Heat
 

I watch her over the tops of my shoes, my feet, crossed at the
ankles, planted squarely on the desk.  Leaning back, I flip the
pencil in my hand, absently bumping the eraser against my palm.
She tugs another file from the drawer and throws it onto the
growing pile on the floor.  Her gesture has anger in it, a subdued
violence, her barely audible grunt and the slap of the folder
hitting its mates punctuating the deafening silence in the office.

I can see her rage.  It ripples through her every movement: the
impatient throttling she gives each file as she extracts it, the
annoyed tucking of rebellious hair behind the curve of her ear,
the unintelligible mumbling she threads just under her breath.
And I know that all this umbrage is directed at me.

I allow my eyes to slide down the profile of her body, over the
curves and softness, the angular lines and toned muscles, letting
the sight fill me up as a sponge drinks in water.  She is utterly
beautiful, and the pique from which she suffers only heightens
her appeal.  Her cheeks flush rose, a slight line of perspiration
beading her forehead and upper lip in glowing perfection.  She
has already removed her jacket, it thrown carelessly across a
chair, and I admire how her white tank clings to her body,
accentuating her breasts.  In her agitated state, her nipples are
erect, straining at the fabric.  I imagine my fingers brushing over
them and shift a little in my chair, my own sex beginning to
come to life.

Damn, it's hot in here.

Her legs look longer than usual in the short skirt she has dressed
in, and the firm arch of her calves draws my attention.  She is not
wearing stockings, and I fantasize again, feeling in my
imagination the sensation of that smooth leg against mine,
shuddering in appreciation.

And then her voice, finally breaking the quiet that she has
imposed ever since she arrived: "Mulder, are you going to help me,
or are you going to stare at my ass all morning?"

I blink, surprised by her bluntness.  I consider correcting her and
recounting my leg vision instead, but I remain silent.  Scully is
angry with me; I know with absolute certainty why, and I realize
that trying to lighten the situation will only make it worse.

Extracting myself from the chair, I subtly adjust, not wanting her
to notice my arousal and add to her wrath.  I cross to her in two
long strides, careful not to end up too close to her, knowing that
just my presence is infuriating to her right now.  "What do you
want me to do?"

She nods her head toward the door, and for a moment, I think she
is going to tell me to get out.  "There are boxes in the hallway,"
she says, her eyes on her task.  "These files are ready for
storage."

I leave and come back, dragging several cardboard containers
after me and throw them next to the stacks of files.  I crouch
down, in catcher's position, rolling up the long sleeves of my
dress shirt as I do.  Here, from this angle, I can see the way her
Achilles tendon slopes into the back of her three inch pumps.  I
could touch it if I reached out my hand, knowing full well that
this would warrant at least a decent slap, if not an all-out left
hook, from her.  But it is tempting nonetheless...

Christ, is the air conditioning on at all in this building?

I stuff the boxes full of files, not even noticing which ones she is
sending away.  It is useless to argue with her now, anyway.  I
don't want to argue with her.  I would rather hold her, lock her
next to my chest and keep her there until all her irritation drains
away and she melts into my body, her passion turning from
resentment into something wholly different and much more
pleasing.

I finish with the ones she has already thrown to me and raise my
eyes.  She is digging through the second cabinet, her hands
moving rapidly through the contents of the top drawer, her speed
indicative of her mood.  The tomblike quality of the room is
getting to me, and I stand, drawing close behind her.  As I move,
she suddenly cries out, snatching her hand from the files and
peering at her fingers.

"Damn!" she hisses.  I can see the drop of blood on her index
finger, and she thrusts it into her mouth like a child.  I long to
take her hand, to take the finger in my own mouth, to run my
tongue over it and taste the sweetness of her blood.  But she is
looking at me finally, her blue eyes flat with anger and dull pain,
and I wonder how much of the cause of that is me.

"Scully--" I start, keeping my voice low and undemanding, but
she cuts me off.

"No, Mulder."  She slams the file drawer shut, her eyes still on
my face, searching me for something.  Not finding it, she turns
away again, yanking open the next drawer.  "Don't start with me.
I'm not in the mood."

The first thought that rises in my brain is flippant, of course, a
natural response for me.  'You were in the mood last night.'  But
I bite the remark back, the knowledge that this is the exact reason
for her temper stopping me cold.  I chew my lower lip, lost for a
moment.  What can I say to her now?

I can feel my own sweat starting to trickle down the back of my
neck, reminding me of the feel of her fingers there last night.
She had kept one hand there as our bodies merged, stroking the
skin, raising goosebumps under her touch, the softness like a silk
scarf.  Her mouth next to my ear, her heavy breathing warm and
welcome against me, the whispers of my name as she nuzzled me
and drew me even further into her. I shut my eyes, momentarily
dizzy with the memory.

God, she had felt so good.  So right.  So...mine.

I step forward, directly behind her, my arms on either side of her
slim body.  I place my hands on the cold metal of the cabinet
drawer and push, listening as it slides effortlessly forward and
closes with a snick.  Her hands are still out in front of her,
poised, frozen in mid-air, but she doesn't protest.  I can see her
trembling just slightly, and I bring my hands back to rest on her
shoulders.  She doesn't pull away from my touch, and I take this
as a good sign.

"Scully," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.  "We have to
talk about it."

Her head bends, her red hair falling forward, and I know without
seeing it that it is covering her eyes now.  I know this is what she
wants, to hide, to pretend she can't see...when all she can do is
see.  She doesn't reply, so I press on.

"You're angry with me."

She turns then, all the furor of the last half hour suddenly gone.
Her blue eyes find mine, and they are shiny and full.  "No,
Mulder.  I'm not angry with you."  She sighs, and she touches
the corner of her mouth with her tongue.  It is a familiar sight to
me, something she does when she is thinking hard, but it fills me
with another burning sensation.  I fight the urge to kiss her, to
taste that tongue in my mouth once again, knowing that would be
a mistake now.

"I'm angry with myself."  I hear her, but I can smell her, too, the
wildflower perfume of her shampoo just inches from my face.  I
breathe her in, just as I did earlier this morning, the scent of her
hair left lightly on the pillow next to mine.  And underneath, that
more primal odor, the fevered smell of passion and sex that
lingered in my bed.

Jesus, she is killing me!

I strain to stay focused, to concentrate on her words.  She needs
me to hear them now, and she is waiting for me to respond.
"Why, Scully?"  I ask, chancing to run my fingers lightly across
the rise of her shoulder.  She shivers, and I feel myself smile.
But it freezes on my lips when she looks at me, her own face
serious and strained.

"Because it changes everything, Mulder.  It changes everything."

I drop my hands from her shoulders and take a slight step back,
sensing that she wants to move.  But she doesn't, and I just look
at her, her beauty and her closeness overwhelming me.  I imagine
what it would be like to take her now, sweeping everything from
the desk onto the floor, throwing her down onto the surface and
grinding into her until she screams for me, for more, for her
release and mine.

I can be such a jackass.

I feel a rivulet of sweat over my eyebrow and reach up to sweep
it away.  My hands come down and rest on my hips.  I know I
look defiant now instead of open, but I can't seem to find a more
comfortable stance.  My erection is pushing against the front of
my trousers, and I need to shift again.  "Are you sorry, Scully?"

The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and I am
suddenly aware that I don't really want to hear the answer.  She
is acting like she's sorry...she is acting like she never wants to
see me again.  And that thought is agonizing, paralyzing to me.  I
feel myself holding my breath as I wait for her response.

Her voice is gentle, and she draws my hands into her own.  She
can see my hurt, and she wants to make it better.  She is a doctor,
after all.

"I'm not sorry, Mulder."  She looks me in the eye, and I know
her words are true.  "But it changes everything, and I need some
time."

She presses her fingers into my palms and then lets go.  My head
is spinning from the heat of the office and the fire of her skin
touching mine.  "Scully, please--" My voice, a croak from deep
in my chest, trails off.

She needs time, she says.  I can give her that.  I can give her
anything she wants.  I have already given her everything else,
everything that I am.

A slight shake of her head, and she turns back to her project.
"We'll talk about it later, Mulder."  The note in her voice tells
me the discussion is closed.  I nod mutely, even though I know
she doesn't see me.  I move slowly to the door, throwing one last
lingering look over my shoulder.  It's a possessive look, I know,
the hungry look of a man in need, desperate for fulfillment.  I'm
sure it's pathetic to see.

Sighing, I head for the men's room to nurse the urgency in my
pants.  I know if I don't, I'm likely to explode.  I'll be thinking of
Scully; it will be short and sweet.  And cheap, a poor
substitute for her.

I make a mental note to bring a fan for the office.  I think I'm
going to need one from now on.

***End***

Author's Note:  I always wondered what the morning after the first time
was like for our intrepid heroes, considering that if it did happen in
"all things," that Scully did not look too happy about it when she left
Mulder's apartment.  Just my take on things...please let me know what
you think.  Feedback is always appreciated!
 

--

  "Have the Father say a few 'Hail Mulders' for me."
                        --Fox Mulder, The XFiles
                            "Redux II"