Momentary Lapses by Dasha K. Please archive at Gossamer. Anywhere else, let me know where you put it so I can visit. Summary: Scully makes a confession. Rating: R for sex and blasphemy Classification: VRH Keywords: Mulder/Scully romance Spoilers: General 5th season Feedback: Need I even ask? dashak@aol.com Disclaimer: Blah, blah, blah, not mine, yep, you know how it goes. . . I needed an angst break, having been immersed in the Red Valerian series for what feels like *years*, so this is the result- smut and my attempt at a little humor. Momentary Lapses by Dasha K. Bless me, father, for I have sinned. I have committed the unpardonable error of sleeping with my partner. On three separate occasions. Okay, I'll admit it, I'm weak. I'm as susceptible to the sins of the flesh as the next person. My businesslike mien is merely the side I show on the surface to the world. There's a lot more going on underneath the neatly buttoned suits and stockings that never, ever, run than you'd think. I get horny, too. Call it a weakness. I'm weak for him, like I'm weak for chocolate-chocolate chip ice cream, weak for Chopin piano concertos, weak for hideously expensive Egyptian cotton sheets with a high thread count. The first time was an accident, pure and simple. It was a blustery February in Washington and we headed to Miami for a case. The whole thing turned out to be rather a waste of our time and the taxpayers' money, so we ended up staying only two days. On the last night, Mulder and I decided to see a bit of the city before we left, and headed for South Beach. On the crowded, bustling beachfront, lined with Art Deco hotels and populated by the most godawfully attractive men and women I have ever had occasion to see with my two eyes, we found a Cuban restaurant and secured an outdoor table. Actually, the only reason why we got such a great table is because the headwaiter seemed entranced by Mulder's sleepy eyes. Our waiter/underwear model, Alejandro, urged us to order mojitos, a powerful blend of white rum, sugarcane syrup and just enough club soda to make the whole thing fizz. Not being big drinkers, Mulder and I got smashed before our puerco asado and plantains were even served. There's just something about Miami, that's all I'm going to say. I'll blame it on three mojitos and the tropically moist air that unfortunately does turn my hair into an unruly mess. Or else, blame it on the way the air smelled, like coconut oil, like cigars, like sea salt and expensive French perfume all at once. Yes, blame it on all that. I certainly had no plans to ravish Mulder, who sat tipped back in his chair in a far too tight black t-shirt and bemusedly smiled at the parade of beautiful people passing before us. It never even entered my mind. Okay, maybe it did flicker through my rum-damaged brain for the merest millisecond, but I'm human. Am I right? We got back to our hotel and Mulder came into my room, to retrieve his laptop. Mmm-hmm. See, it was all his fault. He started it. He set the computer back down on the desk and stood for a moment, saying nothing, but I could hear his breathing from where I was standing at the window, watching the way the breeze ruffled the fronds of the palm trees. Mulder just walked up to me, unceremoniously grabbed my arms and pushed me against the wall. Some women might take offense at that, call it blatant sexual harassment, but I'm not your average woman. Mulder and I had some raucous sex that night, more passion than pleasure, pawing and groping at each other like hormone-challenged high school students in the back seat of daddy's car. It was intense, it was furious, it lasted most of the night until we were sore, bruised and basically immobilized from sheer exhaustion. In the morning we woke up, cleaned ourselves up and caught our plane home. I had to apply a lot of Clinique Natural Ivory to cover the marks on my neck from my rum-scented vampire. We didn't discuss what had happened. We just went on from there like that night had never occurred. It was the wisest, best course of action. Mulder and I had been drunken fools that night in Miami. It was wrong. An interesting note for you: there is no specific Bureau regulation about partners becoming sexually involved, but I know and you know that it's not exactly cricket. You just don't sleep with your partner. It dulls your edge and creates all sorts of sticky issues that get in the way of the job that needs to be done. It was a mistake, albeit an intensely fantastic one, but I swore on a stack of Bibles as tall as myself that we'd never do it again. A few months passed and we were in Wausau, Wisconsin, chasing down some murdering thug who claimed to be a faith healer. We were giving chase in a field on said murdering thug's brother's farm when I slipped on some cow turds and smacked my face on the hard earth. It hurt like a bitch. Mulder managed to catch the overweight, puffing guy and cuff him. When he turned to me I was standing there, blood gushing out of my nose. My mother was right, I should always have a travel pack of tissues in my pocket, because the crimson blood was completely soaking the lone kleenex I was able to find. His face went white, absolutely white. He had witnessed so many nosebleeds of mine in the past. Grabbing the thug's arm, he ran over to me. "Are you all right?" he asked, breathing hard from the effort of dragging a 300 pound guy with him. I nodded, unable to speak as I was pressing the tissue to my face. When it seemed the deluge had ended, I pulled the soaked kleenex away. "I fell," I said. "I think I broke my nose." The relief on Mulder's face was palpable. The murderer just smirked, as if to say, `Why are you getting so upset over a wussy nosebleed, G-Man?' After we dumped off the suspect and got him booked, we headed to the hospital. The x-ray showed no break, so we went back to the Rib Mountain Motel: Free Cable and Ski Storage. Back in my room, I lay down on the bed with a bag of ice pressed to my beleaguered nose, mourning the loss of my favorite knockoff Jil Sander jacket to the impromptu nosebleed. I heard the connecting door open. Mulder loped in, bearing an ice bucket and two cans of Coke. "I came to see how the patient is doing." "Very funny," I mumbled through the makeshift ice pack. He sat on the edge of the bed. "That scared the shit out of me," he said, his hands doing a funny little dance in his lap. I put the bag of ice on the bedside table and sat up, realizing I probably looked just like Marsha Brady after she got bopped in the nose with the football. "I'm fine," I said. It's my standard response, but this time I meant it. "For how long?" I had to strain to hear that last comment. Scooting down the bed, I sat next to him. "No one knows how long they have." I turned to him and put my arms around him to give him a reassuring hug. If you can't hug your partner, whom can you hug? At least, that was my rationale at the time. I should have known better. Another thing my mother always told me: hindsight is 20/20. The chaste, partnerly hug went on for a long time and gained an intensity of its own and the next thing I knew it was full sun-up and I was lying next to him, buck naked, sticky, sweaty and thoroughly worn out. My nose was throbbing like crazy, as it had. . . um. . . gotten bumped a few times in the throes of our "case consultation". I staggered out of bed, took a few Tylenol 3 from my emergency stash and crashed until mid-afternoon, when Mulder forcibly dragged me out of bed and into the shower so we could make our plane. Again, we pretended nothing had happened. Deny everything is our motto. I should have had that tattooed on my back instead of the snake. Which brings me to last night. We've been in Boston for four days, investigating the mysterious deaths of callers to a psychic hotline. At one time I would have found this case to be unfathomably bizarre, but now it's ho-hum, more decapitations with the heads missing. Another day on the road with Mulder. Not to say I'm bored by my job, I'm just incredibly inured to the grotesque and unusual after six years. Last night I was exhausted and I turned in early, delighted to be in a decent city hotel with clean sheets and carpeting that doesn't smell like Queequeg's flea powder. Yawning, I snapped off the bedside lamp and immediately sank into the black depths of sleep. I awoke with a start to feel something wet slithering along my back. My right hand scrambled for the gun on the table until I realized it was Mulder's tongue, circling my tattoo. We really have to rethink this adjoining rooms thing. Okay, I forgot one important part. Normally, when I'm out on a case, I sleep in pajamas or at least a t-shirt and panties. I was so beat last night that I took a shower, toweled myself off and slid into bed without a stitch on my body. What was I thinking? Without any clothes, I was utterly defenseless against Mulder's advances. My brain told me, in a bossy tone, to kick him all the way back to his own room, but my body vetoed that decision. I'm starting to think my hormones have override power. I did make an attempt, though. "What are you doing?" I asked. "I realized I never got the chance to taste your tattoo and I had to come and find out." With that, I was a lost woman. There was no good excuse for last night, no devilishly powerful Cuban concoctions, no pesky nosebleeds, but he showed up in my bed anyhow. I can't think of a single good reason to explain why I let him stay, let his tongue explore ever nook and cranny of me, let him slide inside me and push me into the firm Marriott mattress. Damn, I'm trying to come up with something here, but my brain is blanking. Sex makes me stupid, which is another good reason why I shouldn't be sleeping with my partner. I've learned some new things about my partner during those three singular nights that will never, ever happen again. Mulder loves oral sex, both giving and receiving, but especially giving. He's not exactly known for his generosity, but he'd keep at it all night if I let him. He likes it best when I'm on top, which is handy, since that's how I like it, too. If you haven't guessed this about me, I like to be in charge of things. He has the best-smelling sweat I've ever had the pleasure of coating my body. Also, he's rather embarrassingly noisy, which is no real surprise, since he hardly ever shuts up in real life. Oh, and he's also really, really, really good. Guess his video collection has been educational, or maybe they teach a special course at Oxford. No, I doubt that, the British aren't exactly famed for their prowess in bed. It's possibly because he applies his single-mindedness to sex. I'm not sure what his secret is, but the man should be kept under lock and key. Now there's a tempting thought. . . No. Bad thoughts. Got to keep the bad thoughts away. I jump out of bed and pace the room like a lioness caged at the zoo. Thou shall not covet thy partner. Thou shall not think impure thoughts, especially the one where he reaches up and. . . It will never happen again. I promise, I swear, no matter how much I want to feel him quaking under me, no matter how much I want his tongue in my mouth, no matter how much I may love him. Wait, did I just think that? Oh God, I have it bad. He just makes me so weak, in that slither out of my pantyhose way. He makes me wet with just the most innocent of touches. How do you keep `em down on the farm after they've seen the lights of Gay Paree? How do I stop myself after tasting the crisp, juicy flesh of the accursed apple? I want some apple pie! I'm pacing so much I'm probably wearing a tread in the gray carpeting of my hotel room. This is one of those nights I actually wished I smoked, so I could sit at the window and dramatically puff away, like Jeanne Moreau in one of her films of the 1950s, elegant and tormented at once. I toss up my hands in defeat. Fine, I give up. I want him and I want him in a big way. I can't neatly push this wanting into the Mulder file and lock it away in the cabinet. It's an infection, an addiction. The only way my thirst can be slaked is to have more of him. Now. Does it mitigate my sin to admit that I do love him? Shrugging, I stalk to the connecting door and push it open. I hear the bedding rustle; he's no more awake than I am. >From the dark a chuckle emerges, and then his voice, "I knew you'd come tonight, Scully." "That's entirely up to you, Mulder," I crack. Smiling, I walk to the bed. Bless me father, for I have sinned, as I am sinning now. There are no excuses this time. My flesh is weak. But this is the last time. I swear, after tonight I will sin no longer. At least, I think so. END Feedback is yummy. dashak@aol.com My most gracious thanks to Alanna, Gwen and Plausible Deniability for comments and beta reading beautiousness.