From: Char Chaffon <fncbc@uaf.edu>
Subject: 'NEW' "That Morning" (1/1) MSR/PG Pre-Pilot
Date: Wednesday, May 12, 1999 9:24 AM

TITLE:  "That Morning"
Author:  C.B. Chaffin   fncbc@uaf.edu OR fncbc@aurora.alaska.edu
Rating:  PG for some sexual situations and language
Category:  Mulder/Scully Romance
Spoilers:  Sort of:  Pre-"Pilot" setting
Feedback:  YES!  I am new at this so would love to get feedback.  Thanks
-
Disclaimers: standard, I'm sure!  None of them belong to me (rats)
Summary:  On the evening before a momentous encounter, Mulder and Scully
have
A surprising first encounter...


THAT MORNING
By C.B. Chaffin


That Morning:

A bare leg in his bed...hmmm.

Why was there a bare leg in his bed?

And why was he hearing a soft humming breath in his ear, a steady rising
and falling of torso against his side as he lay on his back in the
near-daylight and found it impossible to remember anything about last
night, except for the desperate need for sleep earlier that evening?

It was very confusing.

His head throbbed faintly from some residual ache, probably another
migraine - although he wasn't nauseous.  His brain was muzzy from more
than sleep, that much was evident from the feel of cotton in the back of
his throat.  The humming in his ears droned on.

He was almost afraid to look.

It was not like him to take off to somewhere strange, pick up on someone
strange and take them back to his apartment to do the 'strange'.

Wait a minute.

This was his apartment, wasn't it?  He chanced a cautious look across
the room.  There was his beat-up easy chair, stuck in the corner of the
bedroom because he had never been able to toss it out even though he had
a new one in his living room.  That chair, purchased at a garage sale
years ago, represented the very first piece of furniture he had ever
bought with his own money.  He had dragged it all over the country with
him.  It was his buddy, in a way, and you just didn't take your buddies
to the dump.  Well, at least he didn't.

So - this must be his bedroom, which meant this must be his apartment.

Back to the bare flesh in his bed...  carefully, minding his hurting
head, he turned slowly on the pillow to see who was next to him.  He
didn't know a lot of women, and certainly not more than two or so which
could even be considered a remote bed mate possibility.  His eyes mere
slits, he took a peek.  Unfortunately, her hair was covering most of her
face and all he could see was the curve of her cheek and one side of her
straight little nose.  The hair was unusual - he didn't normally go for
redheads.  He was a blonde kind of guy, most of the time.  Curiouser and
curiouser, he thought.  Sure would be nice if he could remember... he
forced his sore head to concentrate.  What had he been doing last night,
anyhow?

He remembered the drive home from work.  He had been bogged down with
deep exhaustion and a ton of files and had dropped about half of them in
the parking garage.  He had cursed in a colorful manner while he picked
them off the dirty cement and crammed them back in the old box which had
split down the side.  He had driven home the usual route, on auto pilot
as usual, not paying attention to his whereabouts because he had driven
that route for so long.  His apartment building had been experiencing a
partial brown-out when he arrived, and so he had dragged his bulging
files up three flights of stairs (more cursing at this point), and had
dropped the rest of them fumbling for his door keys.  Once he finally
got himself and the rest of his junk in the apartment, however, he found
that the hallway lights and his answering machine were still functional,
and in retrieving his messages found one from an old college buddy who
lived on the upper side, inviting him to a party.  A Sixties' Retro
party, to be more precise.  He had pondered the incongruity of someone
who had been a very young child in the Sixties, to attempt organizing a
Sixties' retro party, but - there it was.  Did he want to come, the
laughing voice on the tape asked him.  "Booze, women, Doors music and
drugs - you just gotta come, Buddy!  Starts at ten - be there!"  What,
no funny brownies?  He wasn't going to no damn party if there wasn't
going to be funny brownies...

Ah, what the hell.  Beat the shit out of watching "Night Stalker" reruns
on the tube.  Besides, he liked brownies.  He had dropped the files on
his bed, changed into a black turtleneck and black jeans, shoved his
feet into black boots and grabbed his leather jacket on the way out.
Didn't even bother to run a comb through his hair (oh you rebel, he
thought to himself).  As an afterthought, he darted back in, grabbed a
bottle of Moet out of his fridge and locked up behind him.  Never go to
a party without some sort of alcoholic offering, he thought.  Miss
Manners had nothing on him.

Jack's place was crammed tight with dancing bodies,
standing-in-little-threesome bodies, drinking bodies, eating bodies,
making-out bodies (these were mostly draped over every available
cushiony place) when he got there.  Jack was nowhere to be found.  A
girl with braided hair and daisies painted all over her face opened the
door, reached out a hand to drag him in, then planted a large wet kiss
on the side of his mouth before she hiccuped and stumbled away.  She had
tasted like scotch and chocolate.  Brownies, he guessed, as he made his
way through the sea of human flesh in search of a spot to call his own.
He found one, nearby the french doors leading out to the patio, and
managed to snag a beer with one hand and fend off three more drunken
women with the other on his trek across the room.  He thought he
promised one of the women a dance when he got some drinking under his
belt - he wasn't sure what he had actually said, since the music was so
piercingly loud that he could feel the vibrations of the bass on "Love
Her Madly" in his balls.  He made it over to the patio doors and propped
himself up against one of them, sipping at his beer and watching the
madhouse play out before him.  He was a real people-watcher; always had
been.  Although some of these fools could by no stretch of the
imagination be called 'people' - he watched in detached amusement as an
extremely stoned individual wearing a wrinkled tuxedo shirt (and nothing
else) staggered over to a potted ficus near the foyer, leaned up against
the wall and started flirting with it.  Judging by the idiotic smile on
the guy's face, one could assume he was actually making good time with
it.  Unbelievable.

From across the room, the look of him intrigued her and she made up her
mind to talk to him.  Figured she had downed enough wine and brownies to
make her brave... braver than normal, at least.  He had the kind of body
she liked; long and lanky but with well-defined muscle underneath.  His
hair was wild and uncombed, as if he had run fingers through it with an
impatient hand.  Deep brown, longer than she usually cared for, but
curving in thick pieces over his forehead and around his cheeks, framing
those incredible waterfall eyes of his.  The eyes had jumped at her
clear across the breadth of the room, so wide and direct their placement
and intensity.  He hadn't seen her yet... half-hidden behind a fig tree,
waiting to make sure he wasn't attached to anyone and would remain that
way long enough for her to approach.  God, dressed all in tight black.
Long legs and a bomber jacket.  She grabbed another glass of wine and
meandered over his way.

He had been there about an hour, had made one or two half-hearted
attempts to actually dance in that mire of spasming gyraters - it had
not been easy, or even much fun.  No room to move much more than your
head, maybe shuffle the feet a little - not his style at all.  He liked
to dance and was prone to throw his entire body into it, especially his
shoulders and hips.  The women he had danced with had mostly just hung
onto his neck and burped fragrant clouds of various inebrients into his
face, sweaty bodies brushing his with uneven movements.  Yuk and yuk...
bored and tired, he was just barely feeling the effects of the drinks he
had finished and figured it was time to go home.  One of the women he
had partnered in dance offered to partner him all night long.  She was
too drunk to know that as she asked him, she was actually standing on
the hand of a man who had tripped over an ottoman near a sofa and fallen
face down on the floor and lay there snoring.  She never felt her heel
digging into his palm and apparently he never felt it either, for he
didn't move at all.  They probably deserved each other...   he turned to
go.

"Hey, what's your hurry?"  A soft voice in his ear; a soft
sober-sounding voice, he thought in surprise as he turned to see the
owner.  No one he had ever met; he would have remembered that face.  She
was small and delicate, wearing a yellow short-sleeved sweater and a
pair of faded jeans, a pair of equally small Keds on her feet.
Shoulder-length red hair, large blue eyes, straight little nose and a
perfect rosebud of a mouth playing a slight smile over white teeth.  She
had a glass of wine in one hand and a brownie in the other, uneaten.
She regarded him solemnly, head tipped slightly to the side, not smiling
but not frowning either.  He smiled down at her, thinking how out of
place she looked in such a meat market of saturated humanity.  Her rosy
mouth curved up at the corners into a Mona Lisa smile that lit her up
from the inside. Truly gorgeous, he thought as he stared at her.  She
held out the brownie, and he let her drop it into his hand.  "Have you
eaten yet, Black Leather?" she whispered as she ran a forefinger down
the sleeve of his jacket.  "I highly recommend the brownies."

He watched her with a steady gaze, holding the brownie between two
fingers.  Her voice sounded as sober as could be, but he knew if she had
eaten any of the brownies she would have to be stoned. Without even
bringing the cake up to his nose he could smell the pot in them.  It
wasn't unpleasant at all; just smelled like chocolate with a kick.  He
looked down at the treat in his hand, then back at her.   She was still
staring into his eyes, waiting.  He somehow knew what she was waiting
for - and it involved more than eating a brownie.

Ah, what the hell - slowly he brought the brownie to his mouth and took
a large bite.  The sweet chocolate slid down his throat, the pot bit
gently at his tongue.  Silently, she held out the glass of wine; he took
that as well and drained it.  He placed the empty glass on a table
behind him, reached out to grasp her hand and pulled her along with him
as he turned toward the french doors and out to the patio.  It had
stopped raining and the air was cool but not unbearably so.  She had
come with him quietly, without protest, her fingers twined in his.  The
doors closed behind them and although the city was noisy below they
could still hear enough of the music out there, alone and away from the
sea of bodies.  He turned to her, slid his arms around her and drew her
into a slow, tight waltz.  He had still not spoken a word - it hadn't
seemed necessary.  They moved together as one entity all through the
long, winding dance, and her body fit into his as if she had been molded
just for that purpose.  Hips swaying together, warmly, teasingly
brushing with every move of the dance... perfect.  She leaned back in
his arms and fastened her unwavering gaze on his face.  He stared back
at her just as intensely.  Her small tongue slipped out to moisten her
bottom lip and he followed the movement with his eyes, then his own
mouth, causing her to gasp when his tongue touched hers and he bent down
into the kiss.  The combination of her soft lips, warm body pressed up
against his and the residual effects of the pot and the drink in his
system served to undermine his judgement in a big way - either that, he
thought hazily, or he was just indulging in some of his favorite
fantasies.  Beautiful women didn't usually fall into his arms at
parties, mostly because his natural aura of detachment kept them at a
distance.   He was a very good-looking man; his mirror told him he
looked attractive to the opposite sex - and women everywhere told him as
well.  He could have had dates several times a day, but he was on the
shy side and passionate about his work.  It was hard for him to make the
first moves.  Actually, he never had to make the first moves.  They were
always made for him.  Unfortunately, he was not attracted to women who
made the first move.  He was surprised, however, to find out how
attracted he was to women who fed him brownies and wine before they made
the move.  His tongue waltzed alongside hers as their bodies continued
to move in rhythm to the now-ending song.  Hands slid over black leather
and yellow cotton, fingers wound through red and dark brown tresses.
Her body held a wealth of promise as it pushed against him; small high
breasts boring into his chest and curving hips brushing his rapidly
burgeoning erection.  He broke off the kiss with a gasp and a hard stare
into her sleepy blue eyes, his entire frame tight with desire.  Although
he still hadn't said a word to her, she smiled slowly and leaned up into
his loose embrace to whisper one soft affirmation.  She twined a hand
around his and they left the party in silence.

The drive back here?  He honestly didn't remember it, or if he had even
been the one driving.  Nor was his memory any better in dredging up any
details concerning the removal of his clothes, the seduction of his body
or hers... nothing, nothing, nothing.  He could smell her perfume on his
skin, so he assumed they had been wrapped up in sleep together, at
least.  But there wasn't a wet spot anywhere in the bed, and the smell
in the air wasn't redolent of sexual frolic.  As he lay next to her
sleeping form, still trying to puzzle it all out, his cell phone beeped,
and he scrambled to get it before the noise woke her up.  He wasn't
ready to talk to her yet, he decided, as he flipped the phone open and
activated it.

"Mulder."   "What? What time? Ah, shit... I thought that meeting was
scheduled for next week...dammit.  OK, I'm on my way - huh?  Oh, maybe
an hour.  Hey - well, hell, I have to take a shower, don't I?  Alright,
I'll hustle.  What was that - no, I did not get a haircut yet!  What the
hell difference does it make?  Okay, okay, Jesus - make it an hour and a
half, then.  Later."  He dropped the phone on the night stand.
Assistant Directors were such a colossal pain in the ass, he thought
with disgust.  Levering himself off the bed, he paused long enough to
flip the sheet over her body and headed for the shower - then, thinking
he should really leave her a note or something, he found a piece of
paper and a pen and scribbled a quick, sloppy note; propped it on the
pillow next to her.  She never even stirred.  So tempting, lying there
like a tiny goddess... he ran a gentle hand over the soft firm skin of
her hip and bent down to press his lips against the curve of her thigh.
He straightened with a sigh - wish I could remember more of last night,
he thought ruefully. I'd bet it was incredible.  He'd see her again; he
would make sure of that.  Smiled to himself as he quietly left the room.

She waited until the front door clicked shut, then sat up in the middle
of the bed, yawning and stretching hugely.  The shrilling phone had
awoken her, but she hadn't wanted to deal with anything concerning the
night before, so she had feigned sleep and had heard the one-sided
conversation.  Through slitted eyes, she had watched him as he spoke,
noting the flex of his biceps as he waved a hand around to punctuate his
words, seeing the flash of bare buttock as he moved around there on the
edge of the bed.  Golden skin, steely silky skin over every inch of
him... he tanned in the nude, it seemed, for he had no tan lines at
all.  A light dusting of brown hair on his chest and sprinkled down each
sinewy arm, long fingers and elegantly-shaped feet.  So beautiful.  His
body had been warm and comforting in the night.  She had slept pressed
up tightly against him, and he had gripped her all night long, either a
hand wound through her hair or an arm holding her waist... once she woke
up needing to pee, and he had his fingers threaded through hers and she
couldn't tug loose so she had talked herself into not needing to relieve
herself and had fallen back asleep.  Now her bladder was giving her hell
for the brush-off, so she gingerly swung her feet to the carpeted floor
and concentrated on getting to the toilet before she made a puddle all
over his sparsely-furnished bedroom.

Coming back out afterwards, she spent a good ten minutes hunting for her
clothes before she found all the pieces.  She had seen the note on the
pillow and read it; a tantalizing, cryptic note, messy but legible:
"Hey Red - I had a meeting.  Were you real?  I smell like you, hated to
wash it off.  We gotta finish it - no wet spots, you know?  Call me - my
cell phone number's on the wall.  Your name's Red until I get it right -
tonight, OK?  I need to know more of you.
Fox."

OH SHIT ON A STICK...  Fox.  Fox Mulder.  God Almighty, who else could
it possibly be?  She had slept naked with a man who would, in all
probability, be her new partner... and he didn't even know who she was,
or that he was even getting a new partner - yet.  She paced as she threw
on the rest of her clothes.  Man, she had such rotten luck.  What were
the odds of anyone else going to a party, running into someone whom she
suspected would play a key role in her future, and getting drunk, stoned
and then naked with that person!  How on earth was she ever going to
face him in... she glanced at her watch - three hours?  She had three
hours to figure out what she was going to do; three hours to set the
standard for the procedure that would carry her - and him, she prayed -
through the next several years of working together on whatever they were
supposed to be working on.  She finished tying her sneakers, grabbed her
purse and dashed out the door.  She tore down the stairs, not able to
locate the elevator fast enough, and hailed the first taxi she saw.  In
her mad rush to get out of there, she had forgotten to write down his
cell phone number.  Oh well, she thought a trifle insanely, I'll just
get it from him at work... once I get there and figure out how the hell
I 'm to proceed from here.  She dropped her face into her hands and
moaned.

At her apartment, she threw herself into a shower and into the first
suit she could find in the closet, brushing at her hair until the
strands crackled from the abuse.  Calm down, she told herself, just cool
it!  Nothing had actually happened between them last night, had it?
Just a very hot dance, and some equally hot kisses - she was sure that
was all.  Once they had gotten back to his apartment, they had exchanged
more hot, wet kisses, and then she had thrown up.  Well, not on him,
thank God, but she had pushed him away and clapped a hand over her mouth
to hold it in until she could find the bathroom.  After it was over, she
had walked slowly back into the bedroom to find him sprawled sideways on
the wide bed, naked and gloriously erect... and fast asleep.  She had
swayed on her feet, staring at the expanse of male flesh displayed so
temptingly on white cotton sheets.  He had the absolute most beautiful
body she had ever seen.  Briefly she cursed at the thought of him
falling asleep before they could finish what they had started - but then
again, her stomach wasn't too steady at the moment, and she could use a
good sleep herself, cuddled up in all that warm man skin of his.  She
had climbed into bed next to him - and his arms and legs had immediately
clamped around her shivering body and he nose-dived his face into her
hair and he slurred a whispery few words. "Sorry, Red - later, 'kay?"
And, just like a light clicking off, he was deeply asleep.  She had
kissed his neck and her tongue flicked softly over his half-open mouth
before she let the wave of exhaustion wash over her, too.

She finished her makeup and stepped back to view the overall look, her
stomach muscles jumping.  She looked calm and competent, tailored but
soft and approachable as well.  She pressed a hand to her abdomen and
forced her breathing to slow down.  Hard to chill out when all she could
see in her mind was the way his eyes had burned through her soul as they
danced; how his mouth and hands had laid claim to her as if the
ownership had always been in existence.  Get a grip, you twit, she
yelled at herself.  You're an FBI agent with an important job to do and
you are beginning the best part of your career... so get
un-stupid and get there fast.  One more deep, calming breath and she was
out the door and headed for the parking garage.

On the way, she drove at a more sedate pace than usual, needing the
slower direction to gather her thoughts and decide on how she would
proceed.  It would not be easy, she knew.  She had been briefed earlier
that day, the same day of the party, and had been informed of her new
status and given a quick history of the X-File Division and its main
contact - namely Agent Fox Mulder.  She wasn't given a photo of him,
just a quickie bio and she had been able to pull from memory some of
what she had heard about him.  'Spooky' Mulder... she had never met
anyone less spooky in her life.  Knock away the 'pooky' and toss in
other letters... turn his nickname into 'Sultry' - that was more like
it, she thought with a shudder of remembered heat.  Sultry eyes, sultry
mouth, sultry tongue... God, that tongue.  Silky-rough and hot, talented
as hell - she could have died a happy woman under the tender
ministrations of that wondrous probe.  And, it hadn't even touched her
more sensitive areas, unfortunately for her - it hadn't been operative
long enough.  Lost in sensory replay, she narrowly missed hitting the
car in front of her, which had stopped at an intersection.  She slammed
on the brakes and shuddered to a stop, cursing herself for losing it yet
again.  She ran a shaky hand over her face and forced the calming
breathing to soothe her.  Breath in, breath out, deep, cleansing
breath... much better.

In a basement office, under a lurid poster of a UFO with the stark
statement "I WANT TO BELIEVE" slashed over the top border, Fox Mulder
re-adjusted the glasses perched on his nose and tried to concentrate on
the open files and slides before him.  It wasn't easy - all he could see
before him were dancing blue eyes and a thick length of red hair
tumbling down to those creamy white shoulders of the girl he thought of
as just 'Red'... so hot, he thought, so beautiful, so... perfect.  He
had figured out their night together hadn't seen any serious sexual
interplay other than some kisses to die for and a hands-on expedition of
really silky skin.  She had tossed her cookies and he had conked out
before anything more momentous could occur.  But several times in the
night, he had become restless and had reached near-wakefulness, only to
be lulled back into deep slumber by the feel of her curled against him,
an arm or a leg flung over some part of his body and soft humming
breaths in his ear.  It had been the best nights' sleep he had gotten in
a long time.  He decided a lot of those kinds of nights would be just
what he needed.  Of course, a little more pre-sleep action would need to
be inserted first.  He smiled; a girl named... what, he wondered.
Jane?  Amy?  Karen?  She didn't look like any of those names,  but no
one ever looked like their names.  He sure didn't look like a Fox, but
there it was.  He hoped she had written down his cell phone number.  He
hoped she would call him that evening, maybe come over.  He hoped they
would take a shower together tomorrow morning...

She moved down the basement hallway with measured, purposeful steps.
Her stomach was fluttering like mad, but she gave off an outward calm
that would have been admirable to anyone watching her who knew what had
really happened.  Head up, every hair in place, a serene curve to her
mouth, steady hands... she reached out one of those hands to knock,
heard a voice on the other side call something in response that sounded
a little like "FBI's most unwanted..."; she took a deep breath, and
opened the door.

Oh, God...

There he sat, in shirtsleeves, a sexy pair of glasses perched on his
nose, hair mussed a little - wait a minute! - hair cut a LOT, styled off
his forehead with just one stubborn lock that wanted to fall over his
eyebrows.  Very GQ, she thought hazily, as she forced herself to face
his look of surprise as he glanced up at her.  His face froze
incredulously, but he slowly reached out to shake the hand she
proffered, along with a husky, "Agent Mulder?  I'm Dana Scully...I've
been assigned to work with you."  His eyes warmed visibly as he took her
in, all of her from her head to the tips of her heels, and he smiled
that sleepy, sex-sated smile she had been lucky enough to see several
times the night before, as he finally spoke and she heard his voice
again -

"Well, isn't it nice to be so highly regarded..."

End