INDEBTED (NC-17) Title: Indebted (1/1) Author: Plausible Deniability Address: pdeniability@hotmail.com Archive: freely Category: S Rated: NC-17 for sexual situations Spoilers: Slight spoilers for "The Beginning," and a tiny one for "Quagmire." Keywords: MSR (kind of) Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the television program "The X Files" are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox Broadcasting, and Ten-Thirteen Productions, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. Summary: The unreciprocated nature of a sexual favor begins to gnaw at Mulder. Note: This is a sequel to Ellie Dustin's incomparable "No Lies," (currently available on the Ephemeral archive; Ephemeral's address is http://obsidian.teter.indiana.edu/ephemeral.html). If you like it, just know that it isn't one tenth as good as the original. THANKS to Becky, first and best among betas. FOR Ellie, whose wish is my command. **** She'd surprised him. Well, maybe surprised was the wrong word. She'd shocked him, bewildered him, left him reeling. He'd fallen asleep on a routine stakeout, thinking mundane thoughts of files and Kersh and of mending partnerly fences. Nothing would ever equal his astonishment at jolting awake just a short while later to the unfamiliar sensation of Scully's mouth sucking wetly on his cock. He wasn't even sure where this undreamt-of bounty had come from. Scully had seemed bored there in the car with him before he'd fallen asleep, and they'd still been recovering from the resentments of a disastrous OPR hearing and the Gibson Praise case. They hadn't even talked much that night before the fatigue had begun to overtake him. Certainly the cramped interior of the car had not struck him as particularly conducive to romance. And yet, whatever Scully's reasons, whatever generous impulse had overtaken her, just thinking of it now could make him feel light-headed. It wasn't manna that had fallen into his lap that night, it was something much more exciting, something -- someone -- so unbelievably hot and unexpected that he still could not quite credit it had happened. For days afterward he would catch himself grinning, and whenever he stopped to analyze why, his heart rate would inevitably speed up. "What are you smiling at, Mulder?" Scully would ask from her desk behind him, somehow able to divine his expression merely by looking at the back of his head. "Just enjoying my life," he would answer without turning around. Then he would go back to checking the fertilizer invoices that collected with stubborn regularity on his desk. He wanted to pay her back. It was something he would have been happy to do under any circumstances, but given this new debt that he owed her it had become almost an obsession with him. "You look tired. Maybe you should take a nap," he had said to her that same night, still a little stunned, still exhilarated by his luck. She had merely smiled at him, one of those amused, slightly superior smiles that she used to keep him in line. Then she had firmly changed the subject to the stakeout they were conducting. He would never understand it. Why him? Why then? And how would he ever settle the debt? He had tried to repay her a few days later, the first time afterward that an assignment had landed them overnight in a motel. Perhaps she had not let him reciprocate in the car because of the setting, he had thought, admitting to himself that the logistics of eating a woman out in the bucket seat of a sedan might have been a little problematic. "Yes?" she had asked when she opened her door in answer to his knock. He had stared at her in confusion. How to begin? 'I'm here to rock your world?' 'In the mood for some oral sex?' Nothing suitably suave and enticing had occurred to him. "I was just thinking...," he'd said, his words trailing off as uncertainty got the better of him. "What?" He'd wished she would invite him in. "Just...you want some company, Scully?" "Mulder, it's late." She had said it civilly, almost apologetically, but her refusal had been clear just the same. If only she would just let him in, he'd thought, maybe he could persuade her. "You're sure?" She had nodded. "I'm a little tired. Another time?" And so he had bid her goodnight, feeling foolish, wondering if she had guessed the real reason behind his visit. He'd gone back to his room to ponder the ironies of a world in which she could be so completely indifferent to settling the score while it was quickly becoming all he thought about. He'd tried for a third time tonight. They'd just returned to D.C. from another field assignment, and he'd found her spare laptop battery in his case while unpacking. An excuse to swing by her apartment, he'd decided; never mind that the excuse was pitifully thin, since she wouldn't rely on battery power in her own apartment and in any case they were sure to see one other at the office bright and early the next day. He had knocked resolutely on her door. This time he had been a bit more enterprising, and had managed to get past her and inside the apartment before launching into his opening line. "I have something for you," he'd said. She'd looked at him in surprise when he'd handed her the battery. "Mulder, you didn't have to come across town just for this." He'd shrugged. "I was in the neighborhood anyway." "Well...thanks," she'd said. "Can I get you some coffee or something?" He'd followed her into the kitchen, and had stood unnecessarily close to her as she'd taken the cups from the cabinet and prepared the coffee maker. Then they'd both waited for the coffee to brew, each leaning with one hip against the counter, chatting a little about the headaches of the flight they'd just shared. "That was the worst airplane food I think I've ever had," she'd laughed. "Kind of makes you nostalgic for hospital cooking, doesn't it?" "Not quite. But I do hate it when they get fancy. Quiche and airsick bags just don't mix." She'd put down her empty coffee cup and smiled at him. This is it, Mulder had thought with a little rush of excitement. This is where I make my move. This is where I sweep her off her feet. And then -- And then he'd lost his nerve. How could he do it? How could he pounce on her, he had wondered, when she was gazing at him with that composed, completely level gaze? What was he supposed to do, just push her down and shove his face between her legs? Sure, then he'd really look like one suave Cary Grant. So he had simply waited for the coffee maker to finish its interminable brewing, had meekly sipped his cup of coffee, and then had gotten the hell out of her apartment. Driving back home in his car, he had kicked himself the whole way. How had he managed to make the most natural thing in the world so paralyzingly complicated? Sitting alone in his apartment, he thought back on the evening with chagrin. He'd had an excuse, he'd been in her apartment, he'd been this close. Only a foot of space had been separating them, and she'd been smiling. He'd had the perfect chance. And still, he hadn't been able to go through with it. Coward. He turned on the TV and stared blankly, morosely, at the screen. ESPN was airing a college basketball game. He got up and made a sandwich, and ate it sitting in front of the TV. He usually loved basketball but tonight he couldn't get into the game at all. He was too disappointed in himself. It was late by the time the game ended, but he didn't feel like sleeping. Instead he flipped through the channels, landing on Turner Classic Movies. "Freaks" was just beginning. He watched the whole thing from start to finish and decided that a peg leg wasn't enough, he wanted to be really physically fucked up. There was something appealing about the idea of being a circus freak, of being the kind of outcast that no one in the normal world cared about and from whom no one would ever expect a thing. Damn it. This self-doubting crap was leeching all the joy right out of his memories of that encounter in the car. For days and days afterward, he couldn't think about that stakeout or about Scully or, hell, about anything really, without feeling a grin break out and a rush of warmth heat his face. Everything connected with it had taken on a happy new significance: the suit he'd worn that night, the low tone she'd used when speaking to him afterward, the daily anniversary of the hour it had happened. But now he was beginning to regret the whole thing. What did it say about him that she'd had the courage to make the first move but he couldn't even respond in kind? She was going to think he was a selfish asshole, she was going to think he didn't want to do it, and, worst of all, she was going to think he didn't appreciate what she had done for him. He had to pay her back. But he couldn't. He just couldn't. He had no idea how to take that first step. Maybe he could do it if he got drunk. "Dutch courage," his mother used to call that sort of fortitude, an old expression but one that had often made him wonder if she'd meant it as an intentional slur on the Mulder heritage. Yes, a little Dutch courage might do him good. He could picture himself appearing at her door, weaving, too smashed to care whether he ended up looking ridiculous or not. That would really be something, wouldn't it? He laughed at himself. Drunk and amorous. Scully wouldn't even recognize him. And then, on an impulse, he got up from his couch, went into the kitchen, and took out the bottle of vodka that he kept under the sink. He didn't open it and he didn't pour himself a drink, but he did hold the bottle in his hand for a while, looking down at the label, thinking. After a long time he walked to the door. He took his leather jacket off its peg on the coat rack, slipped the bottle of vodka into his pocket, and went out. In his car, heading to Scully's on the deserted streets, he could not quite believe what he was doing. Turn back, a voice insisted in his head. You're only going to chicken out again, so turn back now and save yourself the time and the mileage. Turn back. But he stuck his hand in his jacket pocket, curling it around the cool glass of the vodka bottle, and kept driving. He was as sober as a judge, but still the alcohol gave him courage. When he got out of his car outside her apartment building, the sound of the car door closing behind him echoed on the quiet street. Two o'clock in the morning, he thought, and all the sane people in the world are asleep. He was tempted to take a swig of the vodka but, having made it this far, he hated to give in to weakness now. He went to the entrance of Scully's building and let himself silently inside. Standing outside Scully's door, it occurred to him as he turned his key in her lock that he was essentially a prowler, an intruder, and that Scully was a trained marksman with a firearm. In the darkness she could very well mistake him for a stranger. He might not even get the chance to identify himself before she blew his head off. Fuck it, he thought, and went in anyway. He was going to do this or he was going to die trying. Her apartment was completely black. The living room drapes were closed and there wasn't a sliver of moonlight penetrating the darkness. He closed the door silently behind him, releasing the knob in millimeter increments to prevent any telltale noises. Then he moved slowly through the room, walking with elaborate care in the direction of her bedroom, his hands stretched out before him to prevent his crashing into anything. When he reached the open doorway to her bedroom it was a little easier to see. His eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and the digital clock beside her bed cast a faint glow. He stepped into the room, shedding his leather jacket as he approached the bed. She was lying on her side, curled slightly, hugging her pillow. He didn't want to do something that she didn't want. He didn't want to frighten her, either. He braced himself with a hand on the bed and leaned over her. "Scully," he whispered, more softly and gently that he had ever said her name before. "Scully, it's me." She stirred, and her eyelids fluttered slightly, but she did not open them. "Scully," he whispered again. "I owe you something." She stirred some more, rolling onto her back. "Mulder?" she mumbled in a voice more asleep than awake. "That's right. It's me." Her lips curved in a fleeting ghost of a smile. He remained quiet, watching as her expression faded back into the deep relaxation of sleep. She looked even smaller and softer in bed, her hair spread on the pillow, her lashes dark against her white skin. She was wearing oversized pajamas and though they were not the clinging silk of his fantasies, he decided that he liked her even better this way. Scully. He gazed at her for a minute, gathering his courage. She was so different from any other woman he had known and so beautiful. Not that he'd dated homely women; but there was something about Scully that had made him think for a while now that all his previous assumptions about beauty had been woefully mistaken. She wasn't tall and she wasn't brunette and she didn't have that Black Widow Spider aggressiveness about her, and still he'd been aware for some time that he couldn't look at any woman but her. "Scully," he whispered. She was still. "Scully?" There was only the steady rise and fall of her chest. He reached down, carefully, and took a corner of the blankets that were covering her in his hand. Cautiously, slowly, he peeled the covers back. "Scully?" He said it loudly, just so he could assure himself later that he'd given her a fair chance to wake up and throw him out. But she hadn't stirred when he'd lifted the covers off her, and she didn't stir now. She was dead to the world. He stretched out a hand and, very lightly, touched her shoulder. She didn't move and so, emboldened, he let his hand trail down to the curve of her breast. It felt incredibly warm and soft, and heat shot through him like a surge of electricity. He stopped then, afraid that maybe this was turning into something he hadn't meant it to be. He was here for her, here because she'd given him the most wildly exciting experience of his life and he hoped in some small way to repay her. This was supposed to be a seduction, not an assault. He was still thinking these virtuous thoughts as his hand reached out again, almost of its own accord, and cupped her breast. Her breathing remained soft and even. He should turn around right now, he thought. He should pick up his jacket and get out of her apartment before she really woke and realized what he was doing. Get out, his thoughts screamed in his head. Get out now. Instead he began to rub her nipple through the soft cotton of her pajama top. She kept sleeping. He was still telling himself to get out, hit the road, run like the coward that he was as he moved his hands lower and grasped the waistband of her pants. She'll wake up, he ranted in his head. She'll wake up and she'll order you out. She'll be angry. You'll be embarrassed. If she doesn't hate you then at least she'll laugh at you. But right now he didn't really care if she laughed at him later, didn't care what she might do then when he had now to take care of first. Besides, she had started this. The whole thing was her idea. He lifted her slightly and eased her pajama pants down off her hips. I can't believe I'm doing this, he thought. He was giddy and nervous, but mostly he was just incredibly excited. Scully. Naked. Sleeping. He could feel the heat of her body. He could see the white outline of her thighs and the darker triangle of hair between them. "Scully," he whispered, pushing her pants off her ankles and parting her legs, "it's me." He reached out and touched her, feeling the heat between her thighs, his heart leaping against the wall of his chest as his fingers encountered wetness. He stroked upward, spreading the slickness higher. Suddenly she stirred and he yanked his hand away like a child who has gotten too close to a fire. Oh my god, he said to himself, panicked, oh my god. But she was still sleeping, her breathing still deep and steady, her face still relaxed in slumber. She had only shifted a little in her sleep. Her knees had fallen even farther apart, and now he could smell the hot elemental scent of woman. "Oh my god," he said again, this time aloud and for a very different reason. Please don't let her wake up too soon, he prayed silently to no deity in particular. If I can just have enough time I know I can do this right. He reached out again, opening her, touching her. This was really more than he had bargained for. He paused, holding his breath to see if she would awaken. But when she just kept sleeping, he began to move again, his fingers stroking through folds of marvelously silken skin. He circled her clit lightly with gentle fingertips. Gradually the circles became tighter, his touch firmer, his explorations less tentative. She was growing even wetter, too, the movement of his fingers evoking soft liquid noises. She turned her head very slightly, and made a small unconscious moan. He wasn't satisfied any more with the distance of arm's length. He bent down, kissing his way up her thigh, breathing in the scent of her. "It's me," he reassured her sleeping form before tasting the salt tang of her desire. "It's Mulder." He put his head between her legs and ran his tongue from the core of her heat and upward, dragging it slowly over her clit. He felt her snap awake, felt the myoclonic jerk as she started upwards and her hands seized fearfully at his shoulders. "Its me, it's me, it's me," he babbled quickly, ready to leap away and throw himself on her mercy if she did not relax immediately. "It's Mulder, Scully it's just me." She breathed a massive, shaking sigh of relief. Relief. But not anger. Not outrage. And her body sank back again onto the mattress, her thighs relaxing open. God, he thought, it's really happening. I'm not going to get kicked out on my ass. She's going to let me do this. He lowered his head back to the task before him, the blood singing in his ears. "I wondered why you brought my laptop battery all the way over here," Scully said softly. And then: "Oh...oh, Mulder..." He chuckled and concentrated on evoking more of those little moans, licking lightly at her, flicking his tongue over her clit, slowing to suckle gently. He brought his hands up to help, his fingers joining in the same teasing work as his mouth. She was getting wetter and hotter with every second. It was a cool night but she radiated juicy heat, desire steaming off her as he smilingly buried his whole face in her warmth. "God, Mulder," she gasped. She was panting now, her breathing erratic. He had hoped to take his time and really impress her with finesse but she was squirming too much, pushing herself against his mouth. He could not help squirming a little either, rocking his hips slightly, humping the mattress just enough to take the edge off his own excitement. He angled his head and worked up and down her clitoris, pulsing his tongue against her as he went. He had slipped two fingers inside her, palm up, and he pushed them in and out rhythmically in time with the movement of his tongue. Scully was wet, dripping. Her head thrashed back and forth. She was breathing a constant stream of moans and pleas now as he licked her into a frenzy. Keeping his fingers crooked inside of her, he added both thumbs to the campaign, running them wetly back and forth along either side of her clit as he flicked his tongue against it. He could feel her hips lifting slightly, her thigh muscles tensing. "That's good," she panted, a note of urgency in her voice. "Oh, oh, that's so good -- " Scully's fingers clutched his hair, curling tightly in it. "Oh!" she cried. "Oh!" Then he felt strong spasms squeezing his fingers, squeezing and releasing, as she shuddered and convulsively tugged hard on his hair. He kept going, his fingers still inside her, his tongue unrelenting. She arched her back, thrusting up against him. He could not believe how long her orgasm seemed to go on. Finally she went limp, and gulped a huge lungful of air. "Oh, God," she gasped, staring wide-eyed up into the darkness. He would have kept going even then, savoring the taste of her, curious to see if he could make her do it again, but after a few seconds she pushed his head away. He smiled to himself, and moved backward off the foot of the bed. "That was -- " She was breathless, and she seemed to be having difficulty finding words. "That was -- " "That was payback." "Payback?" She sounded dazed. "I thought payback was supposed to be a bitch." "Ah, Scully," he said, his voice full of affection. "Always second-guessing me." She laughed. Which was, he thought with great satisfaction, listening to the sound, almost as wonderful as a stealth blowjob in a car. END ______________________________________________________ Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com