From trevizo@utep.edu Fri Oct 18 06:39:40 1996
I did not write this. I am posting this for a writer who wishes to remain
anonymous. If you have any comments for the author, send them to me
(trevizo@utep.edu) and I will forward them.

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The patient and gentlemanly Gil Trevizo is posting this for me so that I 
can remain anonymous. He has graciously agreed to forward comments to me. 
Like Catwoman said, be gentle with me; it's my first time.

Disclaimer 1: The characters and situations belong to Chris Carter, Fox 
Broadcasting, and 1013 Productions, and have been used without 
permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

Disclaimer 2: If you think they shouldn't sleep together, you're 
probably right. If you think they never want to, this isn't for you. This 
is an MS-something. Not an R, plenty of angst. Rated R/NC-17 for 
language, sexual situations. Mild Herrenvolk (season 4) reference.

Summary: A shapeshifter makes Mulder an offer he doesn't want to refuse. 
Complications ensue.

Brief Encounter

11:21 PM
Georgetown

     Mulder cornered the bounty hunter in the back
room of a bar on M Street. This one was smaller than the others
they'd encountered. It has been passing as a woman. Hell, for all
he knew, it *was* female. He'd seen it changing its face as it followed 
him. Not as easy to spot as you might think, and so not terribly unsafe; 
after all, who looks for that kind of thing?

     He advanced on the smaller figure, pick in hand. Never left home 
without it anymore.

     The thing just smiled contemptuously at him.

     The fight was over almost before it started. It came at him like a 
tiger, thudding into his stomach with a force that knocked the wind out 
of his lungs. He was exhausted and bruised from his most recent battles, 
and it was much strongerthan a human. It knocked his weapon from his 
hand and threw him onto a stool. Then it jumped up, straddling his legs, 
pinning his arms against the wall.

     It watched him pant with anger and terror for a minute, then 
laughed, delicate and carefree. "Has anyone ever told you you're 
beautiful when you're angry?"

     He refused to reply.

     "I like you, Agent Mulder, really I do. I could do things to
you you wouldn't believe. You could consider it research. They sent
me to watch you because I asked, because I liked you so much."

     He just stared at her . . . it.

     "Don't like the body? I can be anyone you want, Fox -- I'd
like to think we can be on a first-name basis -- as many women as
you want. I'm the only *real* infinite variety you'll ever find."
And suddenly it was a tall, leggy brunette -- a stunning Asian
woman with hair down past her waist -- a blonde who could have
stepped out of one of his magazines -- a catalogue of women, a
torrent of women (and at least one lithe boy, he thought) flooding
by him.

     "Nothing you like?" she pouted. "I know . . . I can be the
woman of your dreams, Fox, the only one that matters." As she
spoke, she shifted again, more slowly this time, and by the end of
her sentence she was Dana Scully. Face, voice, even the smell was
right. It was such a violation, he wanted to scream.

     But his treacherous body began to respond to all the cues it
knew so well. It was her scent that was fatal, so clean and cool
and a little cinnamony. She leaned in further, brushing his lips
with Dana's, and, when he inhaled sharply, seizing his mouth and
kissing him deeply. And he kissed her back, just as greedily.

     When she pulled away, smug satisfaction on Dana's face, he
looked at her for a moment. "Isn't it humiliating to have to
pretend to be someone else to get a man to want you?"

     She slapped him, hard. He used his freed hand to push the 
(momentarily) quite small *thing* off of him and scrambled off the
stool.

     "Fine," she said, still Scully. "You can go. Just remember, I 
could turn you inside out with pain *or* pleasure. I hope you're
happy with what you chose." She slipped from the room, face
changing to someone nondescript as she moved.

     He sat heavily down again, trying to compose himself. Then he 
pulled out his phone and hit the first memory key. "Scully? I have
a story to tell you."

*    *    *

FBI Basement
Next Day

     Mulder came into work still agitated. He emanated discomfort
and anger like a dark star. She tried to work for a while, but it
was hopeless.

     "I don't understand," she finally said. "Why is this incident
last night making you so upset? You had a fight, you lost -- it's
not like you shouldn't be used to it by now -- so what else
happened?" These past few weeks had him awfully close to the edge,
she thought.

     He stared at his desk. "It . . . propositioned me," he choked
out. She thought that she might be able to feel the heat rising
from him if she were a few feet closer.

     "What, you're not used to it?" She needed to joke; the fabric
of the unspoken understandings between them was so frayed of late.

     "Not from a *thing* like that!" No humor whatsoever in his
voice. Suddenly, she understood, as if a current had passed from
him to her -- it had propositioned him, all right, but not as a
stranger. Phoebe? Bambi? Good God, had it offered him Samantha? And
then she re-evaluated his refusal to look at her, and thought about
holding him in that hospital room. It had offered him something he
very much didn't want to want.

     She knew how he felt.

     The desire she felt was like the urge that often gripped her
when she was driving on the Beltway -- to drive so fast that she'd
lose control and plow into a gray stone wall. She wanted him like
she wanted to open a bottle of scotch and keep drinking until the
noise in her head went away. She wanted him like she wanted to
punch through plate-glass windows she walked by, just to see what
it would feel like. If it would feel like anything. 

     He'd abandoned her before. He'd do it again next time he
thought he'd move faster without her. *But you're ok, aren't you,
Scully?* And in the meantime he'd be just as caring and seductive
and guilt-ridden about the last time as ever. Once she'd thought
that they might be able to have a loving relationship -- a romance
like the ones she used to read. But as they lost more and more
connections with the world and were reduced to relying on each
other, the fantasy had slipped away from her. Her desperate
devotion, her insistence on backing up a man whose idea of
tenderness was a hand on her back before he left her alone,
couldn't be called "being in love." It was just that he was the
last part of her that assured her she existed.

     She saw that he was still frozen at his desk, shoulders pulled
in as if to avoid a blow. She stood and walked over to him, putting
her hand on his shoulder. Deliberately ignoring his flinch. "It'll
be all right."

     She stood there, gaining strength from the feel of him beneath 
her. Poisonous strength, that would weaken her later, but she 
needed it anyway. *Before I met you, I could tell the difference 
between pleasure and pain. I told you that you were like a flower, but
you're more like a knife. I know I should pick up the handle, but
I always end up grabbing for the shiny sharp blade. And whose fault
is that, my dear?* The pain in her chest was, she thought, the vacuum
where her heart used to be, pulling at her to make her collapse
from the inside. She smiled bitterly behind him. "Mulder, you'll
get your chance. Make the report as convincing as possible so
they'll let us get back to tracking those things. And next time,
we'll catch it . . . together."

     He sighed and shrugged -- her signal to release his shoulder.
"You're right, Scully. Let's get back to work."

     *Something's going to break soon, Mulder. Hell of it is, I
think I'd kill myself just to take you down with me, to know you
feel it too.*

*    *    *

7:58 PM
Mulder's apartment

     The doorbell rang. Mulder pulled his legs off the couch and
onto the floor with a groan and walked stiffly to the door. Scully
waited patiently, coat folded over her arm, for him to admit her.
She was wearing a form-fitting T-shirt and faded jeans which
dropped low enough to bare her midriff.

     "Hi."

     "Hi, Fox." He hesitated, then motioned her in. "I thought you might 
want to talk."

     "Away from the office?"

     "Yeah."

     "You're right. Ah, how can I say this?" He turned away from
her, running his hands through his hair, worsening the damage he'd
already done on the couch. "I told you that the shapeshifter
offered to use her talent to . . . satisfy me." She nodded,
impassive. He dropped back onto the couch, looking away. "I didn't
tell you *who* she offered me." In a rush: "She offered me you,
Dana. She said . . . she said she knew you were the woman of my
dreams. And when she kissed me . . . I knew she was right. Please,
don't be angry with me."

     He heard her come to the couch and sit next to him. She placed
a gentle hand on his leg, just the briefest touch, but it sent a
shudder through his body. "Fox . . . look at me."

     He turned, breathless.

     "Is that really how you feel?"

     "For a long time." His voice held the honesty of a man who had
nothing left but the truth.

     She smiled tenderly and reached up to caress his cheek. And
then she kissed him, forced to rise off the couch to reach him,
just enough off balance to be pulled into his arms easily.

     It was a slow, exploratory kiss -- would this really be as
good as I imagined? -- until he concluded that, yes, it was, and he
bent her down until her back pressed into the couch and her legs
left the floor. He pulled back to look at her. Her eyes were
sparkling and she was grinning like a madwoman. With one smooth
motion, she crossed her arms and lifted off her T-shirt, revealing
a plain cotton bra. He looked at her with tenderness and not a
little awe, as if he could barely believe his good fortune. But his
desire reasserted itself, and he followed her lead, stripping off
his sweatshirt and the ratty T-shirt underneath. She put her hand
to his chest. "I want you so much," she said.

     "How could I deny you anything?" he asked, offering a grin to 
match hers. "Give me a second." He lifted her legs so that he could
get off the couch, shot out of the room, and returned a moment
later with a box of condoms.

     "Dana?" he asked, suddenly uncertain.

     "Come here, Fox." He sighed and complied. Quickly they shed
their remaining clothes; though he wanted to caress every inch of
her, their urgency was too great, and when she begged him to make
love to her, he complied, entering her with a force that should
have hurt. But she simply shuddered in pleasure and ground herself
against him.

     His orgasm was so powerful that it nearly made him lose 
consciousness. When he could think again, he saw that he'd bitten
her shoulder. Red tooth marks stood out on her creamy skin,
clashing with the freckles scattered over her shoulders. 

     Reaching up to touch the bite, which at least hadn't broken the 
skin, he looked at her guiltily. "Did I hurt you?"

     "I don't feel it," she replied. "I like you when you're not in
total control."

     He busied himself exploring the parts of her body he'd
neglected before. The soft, perfect skin that stretched from her
wrist to the crook of her elbow. Her hipbone, jutting out from its
cushion of flesh. Her tiny, perfect feet, with the nails painted an
astonishing rose.

     When he was fully recovered, he picked her up and laid her
over the arm of the sofa. The position allowed his hands to roam
her body, kneading and stroking, until she was begging.

     "Please," she cried.

     "Please what, Dana?" he whispered in her ear. "Do you want me
to fuck you, Dana?"

     "Yes, please," she nearly sobbed.

     "Please what?"

     She whispered it in a schoolgirl's voice. "Please fuck me,
Fox."

     And he drove inside her. Each place he touched her turned him
on more. She screamed when she came this time, and he yelled out in
triumph as he followed her.

     They stayed locked together, her limp over the sofa arm, him 
bracing himself with his arms, barely able to keep from falling
over, face buried in her hair, for a long time. The only sound was 
their panting. Finally, he straightened up and looked her over again.

     "Can we take this into the bedroom?"

     "I thought you'd never ask."

     He took her into his arms and carried her into the bedroom. "A
bed," she murmured, sounding almost surprised. He set her down on
it carefully.

     "Now close your eyes," he commanded, "and raise your hands." 
Shooting him a game-but-uncertain look, she complied. She heard
clicks, then, "Ok, you can look," and opened her eyes to find
herself handcuffed to the bed. Mulder was holding his pick to her
neck.

     "Fox, you're kinkier than I thought."

     "Shut up. I want some answers now."

     "How long have you known?"

     "Since you opened your mouth."

     "*Much* kinkier. I could really get to enjoy this. How did you
know?"

     "Scully would never have called me Fox. And she wouldn't have 
dressed like that. It was just too easy."

     "I didn't hear any complaints. Double standards, that's the
only kind you men have."

     "Don't push me."

     "What are you going to do? You can hardly hope to explain to
anyone else why you've cuffed your partner naked to your bed."

     "I'm not going to kill you. As far as I know, you personally
have done nothing but follow me around. And I still believe in
justice. But I'm willing to hurt you."

     "What do you want to know?"

     "Where are they? Samantha, the children, the hive."

     "I don't know." He pressed the tip into the soft flesh at the 
back of her neck. "Really. You can hurt me all you want. It won't
help. Don't you think they knew you might catch me? You're a
well-respected man, Fox."

     He saw something suspiciously like tears in her eyes. "Believe
me or not, I wish I could tell you. There's no reason to jerk you
around like this. It's simply cruelty. But I'm just doing my job.
It's a lot safer that way. I can't help you, even if I might want
to."

     He stared at her, grimacing in frustration. Finally, he came
to a decision, retracting the pick and turning away.

     "Fox?" Her soft voice, Dana's voice, using the tone he heard
in his best dreams, sent a tremor down his spine. He turned back,
face completely blank.

     "Once more, for old time's sake? I'm all tied up. You'll be
safe."

     He flinched as if struck, then reached for the keys. "Sorry,"
he said, "the thrill is gone."

     She pouted. "Are you sure? I give a great blow job."

     He actually raised his hand to hit her. "You should shrivel up
and die for taking her shape. Don't say those things."

     "'Please fuck me, Fox,'" she mocked in that little-girl's
voice. He unlocked the cuffs and wrenched her hands from them.

     "Get out. Next time I won't be so generous."

     "Fox, how will you know when next time is?"

     "Get out!" he cried. Raising herself from the bed, she
shrugged. With Dana's dignity even in her nakedness, she glided
back to the living room and, he assumed, put on her clothes. He
heard the front door close.

     Then he sank to the bed, head in his hands. *That was the
dumbest thing I've ever done,* he though, not quite sure which part
of the night he was thinking about. *Oh, God -- Scully!*

     He couldn't stand the couch, not tonight. So he curled himself
into a ball on the side of the bed she hadn't been on, and tried
mightily to sleep.

*    *    *

*    *    *	

Epilogue

The next morning
Dana Scully's apartment

     Special Agent Dana Scully examined her reflection critically. 
Lipstick, perfect. Foundation -- well, wouldn't stand up to a very
close inspection. Mom always said, you can cover up redness, but
bumps show through. She'd just better hope that the next few days
wouldn't see her dunked in water or otherwise unable to control her
appearance. Mulder would barely be able to look at her today,
anyway.

     Calling him "Fox" had been a stroke of genius. Maybe his eerie
intuition was beginning to rub off on her.

     The small abrasions on her wrists, the welts on her back, and
the bite mark on her shoulder were safely concealed beneath her
long-sleeved shell and jacket. As she turned to go, she heard his
voice in her head. *Sometimes the need to mess with their heads
outweighs the millstone of humiliation.* She whispered to herself,
"More than you'll ever know."

END