TITLE: Fire From Ice AUTHOR: Anne Hedonia RATING: As NC-17 as I wanna be. SUMMARY: Fun with cliches! Snowed-in mountain cabin, wounded agent, nursing back to health, realizations of loyalties, bathtub. SPOILERS: Your basic season 8. CLASSIFICATION: DSR, totally requited and without an ounce of guilt. Yes, I saw the season finale, and I don't care. To quote James Stewart in "Harvey": "I've wrestled with reality for 35 years, doctor, and I'm happy to state I finally won out over it." KEYWORDS: S/D, DSR, Smut, Scully POV, slightly AU DISTRIBUTION/ARCHIVE - No to Gossamer and Ephemeral - I'll do that. Anybody else who wants it can have it - just please tell me where to go visit. DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'em. My bank account reflects this. AUTHOR'S NOTES: First off, if this were part of a series, I would call it the Conveniently Ignoring the Pregnancy Series. Scully's never been preggers in this universe. Otherwise, Mulder was abducted, Doggett was assigned, Mulder came back, that's where we are. Secondly, since I started this fic *way* too long ago, major elements in this have shown up in at least one fic and, most notably, "Existence", dammit. So, others have gone here before, but I'm both too lazy and too stubborn to change it. Finally, I don't think my representation of the condition of hypothermia is terribly strict - more like playing fast and loose. It's more fun my way, though. MY USUAL FAIR WARNING: . Here we go again. 'Shippers or rabid Mulder defenders SHOULD NOT READ THIS. Those who do, even after reading my warning, are without question making themselves mad on purpose, and thus they confuse me. Those people who read my warning, *don't* read the story and THEN SEND FLAMES ANYWAY (bizarre but true) ought to have their tongues tied to the back of a soon-to-be-runaway stagecoach. Just my $.02. Beta thanks to FirePhile, my main go-to gal, who does such a bitchin' job of keeping me honest. And to Horatio, for braving "S/D sex!" to give this a looking over. :-P Glad I could help corrupt you. If you like this story and/or want to discuss it, send lots and lots of e-mails to ahedonia@yahoo.com. You can also find more like this at http://people.we.mediaone.net/madmwazel. If you hate this story and everything associated with it, send virulent flames to georgewbush@whitehouse.gov. ------------- She is sitting in front of the fire, watching the flames leap and dance when she hears the *WHUMP* against the door. Before that, she was thinking warm and cozy thoughts. Or rather, what a warm and cozy situation most people would take this to be. A roaring fire in a secluded cabin deep in the woods, snow falling in blankets, the room toasty and quiet. Most people would think this was heaven, and would puzzle at her ramrod posture, and the iron clench of every muscle in her body. But then she, Dana Scully, is not most people, and her situation is rarely what it seems. When she hears the *WHUMP*, she runs to the door and the small, frosty window set into it, stands on tiptoes and looks down. She sees the top of Agent Doggett's head, spiky with wet, short hair. He's evidently slumped against the thick wood. She keeps her cool. "Hello?" she calls. "Who are you looking for?" She's supposed to wait until he asks for Martha Blankenship, her old college roommate and their pre-arranged signal that he is who he appears to be. But after a short pause without an answer, she unlocks the door anyway, guarantees or no. He's been gone for so much longer than he was supposed to be. She is no longer inclined to wait. She tries to open the door while simultaneously getting in place to catch him, tries to anticipate his weight falling into her, but when the door swings open he doesn't fall, rather lurches into the room unsteadily, like a man on board a ship that only he knows about. "Agent Doggett, what happened? Are you all right?" Scully stares at him. His outer coat, the one he left with, is missing, and the other layers of his clothing are alternately ripped or carrying enough twigs and leaves to build a bonfire. Doggett blows out air, cheeks puffed out, like he's had too many beers. He's still weaving on his feet. "I, uh..." He fights to remember what to say. He seems to fight to remember *how* to say anything at all. "I, uh, got lost." Scully's brow contracts painfully. Confusion, drunken behavior, and an ominous lack of shivering...hypothermia. Serious. He continues talking as Scully moves to his side. "Wait! I 'member. I saw'm out there. Comin' t'get you. Shot'm." He mimes a gun with his finger, and makes a *poosh!* sound. "Backa the neck. Like I saw sumbuddy do once." He grins then, very disarmingly. Scully feels warmed and chilled at the exact same time. Christ, she hopes he's going to be okay. She has so little in the cabin to work with. She doesn't really need to check his temperature to be sure of her diagnosis. Can't check it properly, actually. But like any good med student, she fights her way under his many layers of soggy wet shirts and lays a hand flat against the skin of his chest. Jesus - he's ice. Her eyes fall shut in fear. He feels like a frozen wax dummy. She leads him into the bathroom, slowly, like guiding a toddler. Once there, she flips on the space heater in the wall. "Aghen Scully, wuddya doin'?" He chuckles faintly. "If y'don' like my shirt jus' say so." "We need to get you dry." Scully strips off two layers of icy, sopping shirts, down to his equally drenched thermal. Her fingers are going numb just from handling the stuff. How did all of it get so soaked? A quick glance up shows some abrasions on his forehead, just above his absently open mouth and his glassy blue eyes. It suddenly alarms her that the fire that normally blazes in those eyes isn't there - the intense look she associates with them has been extinguished somehow. Temporarily, she hopes. She gets back to work as she puts the pieces together. Obviously there was some sort of struggle. He may have fallen, perhaps down an incline - maybe spent some time unconscious, lying down. She gets him shirtless and hands him a towel from the rack: "Dry yourself off." He dutifully attempts to follow her orders, rubbing the soft cotton imprecisely over one arm. He blows out air again. Scully looks up from where she's untying his boots to find his eyes drifting closed. She suddenly realizes how exhausted he is, on top of everything else. She stands and takes the towel from him, applying it as gently as she can to his cold and easily-damaged skin. "Agent Doggett? Do you remember anything about what happened?" "Uh...yeah." "What?" "I gottim." Scully smiles despite herself. "Yes, I heard that. Thank you." He got him. The threat is over. But then, that's what Scully had thought the first time she'd killed him. It. Whatever. A week and a half ago, the alien bounty hunter had reappeared and gone after Scully, evidently gunning for the chip in her neck, for reasons known only to alien bounty hunters. Mulder's first response was to run off to talk to some unnamed informant, who promised to explain the bounty hunter's quest and give him the big picture about a larger pattern of attacks. As usual, he neglected certain formalities, like telling tell anyone where he was going. In Mulder's absence, the bounty hunter did not relent, and close calls and nearly-deadly ambushes had ensued. The attempts on her safety came too fast and too strong for her, Doggett and Skinner to completely deflect. After a few days, Mulder had left Scully a message on her voicemail, talking excitedly about how close he was to a really big answer. Scully had wearily scratched at a bandage over her eye, and hit the button to delete it. Doggett, meanwhile, could no longer abide leaving Scully vulnerable and out in the open. He said he knew of a very remote cabin where she could hide out, under his protection. To leave fewer trails to trace, he determined that he wouldn't tell anyone its location, not even Skinner or the Gunmen. Now normally, when Mulder decided to take Scully out of an equation "for her own good," he had quite an argument on his hands. Scully could never take his "protection" lying down; no matter how high his degree of concern, there was still something chauvinistic about his approach to shielding her, about the way he just assumed he could make the choice for her. Doggett was entirely different. Whenever Scully found herself in harm's way, his unabashed worry for her just radiated off of him in waves. A haunted puppy-dog look would take up residence in his eyes, and he would suddenly make it his life's mission to keep himself constantly, silently near her. On the evening after the third and worst close-call with the Bounty Hunter, he'd arrived at her apartment, handed her his biggest suitcase and told her to fill it - they were going on a trip. She had taken one look at his face, nodded and gone to her bedroom to do so, strangely grateful for the gesture. Scully sometimes thinks that she responds to Doggett's protective ways because they are no-nonsense and military - not too far from the way Ahab might have shown concern. In the back of her mind, she also finds herself riveted by one fact: she's never seen him suffer that way over anybody's safety but hers. "You look li' Katie. I never notiss that before." "Really?" Katie - or Katherine - Scully knows, is Doggett's ex-wife. Though she's read the name in his FBI files, she's never seen a picture, so she has to take Doggett's word about the resemblance. She continues drying his top half, carefully touching each part of Doggett's lean torso - his muscular arms, his broad shoulders, his flat belly. The coldness of his skin is still alarming to her, but the sight of him is creating much different feelings, resulting in a little storm of confusion in her mind and body. She's surprised to find it difficult to keep her doctor's facade in place. She's also surprised at how little guilt these feelings cause her. Time to lose the pants. She tries to compartmentalize her feelings as she reaches for their top button. Doggett isn't helping. He starts to laugh. "You sure you aren' Katie? Tha'ss sumthin' Katie use' to do..." His laughter dwindles as a wave of exhaustion hits him. "Relax, Agent Doggett, I'll have you dry in just a minute." She unfastens his jeans, thinking about how she and Doggett have never crossed a line like this in their partnership before. She wishes he were a little more present, able to take part in it - it sort of feels like she's crossing it without his permission. Then again, she thinks as she peels down the wet denim, maybe it's better that he's out for this. She helps him fight free of the jeans, taking in the sight of his strong thighs as dispassionately as she can manage, though she wavers when faced with the prominent bulge under the fly of his wet, clinging boxers. She shivers slightly, and not from cold. She decides to move around back of him, where at least if she stares he can't see. She hooks her thumbs under the elastic of his shorts and pulls them off. She grabs a towel and quickly dries his lower half. "Katie..." he slurs, turning around. Oh well. So much for discretion. She lets her eyes drift to what's right in front of her, thinking briefly that for a man who's just endured vicious cold, he's not making a bad impression. Doggett leans down to put his hands on her shoulders and speaks apologetically. "Katie...I did'n get what I wen' out for." Her heart tugs. "I know, Agent Doggett. It's okay." "No iss not. Wer screwed." "It's o-*kay*." She says gently. "You got hurt. You need help." "Yeah, do." He stands and sways, wincing. "Hurt all over." She rises, glances around, considering what to do. She helps him sit on the closed toilet seat, half leaned against the bathroom counter. "Stay here. I'm going to run into the next room for some blankets. I won't even be gone a second." He nods gravely. She races to the hall closet and back as fast as she can, but still returns to find Doggett slumping forward, ready to topple. She grabs him and rights him carefully, her heart clenching in fear. She wraps him firmly in the woolen blanket and leads him into the living room. She moves the couch nearer the fire and guides him onto it, laying him on his back, his head and feet propped along the arms. "Katie." he slurs cheerfully, "Katie, you gonna join me?" Scully pauses, looking down at his half-lidded eyes, at the strong, chiseled planes of his face, gold-toned in the firelight. Two bodies' worth of heat *is* better than one...suddenly, she flashes on a conversation with Mulder in a Florida everglade, years ago. First she feels guilt, but soon after that, irritation. Still...no. She presses a hand to his shoulder and heads to gather more supplies. When they came up here a little less than a week ago, Doggett had prepared well. The cabin was well-appointed and comfortable, and he'd packed enough supplies to keep them there for at least two weeks. There was access to a public Internet terminal at a general store nearby, and he'd planned to check the Gunmen's website for coded updates on the case, and when it was safe to return. But on the fourth night, the plan changed. They'd been awakened by noises - noises of forced entry, crashes of careless movement through the rooms. They'd both vaulted up into the dark, weapons drawn, hearts pounding at the prospective life-or-death battle...and found a family of fat raccoons feasting on their supplies. Doggett had been momentarily irked to find Scully collapsing into laughter. It had spilled out of her partly from relief, and partly at the picture Doggett made - an alarmed, half-awake man in his long underwear pointing a gun at completely unconcerned raccoons. No matter how she'd tried at the time, Scully couldn't hold the laughter back. Eventually, neither could Doggett. It hadn't been as funny a day or so later, when they'd realized how much of their supplies were gone. They were down to practically nothing. Further spoiling the joke was the fact that, when Doggett had gone to his truck, he found the freezing weather had killed the engine. After a long fight with it, Doggett had determined to hike down to the general store for help. It hadn't been snowing much when he'd left. There had been practically no indication that a snowstorm of that magnitude was coming. It dumped a sky's worth of white on the ground in record time. She'd been alarmed when he hadn't turned back soon after it had started. She'd been even more alarmed when she'd heard one far-off gunshot. Scully shakes the thought from her head as she uses the fire to warm up the few canned items they have, wrapping the heated metal in small towels, making impromptu heat packs. As she works, he continues to call every so often, his voice small, playful, slightly absent: "Kaaay-deeee..." It's alternately charming her silly and worrying her senseless. She checks the temperature of the apple juice she's had heating in a small pan - good enough. She pours it into a mug and takes the fruits of her labor over to him. She helps him sip juice. She nestles the heat packs in amongst his blankets, near his body's areas of high heat transfer and loss - around his head, neck, underarms, sides of chest wall. She covers the whole thing with another blanket, sitting on the edge of the couch and tucking it in beneath him. He floats in and out as she works, and once when her face is close, his blue eyes open and meander affectionately over her. "Katie, honey..." Suddenly one of his hands is free, and he's wrapping chilled fingers across the back of her neck, pulling her in to kiss her drunkenly on the mouth. She jumps at the icy contact of him, while at the same time her body flushes with warmth. She starts to draw back, out of reflex, then finds herself staying. His slowed motor reflexes may have robbed him of a little technique, but she can feel the enthusiasm poured into his ministrations, the sheer enjoyment on his end. He's humming - actually humming! - happily into her mouth, gently vibrating her teeth. She suddenly finds it unbearably hard to think clearly. She feels his head start to fall away, as though of its own weight. She looks down in surprise, her eyes drugged and mouth agape. She sees that exhaustion is claiming him again, that he's falling back into the pillow she's given him. She catches his head, lowers it gently. "No, no, no..." she says. "No falling asleep. C'mon." "Wha?" "You need to talk to me. Tell me a story." "Kinda story?" Scully seats herself on the floor next to the couch, trembling, touches her lips with her fingers. Though her body is rioting, she finds her mind strangely calm. "Anything. Tell me about...a vacation. Your favorite vacation when you were a kid." She glances back at him. From under their heavy lids, she sees a faint sparkle in his pale blue eyes as the pictures come. "Went t' Florida once. Whole lot better'n Jersey." "Good. That's perfect. Keep talking." She listens. She hears about his father driving down the coast, refusing to use the air conditioner, and Doggett and his brother dropping ice cubes down each other's clothes. She hears about the clear, warm Atlantic water, and the first time he saw a Portuguese Man O' War. It was dead, and he scooped it up on his paddleboard because, if he could take home a dead jellyfish to show his friends, he'd be the envy of every one of them. His mother was torn between killing him and fainting. Scully listens, relieved by every second the low rumble of his voice continues. She reacts dutifully to every detail, which isn't hard, because his sleepy storytelling is charming. Occasionally, she makes him stop to sip juice. She listens to every word, and yet none of them. Her mind can't stop reliving the past day. Doggett had gone missing for almost 12 hours. When she'd heard the gunshot, she wondered if it was someone hunting for deer, or Doggett guarding her from the alien hunting for her. She wondered if his shot had missed, and if so, whether the Bounty Hunter would be arriving soon. When he didn't, she wondered if Doggett had hit his mark. When Doggett didn't arrive either, she wondered in silent panic if he had hit his *last* mark. Scully had suited up as warmly as she could and charged out to find him, searching till she realized she'd be endangering herself if she went any further. She'd come up empty. When there had been a break in the onslaught of snow, she'd gone out to search for him a second time, again unsuccessfully. Falling darkness had forced her back in to consider her other options. Her cell phone had no signal, and there was no other communication device in the place. There was no going out again until daybreak. She'd sat in front of the fire, staring. She'd realized that during this week, when Mulder hadn't been there for her, she'd felt irritation, and had of course fallen back on her own skills. Mulder's presence was capricious at best. That his protection might be gone seemed normal. But with Doggett, she knew she hadn't been ditched. If Agent Doggett wasn't there, it meant he *couldn't* be. The idea made it seem like there was something terribly wrong in the universe. It had gotten to be beyond his control. He needed saving. She had refused to believe the worst. It couldn't happen. Not after she'd just begun to realize the kind of man he really was. Not after the thoughts that were just beginning to occur. Her mind drifts briefly, skittishly to Mulder, though she doesn't want to let it linger there. She remembers how, when she and Mulder eventually became lovers, their relationship was always fitful, its timbre completely subject to whatever he was going through at the time. He was a lover the way he was a partner - ditching her emotionally without any warning, then coming back to her and making up for it feverishly. As intensely good as it sometimes was, it still never seemed to have anything to do with what *she* wanted. Since his return, he's detached, ill-humored and intractable, consumed with finding his place in this new picture, nearly heedless of her. And now she's...tired. She's weary of her alliance to a beautiful dreamer who wounds as often as he inspires. As far as she can tell, the ghosts he chases are inexhaustible. It's not ever going to end. The man lying here before her can and will replenish what she's let be drained. He's someone who has the strength to fight outer space, but whose first priority is life on Earth. She can't believe her relief that he's back. She lets her eyes wander over his face. His sheer goodness makes her heart ache. He keeps talking, sleepily unrolling his childhood for her. She keeps an eye on his pulse, respiration, making sure everything stays stable, and improves. It does. Once she checks to see if his temperature has risen, slipping a hand under the blankets and settling it on his chest again. Warmer, good. As she does this, Doggett's story gets lost. He mumbles and lays a large hand over hers, sighing comfortably, growling softly. Scully gets a feeling that she wants to feel again. She decides that he's improved enough that a hot bath would be safe. She realizes that there are other methods to get him warm, perhaps she's choosing this one selfishly. All things being equal, it won't do any harm. She leaves him momentarily to turn on the taps. She returns to the living room and prepares to move him again. She finds him with his eyes closed. "Agent Doggett?" His eyes don't open. "Agent Doggett?" He doesn't respond. She feels a brief flash of panic, and then something occurs to her. "John?" "Hmpf?" Her heart pounds with relief. "I think a bath would help warm you up, so we're gonna need to get you up now, move you to the bathroom. Can you do that?" "Mmmff...yeahokay." He yawns mightily. She assists him in walking over to the steamy bathroom. She holds his blankets away from the water and helps him step into the tub. It takes him a while to get used to the temperature - eyes still closed, he winces and inhales sharply with every newly submerged inch. She knows it feels too hot to him, because he's too cold. Little by little, part by part his body adjusts, and finally he settles in, closing his eyes and lying back with a sigh. Scully kneels by the tub, sponging him with a washcloth. She soaks the warm water into it and then squeezes it against his chest, watching the rivulets run down over skin, compact muscle and bone. Drops of water catch in tiny hairs and glint there, sparkle as he breathes. Her eyes drift surreptitiously down his body, taking in his hard planes. Under the water, his penis sways slightly, the angle and the water making it look strange. She watches as he opens his eyes fully for the first time since he entered the tub. She sees his nakedness, and her proximity, register on his face. Scully suddenly feels presumptuous. "Would you like some privacy, Agent Doggett?" He closes his eyes again, as though opening them took all his energy. "No, s'okay. I'd like you to stay." He grins sleepily. "Feels nice, what you're doin'." Scully exhales quietly. She continues sponging him, listening to the slosh of the warm water. They remain like that for a few moments. "Agent Scully?" "Yes?" Scully sighs in relief. She's not Katie anymore. He's come back to earth. It's not clinical proof, but she's now sure he's going to be fine. His eyes haven't opened, but she can sense a change in his demeanor, a nervousness. "I seem to remember an incident on the couch, a little while ago." "Agent Doggett, there's no need to..." "Yeah, there is." His eyes open, and his face is full of concern. "I got no idea what you must be thinkin'." Scully takes the dripping washcloth and squeezes it slowly along the length of his arm, hand to shoulder. "Agent Doggett," she says softly. "It's okay." His eyes meet hers, and take stock of what is in them. She repeats the squeezing motion along his other arm, leaning long and low across the bathtub to reach him, close enough to feel his breath stirring the hair on her neck. She pulls back to see his gaze darken, barely perceptibly, as something makes its way up to his consciousness. "How okay?" he asks quietly. She is no longer able to meet his eye. "Completely okay," she says, almost whispering. She returns to her kneeling position and rubs the cloth gently over the span of his chest. The motion is an almost undisguised caress. Her breathing is becoming shallower. She realizes that his is, too. Her hand begins to move in broader circles, making its way lower down his body, while her whole body trembles. She submerges the washcloth to sweep it silently over his solid belly. Her boldness alarms her, mightily. She is frightened beyond belief by her actions. She does nothing to stop them. His eyes have closed again and his mouth is slightly open, betraying his increasingly ragged breathing. His brow is furrowing in confusion. She looks down and sees him hardening, his cock starting to reach upward. She endures an almost torturous flash of excitement through her belly, her chest, spilling out between her legs. Her hand moves even lower, brushing his hipbones and the edges of his pubic hair. She hears him hiss in breath through his teeth, hears the water slosh, and suddenly feels his large hand around her wrist. She looks to his face to see his eyes drugged and faraway, and yet their fire is back, times ten. Their icy blue shoots into her. His eyes don't know what's going on, but they're desperate. They tell her of the line she's about to cross. As if she needed telling. With all the courage she can muster, she banishes all the thoughts that currently torture her, leaving only what she feels. She meets his gaze evenly, deliberately removes her hand from his grip, then slides it down his groin and up around his erection, caressing firmly. His eyes slam shut, his mouth drops open. "Aw, *God*..." His expletive is half exhale, half moan. Scully breathes out her own silent moan, wantonly, watching his face contort. The sight of his pleasure sends her spinning. She continues to caress, squeezing gently as her hand comes up over the head. So smooth, so hard now. The hot skin underneath her hand feels as though it's about to burst. She feels much the same way. She's unconsciously leaning forward at the same time he's lunging up out of the water, grabbing her face with his hands. The joining of their lips is hard, and fast, as his wet fingers curl into her hair and mark her as his. She feels warm trickles of water running down her cheeks and into her soft sweater collar. She reels from his touch, savors the pleasure dancing along every nerve in her body. He runs his tongue lightly, teasingly over her lips, and the feel of it threatens to make her cry. She breathes his breath and tastes his strength. She shifts around to gain a better angle. She can't find one, leaning over like she is. She loses her balance and lands with one arm in the tub. Doggett pulls back from the kiss as though just awakening. He looks at Scully's new position, and the beginnings of a grin form. He quickly wraps his strong arms around her and pulls, dragging her the rest of the way in. Scully shrieks in surprise and gets a mouthful of tub water for her trouble. Her torso is now submerged up to her bottom lip and her legs are tangled in the shower curtain. Above his lopsided grin, Doggett's eyes dance with mischief. His chest trembles with the laughter that's snorting out softly through his nose. Scully tosses wet hair off her face, then spits bath water at him. "HA!" Doggett yelps in delight, grimacing happily at the onslaught. He shakes water out of his eyes and watches with avid amusement as Scully sloshes the rest of the way in to straddle him on all fours. He marvels at her, grins and wrinkles his nose at the drops falling off her into his face. She is exhilarated, amused and annoyed, and she has never seen a man so beautiful. The playfulness in his eyes drifts back to desire as she lets him touch her, lets him push her wet sweater up over her head. She is braless, and her whole body tingles as she watches his eyes drift over her, watches lust cloud his gaze. He runs his fingers feather-light over her torso, cupping her breasts, reaches up push away the wet tendrils that still cling to her cheeks and forehead. The reverence in his face is heartbreaking. "Aw, Scully..." he whispers. "You got no idea..." Scully closes her eyes. Yes, she does have some idea, but not about why she waited for this. Her body is humming with joy and pleasure. She has not felt this in such a long time. She runs her small hands reverently over his face, and he lets her. His face looks so chiseled and hard to the eye, but to the touch it's soft, solid, and human. She leans down slowly to kiss him again. He pulls her to get her there faster. They simultaneously kiss and cooperate in a sloppy, silly, splashing display to remove her pants, and soon she is as naked as he is. She feels suddenly vulnerable, excited and brazen. His hands are moving over her, touching her with abandon. His urgency builds and he's growling and sighing and pulling her down onto him. His fingers surge up her back, into her hair, drifting back down to cup her ass, knead her breasts. Their naked bodies press against each other, his mouth devouring hers, his stiff cock caught between their bellies. She opens her eyes while their mouths are joined, marvels at him, dips her head to drink water from his neck with her kisses. She is surprised when he leans up and takes her by the shoulders, gently negotiating her into his former position. She wonders what he has in mind. "What are you--" "Shh..." he says softly. The water level is low by now, everything either drained or splashed out by their movement. Now she is lying back and he is hovering over her, his eyes dancing with excitement and dark desire. She can almost see him cataloguing the things he wants to do to her. Her stomach flips deliciously. She reaches for his erection, and he lets her stroke him momentarily, his eyes closing and squeezing tight with enjoyment. Then he takes her hand away and laces his fingers with hers. "Just lay back..." he murmurs. "Plenty'a time..." He descends on her, lying half atop her, kissing her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, all part of a sweet, relentless assault. She reaches for him, wanting to return his caresses, but he merely catches her hands in his and kisses her fingertips, places them back by her sides. His fingers reach in between her legs, seeking out her clit. She arches profoundly when he first grazes it, flails for the side of the tub as he slides fingers inside her, pumping long, deep, deliberate and slow. She hears the water splash in tiny rhythmic waves against the porcelain as his arm moves and he pushes in again and again, in no hurry, all the time in the world. Scully thinks foggily that she has never been a fan of hand jobs - has never really found anyone who could give them worth a damn. But Doggett's every touch has a purpose - each stroke becomes better, surer, draws more aching pleasure from her as he gathers information about her responses, teases her mercilessly, attending to every second of her climb. She sees his fierce eyes watching her every reaction with an intensity that flutters her stomach, makes her moan all on its own. She feels his breath in her face as he kisses it softly, hears him murmuring her name, inhales his warm, human smell. He is everywhere, but nowhere so much as between her legs, where her whole world narrows to a single coiling point of tension. It gathers power until it explodes and she is coming, her thighs slamming tight around his forearm, and her hips bucking desperately against his hand. Her other arm clenches hard around his back as she rides out the delirious pleasure, holding on as though he were a buoy in a stormy sea. "I wanted to thank you properly," he says softly, a moment later. She opens her eyes to see him grinning affectionately at her. "For savin' me." Scully marvels at the very idea, such a long overdue revelation. She pulls his mouth down to hers, eager to return the favor. It takes only a small shift to put him between her legs, to put his cock at her entrance, rubbing against it. He gives a little thrust of his hips and pushes into her. He feels enormous, touching her everyplace she wants most. When she's able to open her eyes, his face looks like he's at church, giving thanks, taken by the rapture. He moves once and she moans. He moves again, leaning down close to her, his body heavy and warm and amazing. His face is tense, concentrating, yet deeply distracted by pleasure. He keeps thrusting, losing himself in her body. They are blending together, arcing and groaning and throbbing as one animal. His mouth is falling open, an expression of wonder at what his body is giving him. She feverishly adjusts to get more of him, somehow. After a moment he unexpectedly jostles their position to move her legs tight together, his somehow on the outside of hers. He grins at her surprise and keeps moving. Now Scully's mouth falls open. His body is now pounding against her pubic bone in a way that sends vibrations straight to her clit, and tingling repercussions all through her. She can barely keep up with how fast the sensation builds. This is crazy. She never comes this way. She never comes from just sex alone, but...but... She is startled to hear his soft grunts turning into more, to hear his rough voice breaking and crying out, to see his face suffering with ecstasy as he loses control. The sight is so arousing that soon she is even more startled to find herself following him, coming again, their cries commingling and echoing off the tile. His thrusts are fevered and graceless as he convulses against her, over and over, pushing relentlessly as though refusing to accept that this is as close to her as he can get. "Aw, baby..." he gasps. He lays himself carefully on top of her, stroking her neck, nuzzling her as his breath comes in gradually slowing gusts. Though she is mightily sated, now that the urgency is slowing she finds her mind beginning to race. She tries to clamp down on it, to let the relaxation in her body have the upper hand. She thinks dimly that her damp skin is getting chilled. Before the thought is even finished, he asks "Wanna move someplace dry?" She sighs and smiles, her brain slowing for now. "Yes." *************** They're spooned on the couch in front of the fire, the woolen blanket from before now protecting both their naked bodies. "Looks like you joined me after all," he murmurs against her hair. She nods quietly. She is ashamed to find herself growing silent, more distant. In her imagination, a certain beautiful dreamer has learned of this encounter. And he is not happy. And because he is not, neither is she. "Agent Scully?" he asks softly. "I think by now it's Dana," she answers wryly. "Okay..." he says solemnly. "Agent Dana?" She snorts loudly, starts to laugh. She rolls backward to see his face and finds him smiling a shy, crooked, lady-killer grin that sends her pulse racing again, already. She suddenly realizes she's never seen that look before, and hopes she'll have repeat viewings. It fades slightly as he turns serious. "I gotta know something..." Her eyebrow raises, waiting. "Did you mean this?" he asks quietly. Scully's heart breaks. His instincts, of course, miss nothing. She feels remorse at having worried him. She clasps her hand around one of his, at its place around her waist. "I mean it if you mean it," she says softly. His other hand cups her face immediately, caressing. "Oh, I mean it..." he rumbles, so seriously and sweetly that Scully's toes curl. So much honesty with him, like a reflex. "And..." he continues, running a finger over her lips. His face is all boyish vulnerability, innocent and open. She marvels that he can look like that. "I wanna keep on meaning it." She nods, meets his eyes. She silently vows to be brave enough to stick to what she's chosen. "I'm going to keep on letting you, whatever happens." He smiles slowly, his face warming. The joy is back in his eyes, shyly letting itself be known. He kisses her impulsively, softly - once, twice, again - then pulls back to look at her. "Am I ever gonna know what I did to bring this on?" he asks. Scully takes in the sight of him. A warm, calm happiness is spilling over in her. She smiles and snuggles back against him. "You just are." ******************* ----------------------------------------------------- A short poem from twisted friend on the topic of religion: "I do believe in God, But most of the time I think about myself."