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Blind Spot

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Scully trails her fingers across the shelf of hardbound crime reports, looking for titles displaying the year 1999. Words swim before her eyes, and she pinches the bridge of her nose, willing herself to focus. She’s been in the records room for far too long, her blood sugar levels teetering on low. Her heels have long since been kicked off and rough, sticky carpet scratches the soles of her feet through her pantyhose. 

“Are you going to help any time soon?” she snaps at her partner. 

Mulder leans against the bookshelf, infuriatingly casual. His indolence has only worsened as day bled into night. 

“It’s a bullshit assignment, and you know it,” he argues. “Skinner just wants us sitting around with our thumbs in our asses so we’re not burning a bigger hole in the Federal budget. You think the DOJ actually needs us compiling a statistical crime report for the Tri-State Area? They have people for that. Computers.” 

“That may be, but it’s a bullshit assignment that I’d like to be done with. Wouldn’t you?” 

“Maybe I enjoy the view.” Lascivious eyes sweep over her body. With his height and her in stocking feet, he has a clear shot down the front of her shirt. She’s not used to his open leering; she doesn’t know if she ever will be. Her skin tingles, aching for his touch. 

She’s acutely aware that today is Friday, their night when they aren’t in the field. Their two-month anniversary, actually, though Scully would sooner eat a bullet than admit she’s been tracking the progression of their romantic relationship by month like a schoolgirl. What’s next? Doodling M&S 4 EVA in the margins of her case notes? 

“Mulder.” She crosses her arms, fixing him with a glare. “I’m tired. I’m hungry. I—”

“I bought you that granola bar from the vending machine, didn’t I?” he interrupts. 

“I’m serious, Mulder.” Her voice pitches higher into a whine. She dislikes the sound, but she can’t help herself. “We’ve barely made any headway on this assignment—bullshit though it may be—and I’d like to go home before the night janitor locks us in.” 

She pushes away the mental images of what she’d really rather be doing right now, or rather, what she’d rather he be doing to her, what she’s spent all week anticipating. Her lust is like a living creature, one that balks at confinement ever since she’d finally, finally released it on that rainy night in his apartment. She has a bad habit of letting it out to play at every opportunity. 

He moves behind her, the air between them shifting and warming. His breath tickles the shorn hair at the nape of her neck, and she catches a whiff of cucumber aftershave under a day’s sweat and the musty smell of bureaucracy. He puts his hand over hers, guiding her fingers to the 1999 crime report for Norfolk, Virginia. 

She sighs. “What are you doing?” 

“I’m helping,” he replies, feigning innocence. 

“Like you ‘helped’ in the office last week?” She twists her head to regard him from the corner of her eye. “For all we know, we’re being punished for that.” 

“You know I check for bugs every morning.” Mulder bends his neck down, pressing his lips to her neck. A quick study to all her favorite spots, he executes his move with the precision of a predator going in for the kill. She clenches her thighs and mentally curses him. 

“Besides,” he continues. “Being punished with you has its rewards.” 

He nips at the sensitive skin under her jaw, and her muscles involuntarily shudder. Encouraged, he clutches her breasts through her shirt, pressing his body against hers. She rocks her head back unconsciously, humming with pleasure as she allows herself to indulge. He slides one hand down her front, grazing her belly before cupping between her legs, his touch making her squirm even through two layers of fabric. 

Scully groans in tepid protest. “We said we wouldn’t do this again.” 

Still, she doesn’t writhe away from him, knowing he would retreat at the slightest indication her consent is withdrawn. Against her better judgment, she sinks back against his welcoming chest and allows him to start unbuttoning her blouse. The air is moderate and climate-controlled, but her skin pricks with goosebumps at the exposure. 

You said we wouldn’t do it again in the office ,” he corrects. He pinches a nipple through the lace of her bra, the other hand up her thighs, baring them. He teases her, faintly brushing her sex over her panties until her jerk her hips back, his erection pressing into the small of her back. 

“This…is so much worse than the office,” she huffs as his hand creeps into her underwear, held down firmly by her pantyhose. “S-security cameras.” 

“Look.” She follows his gaze up to a camera directly above, then he indicates another camera on the other side of the room pointed away from them. “We’re in a blind spot.”

“Someone could- someone could walk in on us.” She struggles to speak as his long fingers split her seam. He makes a rumbling noise in his throat as he discovers just how aroused she is. 

“We’re the last people in the building right now.” His voice reverberates low in her ear as he curls inside her, stroking her with diabolical precision and neglecting her aching clit. “Possibly the world.” 

When he finally touches her where she wants him most, she’s so over-sensitized it’s almost unbearable. She spasms, driving her body deeper in the sturdy safety of his arms. 

“Maybe it’s the rapture and we’ve been left behind.” His free hand reaches under her bra, relief coursing through her as he touches bare, forbidden flesh. 

“If it were the rapture, you’d—ah!—be holding a pile of clothes.” 

“Nuh-uh,” he says. “You’re damned by association.” 

“Tell me about it,” she grouses, swallowing a moan as he presses ruthlessly against her swollen bundle of nerves. 

“Tell me to stop.” 

He’s deft and confident in his strokes, and he knows there isn’t a chance in hell she’s going to tell him to stop. 

She whirls to face him, his fingers sliding easily out of her and her undergarments snapping back into place, her skirt twisting and confining her. She wants to smack the cocky smirk off his face. She wants to bite that swollen bottom lip. She wants—

Before reason can prevail, she cranes her neck, reaching up on her tiptoes until her mouth meets his. He presses her back into the hard edges of the bookshelf, the promise of his erection grinding against her lower belly, his desire and need palpable. As always, she is drawn by his sense of urgency, willing to follow him anywhere without regard for consequence. This was the precise reason she talked herself out of inviting him to her bed for so many years. 

Her head knocks the books back against the wall as she pulls back from him. “Fine. As long as we’re quick.” 

Mulder grins. “I can do quick.” He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear with excruciating slowness. A power move, challenging her to set to the pace. 

“Nothing messy.” She draws herself up as tall as she can. 

“It’s not a candle in my pocket,” he murmurs, stroking her head. 

Her skin warms at the memory of red wax painting her skin like blood splatter, the divine intertwining of pain and pleasure curling her toes and sending her flying. The experience was so gratifying she didn’t mind the lengthy cleanup, the bits of paraffin clinging to her high thread count sheets. 

“So you are just happy to see me,” she returns, biting her lower lip to provoke him.

“You have no idea.” He nudges her with tented pants, and she reaches down to grip his straining cock. He rolls his hips against her hand.

“This is the last time,” she declares, trying to sound empathic, tilting her chin up at him with a defiant set to her jaw. 

“Whatever you say, Scully.” 

“I mean it,” she persists. “We’ll get caught if we keep up like this. No more office, no more parking lot, no—”

“Mm.” His eyes soften at the corners as he remembers, dropping to her lips. “Every time I park my car, I get a hard-on thinking of that sweet mouth of yours.” 

“Nothing within twenty miles of this goddamn building,” she concludes, ignoring his reverie. 

“One last time,” he says, incredulous. “I guess we better make the most of it.” 

As if driving by a single mind, they stumble toward a bare patch of wall at the end of the bookshelf, their hands drawn to the other’s face. She circles his temples with her thumbs, reaching into his hair. It’s soft but too short, hardly anything to grab. The floppy, bad-boyish hair of his youth was gone before she’d had a chance to properly appreciate it. 

Mulder traces the fragility of her throat. From afar, the gesture might look violent, but his touch is exquisitely delicate. He thumbs over the rapid-fire flutter of her pulse and down her front, catching the swell of her breasts, the pinch of her waist. 

Before she realizes what’s happening, he’s on his knees, hands skimming up her legs. He looks up at her with reverence and she gives his head a “good dog” ruffle. Then he’s diving under her skirt, roughly pulling her legs apart. 

Pantyhose snaps and tears under his fingernails but she doesn’t care. She gasps as raw air meets bare skin, lifts her feet to help him free her from her confines. He leaves her panties on just to tease her, pressing his lips to her mound through fabric. When he finally hooks his fingers through the waistband and jerks them down, she tilts her hips to meet his face, melting under his hot tongue. His head twists and bobs under her skirt like a housecat trapped under a bedsheet. 

Scully puts her fist in her mouth as though punching back her moans. Volts of pleasure shoot through her body, and she sinks against the wall, resisting the urge to close her eyes. One part of her mind rehearses her movements should they hear footsteps, mentally walking through the motions of pulling down her skirt, closing her top, smoothing her mussed hair. 

Quick, she’d told him. They were not being quick. Already, he’s given her enough to commit to memory, to carry her through long nights and liven long meetings. She takes her fist out of her mouth, hits the wall behind her. 

“I said quick,” she manages. She needs them to pull this off. She needs him inside her before she loses her goddamn mind. 

He makes a disappointed noise and gives her one last, succulent sweep of his tongue, making her thighs quiver. When he emerges, he’s licking his lips. She pulls his head to hers to taste the pleasant bite of herself on him. 

She makes swift work of his belt and zipper, and Mulder makes no attempt to help her. He knows how much she delights in unwrapping him, especially when he’s in his work clothes. Exposing him in slacks is a carnal transgression that belongs to her and her alone. 

As soon as she’s freed him, she links her arms around his neck and wraps her legs around his hips in a primate cling. He heaves her up, a hand on her ass, pushes her skirt up, up, until she’s exposed. The temperate air is an assault on her wet heat. Her body is on high alert; under the hum of her excitement, every impulse is tuned to fight or flight. 

As if she’s weightless, he hitches her higher, until he can rub his length against her, spreading her wetness between them. She craves him so much she can’t stand it, and she knows what he wants. He won’t stop teasing her until he gets it. 

“Please, Mulder,” she begs in an undertone, relishing the sunburn sting of humiliation. “Please fuck me.” 

The corners of his eyes crinkle happily. He fills her with one abrupt, fluid thrust. 

She buries her face in the crook of his neck, letting his skin swallow her moans. As he fucks her slowly, deliberately, he mutters in her ear: brief, abbreviated nonsense about her pussy and Jesus and how good she feels. 

“Shh,” she whispers, sinking her teeth into his shoulder. He drives into her, fevered, the pain from her bite his accelerant, the force of his body shoving her against the wall. 

Her head lolls back and for the first time that week, her eyes roll in ecstasy instead of irritation. She feels close to the edge and knows it would take very little to push her over. Hooking an arm firmly around the back of his neck, she reaches between them, marveling at the swell of her body. 

“Good girl,” he growls, sending a fresh flood of wetness below. 

Finally, she allows herself to close her eyes, to lose herself in the bubble they’ve created together, feeling only the incredible satisfaction his body gives her.

She yelps at an over-eager thrust. A large hand covers her mouth, and she grins against it, her inner muscles clenching around his cock. He squeezes her ass, draws her deeper, accompanies each thrust with soft encouragements. 

His honeyed voice asks, “You’re close, aren’t you?” 

She nods deliriously against his palm. 

“Together, baby.” 

His purposeful thrusts carry her over the edge, until he’s drawing out every last drop of gratification from their over-sensitized, aching bodies. From far away, in the cosmic void of orgasmic euphoria, she hears the effort it takes for him to control his groans. 

He sighs, driving into her one last time before dipping his head over her shoulder and removing his hand from her mouth. Gently, he releases her down until her toes reach the floor. The feel of industrial carpet against her bare skin gives her a strange jolt of revulsion, contradictory to the arousal still thrumming through her body. 

Her eyes stay closed as he cups her face and kisses her languidly, the way he always does after they make love. She’s dimly aware that they’re taking too long, and she’s breaking every one of their rules, including the ones she’s established tonight. The kiss is so sweet and tender she can’t help herself. 

She forces herself to open her eyes and pull back. His smile is radiant, his eyes feral. 

She sees something over his shoulder from the corner of her eyes. A figure that starts to solidify. 

“Oh god,” she blurts. 

Holly, the records girl she’s crossed paths with a few times in her FBI career, stands at the end of the aisle, her mouth frozen in a perfect ‘o.’ Her round, elfin cheeks are bright red, and she struggles not to drop the stack of books she’s holding. 

Mulder twists his head to see what she’s seeing, and says simply, “Shit.” 

They frantically pull their clothes on. Scully finds her underwear discarded on the floor next to the limp snake shed of her pantyhose. She balls the hose in her fists, squeezing it like a stress ball. 

By the time they turn back around, Holly has apparently scurried away. 

“Fuck.” Scully leans back against the wall, her head in her hands. “Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck!” 

“C’mon, Scully. Holly’s not going to tell anyone.” He doesn’t look like he believes his own words. 

 She glares at him, not willing to dignify his presumptions with a response. Instead, she scolds, “Wipe that lipstick off your mouth.” 

Mulder looks vaguely hurt. Usually she takes care of this herself, gently blotting his mouth with a tissue while he enjoys her attentions. He runs the back of his hand over his face, transferring the smear of pink to a new location. 

 “I need to freshen up and then we’re leaving.” She adds under her breath, “And never coming back.” 

She’s only half-joking. She’s lived with rumor and innuendo for years, long before Mulder even came into her life. Some of it had even been true. But never anything like this. Christ. Nothing close to this. On some level, she’d always known his incorrigible adventurousness would be her undoing. 

She pulls on her shoes and sweeps out of the room, avoiding looking at Mulder and his hangdog distress. Her heels are loud on the hallway tile, and half-on fluorescent lights cast an eerie impression. She slams open the door of the nearest ladies room. The lights are on full-force here, buzzing loudly in her ears. The room tilts out of focus, lurches. When it rights itself, she registers with surprise Holly at the sink splashing water on her face. 

They make eye contact through the mirror. Holly’s eyes are as bright as Scully’s; if she didn’t know any better, she would think of it as a sign of arousal. There are red splotches on Holly’s chest above her neckline, matching Scully’s own. She resists the urge to button her shirt to her throat. 

 “Agent Scully,” Holly says mildly. 

Scully nods. “Holly.” She wonders if the girl can smell the sex on her over the chemical-clean scent pumped out of the air freshener. 

She sighs and shoves the balled up pantyhose in the trash. 

Absurd images flash in her mind: a DNA test, a blacklight to the wall in the records room, eyewitness testimony and surefire conviction. She’s leaving evidence in a building designed to test for it. 

She looks down at her fingernails, picking at a cuticle as Holly waits for her to speak. “I’m sorry you saw that. I don’t know what came over us. We don’t do that.” 

The office and the parking lot (and the wall behind The Headless Woman and the movie theater on 3rd) would have something different to say. They had a pattern of behaving like two teenagers instead of adults who both lived alone. If Holly knows she’s lying, she’s not showing it. Maybe Scully—with her conviction that it truly was the last time—was actually convincing. 

Holly shoots her a brief, nervous smile. “It’s okay. I’m, um…I’m not going to tell anyone, if that makes you feel better.” 

All the muscles in Scully’s body start to relax, making her aware of how much tension she was holding. “Thank you,” she says. “It won’t happen again.” To her ears, she sounds like she’s apologizing to her mother instead of a junior agent, but it feels important to convey. 

“I always liked you two,” the girl continues. “I hoped…” 

“It’s new,” Scully admits. “Very new.” 

Holly raises her eyebrows. “Really? I had thought, even back when we first met.” 

In retrospect, it was absurd they’d waited so long; everyone assuming while they reaped none of the rewards. 

“Two months. Which I suppose explains the complete lack of self-control.” 

“I can’t blame you,” Holly says shyly. 

They share an awkward laugh, and Scully catches a hint of guilt in Holly’s expression. It occurs to her for the first time that maybe Holly had been standing there longer than she would want to admit, and Scully isn’t sure how she feels about that. Intellectually, she knows she should feel violated, despite the risks they were running. Part of her, however—a part she’s working hard to repress—finds it titillating. 

Both women look at each other, as the silence grows uncomfortable. 

“Thank you again,” Scully repeats. “I mean it.” 

“You take care of yourself, Agent Scully.” Her voice is as high and doll-like as her face. Holly dries her hands and tosses the paper towel and gives Scully one last smile before turning to leave. Mulder can be heard pacing the hall in the brief moment the door is open. 

Scully cleans herself up the best she can though her body longs for a scalding shower. She knows Mulder is probably going out of his mind waiting, but she doesn’t mind letting him squirm a bit longer. After all, this whole mess was his idea. 

She finds him exactly how she’d pictured, all coiled agitation. Their assignment is in his fist, the pages bending, making her wince. 

She puts him out of his misery, saying, “We don’t need to worry about Holly.” 

Mulder lets out a long puff of air, running his hands through his hair. “We got away with it.” 

“I would hardly call that getting away with it. We got lucky.” 

He doesn’t argue the point. “What about the assignment?” he asks. 

“Leave it for Monday,” she declares. “The records room has seen entirely too much of us for tonight.” 

She links her arm with his, guiding them toward the parking lot. Their footsteps echo in unison. 

“You know, Scully.” His voice goes low, confidential. “I think Holly liked what she saw.” 

She cocks her head at him. “I think you might be right, Mulder.” 

He purses his lips, gratified by those words on the rare occasions he hears them. 

“So…” he says cautiously. “Your place tonight?” 

“You’re incorrigible!” 

He dips his head toward her. “Yeah, but you love it.” 

Her stomach leaps at the words, another inch toward a declaration. Three words that, while woefully inadequate to describe their hard-won bond, she longs to hear. For now, she tries to be content with their allusions and the myriad ways he shows her instead. 

She squeezes his arm, regarding him with thoughtful consideration. She says, “Maybe I do.”