TITLE:  Germ Warfare:  A Sick Fic
AUTHORS:  Suzanne Schramm and Terma99
EMAIL:  sister_suze@yahoo.com, Terma99@aol.com
DISTRIBUTION: Gossamer, Xemplary-YES!
Clinique's Chaos, XFFFA-YES!
Anywhere else-YES! But be kind and let us know about it.
RATING:  R to NC-17 (your mileage may vary)
CLASSIFICATION: MSR/VIRAL LOVE
SPOILERS:  Oblique references to "Clyde Bruckman's Final Repose"
and "Wetwired".  Blink and you'll miss them.
SUMMARY:  What if Mulder and Scully were already involved?  What
if Mulder left for ten days?  What if Scully missed him *a lot*?  What
if Mulder came home with a cold?  What then?  Huh?  Huh?
POST DATE: 8/18/99

DISCLAIMER:  Mulder and Scully belong to Chris Carter and FOX Television
(at or below market value - doesn't matter to us).  United Airlines is
owned by its employees.  NyQuil and Vicks are owned by Proctor &
Gamble (and no disrespect was meant in referring to past rumors
about P&G.  Not everything from Cincinnati is evil).  Ben-Gay is owned
by Pfizer.  Kleenex is owned by Cheeseborough-Ponds.  If you have a
cold (and no future plans), we highly recommend the products endorsed
in this fic.  We should caution you, however, that our medical expertise
is limited - we don't even play doctors on t.v.

Special thanks to Dasha and Susanne who bravely beta'd.
And who have hopefully not come down with anything as a result.

Should I mention NyQuil makes me hallucinate? Nah, probably not.

Authors' Notes at the end.

*******

Germ Warfare:  A Sick Fic

by Suzanne Schramm
and Terma99
 
 

I have a cold.

Not one of those polite 24 hour viruses, either. This one's a real
experience. I've just had two fun-filled days of nursing a radioactive
sore throat with every suckable object I could fit into my mouth--
sunflower seeds notwithstanding. I praised Allah when I stumbled out
of my hotel bed this morning and could actually swallow my coffee
without moaning in pain. My Islamic conversion was temporary,
however. By the time I stepped out of the shower I began to feel
that unmistakable crawling ant hill feeling somewhere deep inside my
nasal cavity. The fun was just beginning.

The pesky pathogen decided to really get flowing once I boarded the
plane for the four-hour flight from St. Louis back to DC. So now I'm
experiencing mucus terror at 30,000 feet. What few handkerchiefs I
packed on this trip have long since been retired to the far dark corners
of my suitcase where I hope I never find them again. Instead, I have a
three inch stack of red, white, and blue United courtesy cocktail
napkins balanced on my knee.  The stack is getting shorter by the minute.

"Friends Fly Free" I read, and blow, wishing I had a friend about
now. Nothing can make you a social pariah faster than a rhinovirus,
especially when your rhino takes on certain grandiose hereditary
proportions like mine. I warn people it's best to keep several feet
back before I...

Shit, that one hit the tie. I wipe it despondently. For some sadistic
reason the United gatekeepers thought it would be fun to assign me a
seat in the one row of the plane where you sit *facing* the people in
front of you. Flying backwards isn't my cup of tea even when my inner
ears are functioning.

The pinched woman sitting across from me scowls like I'm the biggest
ass alive for not taking my cold somewhere less populated. Sure, I think,
I'll just open a window here and let my spore fly right out along with
the oxygen.

The seatbelt light boings and the thrill of landing turbulence begins.
I usually snooze right through landings, but today I get to experience
every last foot of pressure drop somewhere inside my brain cavity,
where I'm certain there's a furry woodland creature trying to claw its
way out.

Coat over my shoulder, and laptop in hand, I exit the plane.  Blinking
through the line-up of happy greeters, I'm anxious to find a hot little
redhead waiting for me in a short skirt with a big smile and an even
bigger box of Kleenex. Just my luck she's not here, nor would she be
likely to fulfill my tissue fantasy as I haven't bothered to mention my
state of health, nor the fact my flight was early.

Buffeted by the bustle of stressed weekend travelers, I stumble into one
of the many concession and bookstore shops. My aching eyes struggle
to focus on the assortment of miniature bathroom products until I spot
my target--a little plastic bottle of liquid bliss. I pay the cashier who,
too, looks at me as if I'm evil incarnate for making her touch my
money.  The second I step out into the concourse, I down the entire
thing in four gulps. NyQuil take me away.

I'm just lifting my bag from the luggage carousel when the drugs kick
in. Suddenly I feel like I'm back in college sharing a toke with Lenny
the herpetologist across the hall while watching Star Trek reruns.
Maybe I should have eaten something today. By the time I get to the
exit I'm having an animated conversation with the mole on the nose
of the ticket claim attendant while I search every pocket for my
goddamn half-inch-long claim check. I think it may have been
sacrificed with the other wood pulp products I had on hand during
the flight for a better purpose. I flash the badge instead. Works
every time.

I'm punch drunk and weaving on my feet by the time I drag my ass
back to the gate. Scully's still not here yet and the last time I was
able to focus my eyes clearly it was nearly 5:30. She'll be sitting in
traffic for at least another hour or so. I plop down on an empty
hard-covered plastic chair and pass out.

I wake up with drool on my collar and a three seat splash zone of leg
room in any given direction. My phone is ringing. I answer it and
form syllables even I can't recognize as my last name.

"Mulder?" It's her--come to save me.

"Hi, Scully," I say in a weak greeting. I admit I seem to have lost the
ability to make "l" sounds at this point, but I'll spare you my dopey
enunciation.

"Mulder, where are you?"

"Airport--canned pickle aisle."

"What?" That's my Scully, in no mood to analyze my weird flavor of
humor.

"Gate 34. Where are you?"

"Gate 43, the monitor tech must be dyslexic. Don't move, I'll be there
as soon as I can wave my weapon and clear some tourists out of
my way."

"Good. And Scully?"

"Yes?"

"Bring paper products."

*******

Paper products?

This request, coupled with the unintelligible slur of his voice, promises
to ruin my plans.  It's been ten days since I saw him last.  In the initial
few months of our relationship I congratulated myself on keeping my
wits about me.  Most people go insane after such a long sexual dry spell -
rutting like animals three seconds after eye contact.  Not us.  We've
maintained the same professional demeanor at the office, in the field
and even when left alone for extended periods of time.  That's not to
say that the passion doesn't flare up between us - it certainly does - but
at least I've managed to keep my head.

Until he left for St. Louis.  Before now we could go for days on end
without sex and I didn't care, didn't even really long for him, because
I knew he was only a phone call away.  He was mine for the asking.

The third night of his absence I dreamt about him, about us.  But just
before I came in my dream I woke up.  I groaned and reached for the
phone and even dialed a few numbers before I realized he wasn't going
to come over.  The next day I found myself missing him intensely.

The fourth night I tortured myself with remembrances of Mulder
aroused and the delicious ways he uses that smug mouth.  I remembered
the night before he left when he hoisted me onto my kitchen counter so
I could watch the red root of his penis sliding into me over and over.

Each successive night was spent shifting on my lonely sheets, wishing for
the weight of him inside me.  Once I fell asleep I'd dream of him, always
waking up as the dreams turned interesting.  I've been miserable having
him gone and out of reach.

When this morning dawned beautiful and clear, I was practically singing
in the shower.  Tonight, tonight - I'm gettin' some tonight.  I've dressed
for the occasion, beneath my clothes the lace of my lingerie is scratchy,
but I figure Mulder will have it off of me before the sun sets.  I smile to
myself, picturing the look on Mulder's face when he undresses me and
realizes that I've been wet for hours.

I can't believe I was so Mulder-addled that I went to the wrong gate.  A
clear indication, as if I needed one, that I need Mulder.  I need him badly.
I need him now. I do a few Kegels for good measure as I push against the
crowd to get to gate 34.  The song from the shower still reverberates in
my head - oh moon, shine bright and make this endless day, endless
night….

There he is, slumped in a chair.  He heaves a sigh when he catches sight
of me and rises unsteadily to his feet.  I'm sure once he realizes just
how much I missed him he'll perk right up.  I give him a hint, brushing
away imaginary lint from his shoulder.  Mulder makes a huge production
of clearing his throat, looking uncertainly at the luggage at his feet.  I
catch the distinct odor of alcohol and cherries on his breath.

"Long flight?" I ask him.

"I hab a code."

"A cold?"  We're on the threshold of an incredible sexual romp and he has
a cold?  Maybe he just wants to be pampered a little - I'll humor him.  I
pull on the handle of his suitcase and it obediently glides forward on its
wheels.  Mulder, meanwhile, hasn't budged and is looking dismally at his
tie.

"I never liked this one anyway," he tells the floor.

"Mulder?"  I pitch my voice so that he can hear just the faintest sense
of impatience.  "You just need to get home."

Mulder nods, looking almost happy.  No, make that vacuous.  His eyes
are glazed.  I step back over to him and put my hand to his forehead.
Maybe just a little warm, but we can work around that.  It's only a cold,
for God's sake, not malaria.  I'll never understand how a 180 pound
man can turn into a baby at the first sign of fever.  Once he figures out
what I have in mind he'll forget all about that little sniffle.

"You feel just fine."  I tell him, smiling widely and letting my fingers
linger on his cheek. "Let's just get you home and in bed."

Mulder's watery eyes blink in gratitude and he lurches forward as he
nods.  "Great.  I knew you'd take care of me."

"That's right," I murmur, standing on tiptoe to whisper in his ear.
"I'm going to take good care of you."

*******

The feel of Scully's warm breath and then lips on my cheek sends
my throbbing head spinning. She's a sight for sore eyes, lovely, just
lovely. I just want to stand here and look at her some more, but she's
tugging me and my suitcase back into the current of incoming and
outgoing passengers.

Standing up was more difficult than I thought. The second I saw her,
I wanted to tell her how much I missed her, and grasp her for a furious
kiss, but the best I could do was stand on wobbly legs and apologize
for my tie. I must look frightening.

Right now all I want in the world is for Scully to take me home, undress
me, fluff my pillows, and tuck me in bed for a long, long sleep I hope I
don't wake from until I have a beard and two-inch fingernails. Maybe I
can even ask her to rub some of that menthol shit on my chest.

I move like a banana slug on ether through the terminal, thankful for
my seeing-eye Scully. If it were left to me I'd have us circling the dining
court for half an hour before finding the right elevator to the parking
garage.

In the garage, she rolls me and my suitcase to the back of her car and
pops the trunk. She looks up at me in a doctoral squint, lifting each of
my eyebrows one after the other with her thumb. I'm being studiously
examined by my private physician in the floodlight of Short Term
Section E.

"Mulder, how much cold formula did you take?"

I raise my thumb and index finger.  "About four inches," I say, but
somehow I think only the "inches" part came out of my lips.

"That's enough to clear an elephant's sinuses!"

I'm much too high to give a damn right now. Gosh, she's really
beautiful when she's bitchy. I want to kiss her, but I fall forward
and whack my head on the edge of the opened trunk hood. It would
hurt if I could feel anything.

"That's what I thought. Mulder, you'd better have fast kidneys or
I'm going to be really pissed off in about half an hour."

I just smile stupidly, having no idea what she's talking about, and
gladly slump into the sanctuary of the passenger's seat, easing the
seat back.

The traffic is moving, but still as congested as my nose, when she
merges us onto the expressway.  My central nervous system is blinking
in and out of frequency while Scully goes on about her week and the
amazing things she accomplished in my absence. I'm sure it's all very
important, but I'm only registering every fifth word or so...

"Skinner...apples...yelled...softball...seeds...restart...oil change...Mulder..."

...life can be fascinating when viewed through cherry NyQuil glasses.

Some primitive sector of my brain decides to spring to life and sends
my hand over to Scully's thigh. It's not used to doing this sort of thing
without the aid of binocular vision and settles itself a little high of its
target. It must have hit her "off" button, I reason, because Scully goes
suddenly silent. Then she shifts a bit and eases her skirt hem up another
inch or so until my fingertips brush a material I used to be able to
classify as sexy. Her right hand closes over mine urging it higher which
it may or may not have complied to, because I apparently chose that
precise moment to fall dead asleep.

*******

I can't believe this.  He's asleep.  Ten days of the strongest sexual
fantasies of my life and he's asleep before we even get to his exit.  The
dead weight of his hand on my lap is not what I had in mind when I
pictured those fingers on my body.

Did he always have this low tolerance for alcohol?  Mulder was never
much of a drinker, but this is ridiculous.  Leaving the warmth of his hand
on my thigh, I shift until the snaps on the crotch of the teal teddy I
purchased especially for this occasion are pressing against me just
right.  The ride home just got tolerable.

I shake Mulder awake outside his apartment.  After a 20 minute drive
home, he's probably not had enough time to sleep off the cold medicine,
but I'm willing to work with him.

Inside his apartment I nudge him towards the bedroom and he makes
no protest, meekly allowing me to lead him.  I leave him standing in the
middle of his room and begin stacking all the pillows on his side of the
bed.  "Come over here, Mulder," I direct him and he obeys, coming to
stand in front of me, his head nodding slightly as he blinks at me.  "Let's
get you out of these clothes."

"I'm feeling kinda hot," he mumbles, as I strip off that tie he never
liked anyway.  I congratulate myself on reading him right.  He's just
toying with me now, watching with a little smile as I unbutton his dress
shirt.  He lifts his arms so I can remove his t-shirt.  I run one finger
down the muscles bisecting his abdomen and he shivers.  When I reach
his pants I lean forward to kiss his chest as my fingers unbutton and
unzip.

"Mmmmm, Scully," he whispers into my hair.  I slide his pants down his
legs and he obediently steps out of them.  He's wearing the Calvins
today and I can see we're almost at half-mast here.

"Did you miss me, Mulder?"  I ask, eyeing the goods.

"I did.  I missed you," he replies, swaying closer to me.  I put my
arms around him and hold him close, breathing in the scent of his skin.
I dart out my tongue to taste him and his cock twitches against my
stomach.

"Why don't you just lie down."  I turn him so he can sit on the bed.  He
sits, pulling me close and nuzzling his head between my breasts.

"I missed you," he sighs into my left breast and I pat the back of his head.

"Lie down, Mulder.  I'll take care of everything."

He lays down all the way and I hook my fingers into the waistband of
his boxers.  "Let's just get these out of the way."  His eyes look a little
glazed but he nods.  I pull them down, past his burgeoning erection
and down the long length of his legs, enjoying the soft feel of his hair
against the back of my hands.  Mulder's toes curl when I pull the
boxers completely off.

"Scully," he groans.  "I need,  I need…."

"Shhh," I put my finger to his lips.  "I know what you need."

"Kleenex."  He sniffles loudly, watching me with hazy eyes.  "I need
a Kleenex.  Please?"

"Be right back."  I kiss the tip of his red nose and head for the bathroom
to pull a couple of feet of toilet paper off the roll.  On the way back to
the bedroom I shed my shirt and pants until I'm in the silky lingerie I
had hoped he would find on his own.

Mulder's sitting up when I come back in, rubbing his nose with the back
of his arm.  "You know what I'd like you to do, Scully?"

My inner muscles jump at the possibilities in those husky words.  "What?"

He produces a small jar of Vicks from the night stand.  "Would you mind?"

"That's a little kinky, wouldn't you say?" I tease.

Mulder squints at me.  "Is that new?"

I look down at the silk I'm about to sacrifice to the mentholatum gods
and then back up at him.  He gives me a hopeful smile.  Yes, Mulder,
you've been very good in noticing the new outfit.  I sit down next to him
and hold out my hand.  "Let's have it."

He hands me the jar and I make him sit up and slide forward so that I
can climb high atop the pillows behind him.  My legs bracket his back,
perhaps not in the way I intended, but the night is young and the
drugstore is closed.

I put a thin greasy film across the firm muscles of his back and rub it
in vigorously.  The smell reminds me of my grandfather's house and Ben-
Gay, but I think Mulder's about to change that sensory memory for
me.  Mulder's head tips back in ecstasy.  "God, that feels great.  I can
almost breathe."

It does indeed feel great.  The menthol has raised the nerves on my hands
to a new sensitivity and I can feel the slide and flex of his muscles in a
whole new light.  It's like massage therapy on acid.  I slip from behind
him and press him back onto the bed.  He snorts and snuffles so I help
ease him up onto the pillows.  I take care to lean over and offer a glimpse
of cleavage while I'm plumping the pillows and Mulder makes an
appreciative sound, his hand coming up to caress the silk on my hip.

I had planned long soul sizzling kisses, but Mulder's current state of
health has me a little leery.  I straddle him instead, letting him feel my
moist warmth against his stomach.  "You want some more?" I ask him.
 "There's plenty."

His head bobs happily against the pillows as I take another gob and guide
it into the sparse hair on his chest.

************************

The phrase "vapor action" has just taken on a whole new sentiment with
me. It's amazing how the love of a good woman can take all those tender
childhood mothering memories and make them deeply moving erotic
experiences. I let my head roll to the side as she rubs that gel all over
my chest and shoulders, taking her time, like she's really enjoying it. I
haven't had a female baby me since the Carter administration, and the
last one was really only good at holding the barf pan. Scully's nursing
techniques are much much better. Must be that degree.

She's leaning over me wearing some silky gray thing, which I'm sure
isn't meant to be gray, but my diseased vision is registering even
*fewer* colors than normal tonight. Still, she looks hot.  Those
gorgeous edible breasts are spilling out over the scalloped lace, and
I'd love to throw her down and fuck her silly, but my muscular system
is offline.  I hope the aliens don't pick this moment to invade. They'd
have me tossed to the floor and probed in 10 seconds flat. From the look
in her eyes, and the way she's scooting down and rubbing my thighs,
Scully might appreciate something like that about now.

"You just lie still, I've got your cure right here," she informs me in a
sultry alto. I don't really understand what she's hoping to accomplish.
I'm not really at my peak tonight--I need nurse Scully right now, not
*Nurse* Scully. She dips her head anyway and takes a little lap at my
bellybutton. Suddenly, remarkably, I'm rising to the occasion. Some
part of me is anyway, a fairly essential part, but I'm too zonked to
pay it much mind. I follow her orders to lie still and drift off instead.

Gradually, I become aware of a pleasurable sensation flowing in waves
of consciousness from my groin area. I look down in time to understand
that's Scully's nose poking my balls. The fuzzy purple haze that has
engulfed my brain is now moving toward my genitals in the most pleasant
of ways. I think I'm moaning when she starts licking me. A little warm
minty fist grips and strokes me, spreading a tingling sensation the length
of my decently erect friend. It feels positively amazing. I close my eyes
as she takes me in her mouth and just surrender to the decadence of
her lips gliding over me while her warm tongue moves in circles around
the tip. Thank you Scully, thank you, thank you, thank you.

Nothing can quite take the place of a woman's mouth when you're in
the mood for a little passive gratification. I didn't have much luck on
my own in St. Louis.  The glitzy hotel only carried that second rate,
partially censored, Americanized porn--plenty of breasts and bleached
hair, but shy on the details with an unfortunate favoritism for filming
the back of some guy's sweaty ass. Which I really don't need to see.
Besides, I'm afraid it just doesn't have the same effect on me anymore.
I've been spoiled royally. Sweet Jesus, am I ever being spoiled, she's
doing that thing with her knuckles. In a few seconds she'll have me and
I'll be lying here smiling, shaking hands with the sandman.

Suddenly she stops. I drag my lids up to see her giving me a powerful
look that could mean one of two things--she wants something from me,
or she's about to cough up a hair. She runs her tongue out over her
slickened lips and rises up on her knees, unsnapping her crotch. It
looks like she's coming to get hers as she straddles me and lowers her
hot little self down onto my cock.

Shit, that's nice. As helpless as I am to move, I can manage to maintain
some level of alertness as I watch her ride the love locomotive. She
arches her back and squeezes her breasts through the lace and groans
and grinds herself down onto me with fervor, gripping me on each
upstroke. My, the woman's been practicing. Good Scully, you get a
biscuit.

Cell by cell I force my brain to power up to appreciate her efforts,
and perhaps even participate in a useful manner, but unfortunately it's
my hypothalamus that responds. 250,000 years of cerebral evolution is,
I'm afraid, wallowing in a cherry-flavored cocktail. What cognitive
functions I inherently share with musk oxen and fresh water salmon
send a direct "take no prisoners" signal to my prostate. I gasp outright
and surge merrily into my beloved, thrilled by the primal rush, but
soon after collapse into a deep satiated stupor.

Goodnight ladies, Fox Mulder has left the building.

*******

Close.  My god, I was so close.

Mulder has left this party early, without so much as a by-your-leave
from the hostess. I find myself desperately longing for another three
minutes.  One more quarter in the slot.  But Mulder is gone.  His
flaccid penis rests against his thigh, spent and wobbly like an
exhausted marathon runner.  If he showed any sign of life right now,
above or below, I'd splint him and hope for the best.

I rock back on my heels, ready to cry in despair.  Ten long days.  Ten
even longer fucking nights and nothing to show for it.  How did I ever
get this bad off?

What the hell was I thinking three weeks ago when he came over ready
for action and I wasn't in the mood?  I gamely played along, making
encouraging sounds even as my mind wandered, wondering when and
*if* he was ever going to come and just be done with it.  God, what I
wouldn't give for a little of that Mulder action now instead of the
snoring man next to me.

I strip the teddy off, tossing it onto the floor with Mulder's clothes.
That was fifty dollars well spent.  For a minute I sit there, flushed and
naked, next to an equally flushed and naked Mulder.  And then I start
laughing, tilting my head back and roaring to the heavens.  It's hard to
say who's more sick here - Mulder with his cold, or me with unchecked
(and unrequited) desire.  In the midst of my merriment Mulder smacks
his lips and turns on his side, his hand flopping in front of him as he
sleepily searches for me.

Oh, what the hell.  He'll sleep off the medicine by morning.  I get up and
use his t-shirt to clean both of us off while he snores softly.  The last
thing I need right now is his slick limp cock reminding me of what I
didn't get.  I lie down next to him, lifting his arm to snuggle my back
to his front.  Mulder snorts and murmurs something into my hair, his
hand cupping my breast and vaguely squeezing it.

I let out a sigh.  Maybe, if I'm lucky, and it doesn't appear that I am or
will be, he'll wake up in the middle of the night ravenously hungry for
a Scully treat.  Mulder's hand leaves my breast, unconsciously crawling
southward at a leisurely pace.  I suck in a breath when he reaches my
hip, his fingers flexing lightly.

For a couple of minutes I listen to his snorts and slurps while my
stomach flutters, remembering other times he's had his hands on
my bare hip.  The fifth time we made love he put his hands there,
holding me to him as he took me from behind.  I push back against
him, but he doesn't stir.  I shift a little, throwing my leg back over
his, exposing my still-throbbing sex to the breeze coming in Mulder's
window.

I close my eyes, taking a deep breath.  All I can smell is menthol, not
Mulder.  Damn, I really want to smell Mulder, it would help.  Instead I
remember the feel of his muscles beneath my hands again.  The slick
glide of him and how great it felt while he was still semi-participating.
My hand drifts down, stroking over my clit, but it knows the difference
between my touch and Mulder's.  After days without him, it's not about
to take a substitution.  I move his hand a little so that it's resting on my
upper thigh, his fingers splayed dangerously close to ground zero.

"Gonna make it up to you," he mumbles, moving his hand to cup me, his
fingers patting me reassuringly.

"Mulder," I whisper, pressing back against him as I hold his wrist to
encourage him.  "Oh, please…."

*******

Happiness is spooning a warm Scully. When I come to, I find she's fit
herself perfectly between my chin and thighs. I feel like a human electric
blanket when I hold her like this. I bury my useless nose in her hair,
wishing I could smell her. Instead, I have to work from memory and take
up the sensory slack by reaching over and grabbing a breast. She moans
and wiggles her behind. Damn, life is good. I love sleeping with her next
to me like this, one hand cupped protectively over a breast. It bugged her
a little at first, my
obsessive nocturnal behaviors. But she's grown fond of it over time and
sometimes, in the middle of the night, she'll grab my arm and lay it over
her when she thinks I'm sound asleep. I run my hand lower, slowly over
her soft belly to her thigh. Some Id-like part of my persona is silently
chanting, mine, mine, mine as I drift in and out.  A thought occurs to
me that I should probably apologize to her before I'm down for the count.
I pat her fur and make some sort of a promise.

Opps, not a good move.  She grabs my wrist, urging my hand between
her thighs. "Oh please..."

I'll admit I'm not exactly the lay of the millennium while under the
influence of influenza. I don't usually leave my lover wanting. In the
event of a misfire, thirty-nine years of habitual seed sucking have
conditioned me for any major mandibular task. However, that kind of
act requires some basic muscle coordination and more importantly, a
clear airway. Right now I have neither. I wouldn't want to prove poor
old Mr. Bruckman right, at least not in front of Scully.

So I just play dead. Which isn't much of a stretch for me right now.

Suddenly there's an elbow in my gut.

"Ow."

"Mulder, dammit, just wake up and give me five minutes, okay?"

She sounds serious. "Scully, I'm sorry, I'm..." Uh oh, not good, losing
powers of communication during a crisis...must...wake...up.

"Fuck, I'll do it myself..."

Whoa! Wait. No good. Be a man, buddy. Be a man.

By some amazing feat of human endurance, I'm able to send an
emergency signal to my right hand. If I don't wiggle some fingers
I'll be facing the wrath of Scully in the morning. And that's really
not a pretty sight.

I move some knuckles and discover I'm already soaking in her. She
stiffens and moans and squeezes her thighs together, producing more
pressure. At least I don't have to worry about positioning, she's already
directed me to the target. So I take a deep breath, cough, and go to town.

*******

Mulder's hand moves against me, his fingers stroking slower than usual,
but the pressure - the pressure of them is perfect.  I grind against him
and his hand flexes, his fingers pushing a little deeper.  Oh, yes, Mulder
- just like that.  His fingers flutter inside me and I feel the first jolt race
through me.  I move to lie on my back, needing a different angle, but as
I roll his hand slides away.

"Mulder?"

His face is relaxed in sleep.  So relaxed, in fact, that I can see a thin line
of drool coming from his opened mouth.

I groan, staring at the ceiling beseechingly.  I've been so good, why would
God punish me like this?  I had thought Mulder was my reward for years
of putting up with, well, Mulder.  Tonight there is no justice.  I make a
mental note to send a scathing letter to Proctor & Gamble regarding
NyQuil.  I'm beginning to believe that there may be some truth to their
being owned by a satanic cult.  Somewhere, someone is laughing with
glee over my predicament.

I sigh, pulling away from Mulder's comatose body.  I was only kidding
when I said I'd do it myself.  I've reached the point where my body's
too tired of not coming to come.  Otherwise, I'd give Mulder a good
sternal rub and wake him up.

With a sigh I reach over Mulder to turn out the lamp.  Whatever happened
to that unspoken communication we're supposed to have?  Can't he
sense, even in his dextromethorphan hydrobromide dreams, how much
I needed this tonight?  I snuggle up against him in the dark, resigned to
my fate.

********

At some point before dawn, my eyes open. My snout is still embedded
in Scully's hair, but for some unexplainable reason, I can smell it. I can
smell *her* --all 31 flavors of woman thrilling my nose with a subtle
bouquet. I inhale, deeply. Air actually passes through my sinus cavity
and into my lungs. I never thought it would happen again. I can breathe
without hanging my mouth open. Damn, that pint of cold formula
worked.

Even more amazing to me, I have full use of my brain again. The fuzzy
dull throbbing is gone. I can multiply two digit numerals--I can
conjugate French verbs. (Not that that's ever been proven to be useful
in my line of work.) Most importantly, I can maintain an erection.
Take that, Bob Dole!

I look down at the naked woman curled next to me. She's tossing her
head and mumbling in her sleep. I hear something like my name.
Sounds like she's giving me hell. I'd better remedy the situation. I grab
two heaping handfuls of Scullyass and plug myself in.

She moans rapturously and wakes. "About time, Mulder."

Better late than never. I roll her more onto her stomach and slip one
leg between hers, pressing her gently into the mattress. Bracing myself
with one arm, I lay myself over her and sink in deep. I reach my free
hand around to fondle her little button as this ride gets underway. Yep,
she likes that. That scrumptious little butt is rising up to meet me as I
plunge into her like a pile driver set on full throttle.

"Oooh, Mulder you're so hard..."

Yes, yes I am. Thanks for noticing.

Her arms reach up beyond her head and her fingers blindly grab the
pillow tower, spilling them down over us. I throw them aside so I can
run my tongue down her spine. There's that sweet taste of Scullyskin
I've been missing.

"Oh god, I missed your big long cock..."

I love it when my woman talks dirty to me.

"It's all for you, it's all for you," I chant with each thrust. She's deep and
wet and fucking her right now is for some reason effortless. No muscle
cramps, no chafing. I could go on all night. Pillar of control am I.

"Yes, faster, faster."

Faster? No problem. Easy said as done. I'm like a fucking Schwinn
tonight--ten speeds of hill climbing, racing efficiency. Only the new
bed springs groan in complaint as I thunder on. They needed a little
breaking in.

"Ohhh!"

Yep, I've got her now. Just reeling her in, my darling blue-eyed
mackerel.  Just like on the fishing channel--I give her some slack
and reel her in. She's whimpering and scrambling for purchase on
the sheets and blankets, her hot core squeezing me even tighter.
The ground could open up and I wouldn't stop pounding into her.

"Whooooooooieeee!"

There's a sound. Come on baby, that's it, come for hound dog.

*******

I wake to feel Mulder rolling me over, gratifyingly erect inside me.  He
seems to grow even harder, stroking into me over and over as one hand
comes down to circle perfectly on my clit. He doesn't seem tired and
shows no sign of stopping any time soon.  It's just like the night I
mentally went shopping during sex - only this time I'm paying attention.

"Oooh, Mulder you're so hard..."

Did I really say that?  My god, amazing what ten days of deprivation will
do to a person.  I reach out, needing something to hold onto, something
solid to convince me I'm not dreaming.  Because, I'm almost sure I'm
about to wake up as miserable and unfulfilled as before.  Mulder denies
me, pulling the pillows away and I nearly come when his tongue glides
across my back.

"Oh god, I missed your big long cock..."

Ok, I did *not* say that.  Yes, I missed his big long cock, but I've never
talked dirty to Mulder.  God, I have to admit, I've wanted to.

"It's all for you, it's all for you," he tells me, each "you" coinciding with
another slide into me, another circular motion against my clit.  This is
too perfect, how could he recover so quickly?  Why am I even thinking
of this now?  My belly tightens in anticipation.  So close….

"Yes, faster, faster," I tell him, and I feel him speed up.  It's perfect.  It's
too perfect.  This is all too much, too good.  I don't remember sex with
Mulder being this perfect.  With every thrust into me I rock against the
sheets, feeling them slide and catch on my hard and sensitive nipples.
It's perfect.  Even the dirty talk is perfect, something I tell myself we need
to start incorporating into the real sex.

Real sex?  I really am dreaming, I realize.  He's dreaming.  It's my dream.
 It's *our* dream.  I don't understand how it's possible but, somehow,
we've managed to establish a link here.  Do I care?  Omigod, no.  For once
I don't want proof.  I have proof, ten inches of it, pushing sweet pressure
further inside me.

I believe.  I believe!  I don't care about the how or the why of it.  I only
care that for the first time in ten days I'm….  Oh god, Mulder!  I believe!

*******

End

Feel the urge to flog us?  We welcome all your comments at
Terma99@aol.com and sister_suze@yahoo.com

Authors' Notes:

Sue:  How do these things get started?  I'd have to credit a silly IM
session about the dearth of fic dealing with smut that reflects real life
('sick' sex, men-as-babies and erectile dysfunction).  Sharon had been
kicking around an idea about writing such a fic.  When she asked me to
join her I nearly experienced my own bout of incontinence (but that's
another story entirely).  Start to finish, this has been the most fun I've
had writing a story (despite repeated whippings at the hands of a
demanding taskmaster <g>).

Sharon sayz: Sue, incontinent? Again? That's why I keep extra newspaper
around when she flies out for a visit. Seriously, this fic would not have
been made possible without Sue graciously writing half of it and entering
all the beta changes for my lazy ass. Sure, the sick element in this fic was
my brain burp, but Sue made it come to life, and kept me going on it. This
is the fastest fic I think we've both ever written. She inspired me to be
more evil with words each morning and more brutal with the cyber whip.
I'd love it if she'd have me again. See if you guys can't work on her about
that for me, eh? And Sue, thank you for the ten inches. <g>