please ask.   
   RATING: NC-17   
   CATEGORIES: S A R   
   KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully romance   
   SPOILERS: Erlenmeyer Flask   
      
   DISCLAIMER:   
   We all know the score. The characters are not mine, never will be.   
      
   SUMMARY:   
   A young Mulder and Scully. A man, a woman and a mission to save the   
   world. They're only human.   
      
   My thanks to Ann for beta help and horticultural tips!   
      
   Written for the virtual season of smut challenge on Fandomonium.   
      
   Joann   
      
   ------------   
      
   5 Days after Deep Throat's Death   
      
      
   Scully insisted on regular updates. "How are your ears?"   
      
   "Scoville chili pepper scale? Serrano maybe."   
      
   "You'll be back to bell pepper before you know it."   
      
   Just so long as she didn't want to check on the status of anything   
   else.   
      
   Leaving the hospital was pantomime enough, without Scully tracking   
   down extra cushions for the trip home.   
      
   -------   
      
   He'd been back in his apartment for a week now. Taking it easy.   
      
   Pimento close to normal. Except for his eyes, they still stung -   
   Anaheim hot.   
      
   Scully had been busy; filing reports, being interviewed by the men   
   investigating the shooting, justifying her conduct to review   
   boards. Off-duty, she'd been piecing together what she could on   
   Deep Throat, Berube's employers, Dr Gardener's death, and the   
   storage unit that had housed those humans in tanks. Just in   
   case the other side's clean up job hadn't been quite good enough.   
      
   But the men who'd interrogated Mulder, first in his hospital bed,   
   then in his apartment, and then yesterday in a room with no view,   
   didn't seem like the type who made mistakes.   
      
   Daily phone calls between the partners had covered the highlights   
   and glossed over the details - the way they did. He'd assured her   
   that he was doing fine.   
      
   Reports all filed, Scully had chosen to play chauffeur for Mulder   
   today. They swapped notes on the drive to the hospital, struggled   
   to fill in the blanks.   
      
   The doctors gave him the all clear. A few more eye drops and he'd   
   be ready to rock. They couldn't explain the damage - offered words   
   like astringent, caustic, toxic, irritant instead. It was only what   
   he'd expected.   
      
   Unless Skinner accepted Scully's account in its entirety, there was   
   no case to pursue.   
      
   The dead man on a bridge was someone else's problem and the kidnap   
   of a Federal agent was an investigative non-starter. No report had   
   been filed prior to Mulder's recovery. No FBI hostage protocols had   
   been followed. No evidence had been found at the scene.   
      
   It didn't take an investigative genius to see that the Bureau   
   wouldn't be demanding jurisdiction.   
      
   Even so, hearing the all clear from the doctors should have felt   
   good. They'd lived to fight another day. Against all odds.   
      
   It should have been good to see her again, no ifs, no buts, just   
   good. Yet it only reminded him of how lonely the past few days had   
   been, and echo the warnings of how much their work could cost.   
      
   He unlocked the door to his apartment and even that seemed strange,   
   alien somehow. Lifeless and empty. You can't miss something you've   
   never had - so they say. But sometimes he felt the echoes of a   
   maybe, saw the ghost of a possibility. Not so much a deja vu as a   
   could it be.   
      
   One step across the threshold and he stopped. Scully brushed past   
   him, carrying bags into the kitchen as if it was a real home. He   
   took a deep breath, flinched at the rush of pain.   
      
   When she returned to the living room she had a glass of milk in her   
   hand. He watched her half smile as she surveyed the scene. The   
   files stacked haphazardly on the coffee table, the pillows forming   
   a nest at one end of the couch, the TV remote still lying on the   
   floor. A few seconds later she spotted him, watching her from the   
   shadows. "Mulder?"   
      
   He slowly shook his head, grateful for the dark glasses and the   
   excuse of inflamed eyes.   
      
   "Come and sit down."   
      
   He did as ordered, moving to his place on the couch as if it really   
   was his.   
      
   They'd talked at the hospital. Factual. One FBI agent to another.   
   Reassuring. Two friends grateful for the other's presence.   
   Cautious. Walking on eggshells as they looked for common ground and   
   stayed away from the danger zone.   
      
   He'd thanked her for her courage - even as he wondered if the   
   choice had been the right one. Her life endangered, Deep Throat's   
   lost. And the thing she'd stolen - a possible alien fetus - had   
   that been the tangible proof needed to crack the conspiracy wide   
   open?   
      
   All to save him.   
      
   Why?   
      
   Ingratitude? Perhaps. But he could no more ignore the equation of   
   costs and benefits than he could stop the sun from setting. What   
   was it worth? What was he worth?   
      
   Irrelevant now. Intellectually, he understood that much. The choice   
   had been made. He was home. So was she. Time to start again.   
      
   Home. A woman in his kitchen. Startled by the brief Neanderthal   
   surge that went with that flash of an idea.   
      
   "You don't have to stay," he said. Stating the obvious in a tone of   
   voice that made it sound like a plea.   
      
   "I know."   
      
   He shook his head, seeing the balance sheet gain. "He died for me,   
   Scully. You could have died too. That woman, Dr. Carpenter, they   
   killed her for doing her job. And no one will ever be brought to   
   account for it."   
      
   "Unless we do it."   
      
   "Us against the world?"   
      
   "No - us, for the world."   
      
   He smiled for real at that.   
      
   ---------   
      
   They'd snuggled up on the couch to watch TV, for no better reason   
   than it felt good and because they'd nearly missed the chance. They   
   were both alive. What were the odds against that?   
      
   It was warm in his arms. A relief to feel the rise and fall of his   
   chest against her back. To hear his whispered breaths. So nearly   
   dead and yet now, so very alive.   
      
   She stretched, pussycat purr of contact as her head found a haven,   
   resting against his shoulder. She sighed as his heartbeat surged.   
      
   "Scully?"   
      
   Inevitable. As natural as breathing. As easy as a smile. Unwinding,   
   she twisted her head until she could see his face. His lips brushed   
   against her eyebrow and she sighed, savoring the moment. "I thought   
   I would never see you again," she whispered.   
      
   Murmurs of sound, glimmers of touch, sparks along her spine surging   
   all the way to her toes. Repetition after maddening repetition.   
   Until at last he moved, easing her down into his lap so that he   
   could see her face. Fingertips dancing lightly along her hairline,   
   checking for reality, testing its boundaries. Emboldened, his   
   thumbs explored further, outlining her jaw, circling her   
   cheekbones, surveying the features - reading her like Braille.   
      
   She shivered, dreamily awake, and her body asked for more. Her eyes   
   found his, saw evidence of too many lonely nights reflected there.   
   She nodded.   
      
   He swallowed, throat tightening, tongue peeking out to moisten his   
   lips.   
      
   She wanted him. Not fireworks, not champagne, not a romantic table   
   for two, not even a gold ring and a long white dress. Just him. And   
   her. Now.   
      
   She captured his finger as it drifted too close to her mouth and he   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)