From: elliedustin@my-dejanews.com
Date: Tue, 15 Dec 1998 22:36:38 GMT
Subject: New! No Lies by Ellie Dustin

Title: No Lies
Author: Ellie Dustin
Feedback to: elliedustin@hotmail.com
Rated: NC-17 for adult situations
Category: Story
Spoilers: None, but it happens toward the beginning of season six
Keywords: MSR (kind of)
Archive: Gossamer--yes, Ephemeral--yes; all others please      ask
Summary: Mulder and Scully are on a stake-out and things happen

Disclaimer: I don't own them, I'm not making money off them, and I'm just
doing this for fun.

Dedication: You know who you are.

No Lies
by Ellie Dustin

It was a stakeout, like any other stakeout.  She and Mulder sat in the car
outside a dark house, waiting for the bad guys to show up.  Okay, that wasn't
entirely true, she thought, running her fingers through her hair.  This
stakeout wasn't entirely like every other one.    This stakeout was *boring.*

It was all part of the shit detail they had been on since getting back from
the Antarctic. She wouldn't admit it to Mulder because it would just confirm
his persecution complex, but he was right.  They were getting the shaft. 
This, for instance.  They were on stakeout waiting for a perp who was about
five-hundred miles away.  "Just in case," Kersh had said when she pointed out
that their suspect had been sighted in Texas.  "Better safe than sorry."

Well she was sorry, at any rate.  Mulder was the safe one tonight, dozing in
the car seat he'd tilted back to its full forty-five degree angle.  He'd been
up late last night trying to piece together more case files against the
direct orders of his superiors.  She knew because he'd called sometime after
midnight to share the fact that he had just finished the Boggs file.

"Remember that, Scully," he'd said, his voice elated.  "Remember how we got
him."

"Sure, Mulder," she'd murmured, burying deeper under the blankets.

"And you believed him," he'd continued.  He was chuckling, not at her, she
knew, but at the memory.  At the reclaiming of their partnership from the
dredge that had been the office.

"I did not, Mulder," she'd protested, wanting to hang up.

"You did," he'd said.  "Hey, are you asleep?"

"I was," she'd said, and hung up on his laughter.

This morning he had told her that he'd finished a file after Boggs, at least,
as much as it could be finished.  He was in high spirits the rest of the day,
but about an hour ago he'd begun to flag and she'd told him to rest.

"You and I both know he's not showing up, Mulder.  Take a nap."

He'd looked at her, his hand already sliding between the seat and the door to
the lever.  "You'll wake me up if anything happens?"

She hadn't even bothered to answer *that* question and Mulder had been asleep
ten minutes later.

He shifted in his sleep, throwing one arm over his eyes.  He smacked his lips
twice, murmured something, sighed.

She looked over at him.  Mulder.  Her partner.

They'd been having some rough times lately, after they got back and the DNA
evidence hadn't come through on his side.  He'd wanted to kill her and ended
up almost getting himself killed in the process if Diana Fowley's report was
any indication.

They were okay now, she thought.  His hurt at her insistence on the truth
seemed to have healed a bit--the call last night told her that.  And now he
was asleep, one arm over his face, the other still hanging in the space
between the door and the car seat.

Mulder.

He was lovely in the glow of the street-light, but then Mulder always had
been more attractive when he was quiet.  The orange light edged his skin, cut
swaths of orange shapes across his white dress shirt, his wrinkled pants.  It
outlined his mouth.

She sighed, looking away, out the window past the perp's house.

And then she looked back.

He really was attractive.  She'd noticed that before, of course, on countless
occasions.  She'd almost kissed him, for Pete's sake, and she wasn't blind,
but she hadn't wanted to do this for awhile, hadn't wanted to reach out and
touch him just to see what it felt like.  Not for a long time.   A week,
maybe.    A day.    An hour.

"Mulder," she whispered.

He didn't move.

"Mulder?"

Silence.

She leaned forward, into his personal space, close enough to feel the faint
heat leaking from his open overcoat.

"Mulder?" Normal voice this time.  Still her partner didn't move, didn't
shift in his sleep, didn't flutter an eyelash, not that she could tell.

She reached out and put her hand lightly on his wool trousers, feeling the
soft crease under her fingertips and the warmth of his thigh beneath it. 
Then she pulled it away and sat back, blood hot in her face.

For a long while she looked out the window, not seeing the anything beyond
the condensation on the glass.     While she looked, her hand reached out and
stroked his thigh again, airily, as if she were petting a butterfly.

When he didn't move, she allowed it to settle there, resting against the
warmth.  She took a breath.  Three breaths.  Twenty.  And after twenty-five
breaths she allowed her hand to move again, her fingers inching slowly over
his leg, ready to pull back the second Mulder's breathing changed, the
instant he moved even the slightest bit.

But he didn't move.

And before she knew it her hand was so far up on this thigh that she could
feel the creases of his pants where hip met leg, and the increased warmth of
his groin.

What was she doing?  She kept her cheek resolutely toward the glass,
wondering what she was doing, assaulting her partner while he slept. 
Wondering what she would do if she woke up to find Mulder groping her thigh
on a stakeout? What would she do if he moved his hand from her leg to
between her legs?  What would he do if he discovered her cock twitching
beneath the wool of her pants.

She snickered a little at that one, pulling her hand away to cover her mouth.
 Jesus.  She was wicked.  Evil.  Perverse.

She turned back to her partner.  He was still asleep, sprawled over the seat,
legs extended and bent at the knee, torso stretched long by the position of
his arm.

She reached out and put her hand on him again, on his cock, cupping it,
feeling the heat, smiling to herself, out of her mind and tempted beyond
resistance.  It moved a little, she thought, although through the thickness
of the material she couldn't be sure.  Mulder's chest rose and fell, slow and
deep.  She curled her fingers down around his balls, lifting them carefully,
precisely.  She had a surgeon's hands.

It was definitely moving now, and her fingers moved with it, rubbing gently,
rhythmically, sliding up and down until her fingertips tingled a bit from the
rough material.

Abruptly, Mulder shifted in his seat and Scully flew backwards so fast that
she actually knocked her hand against the window.

"Ouch! Damn!" she hissed, cradling her knuckles against her chest.

Mulder hadn't woken, only moved, sliding down farther in the seat, his knees
spread from the lack of leg room and the constraints placed on him by the
steering wheel.

"Damn," she breathed again, and reached her bruised fingers toward him,
forgetting the dull pain when she touched the cool metal tab of the zipper.

It came down easily, silently, surprising her with its ease.  She toyed with
the opening for a second, reconsidering, wondering again what she would do if
she found Mulder doing this to her, but at this point she thought she might
simply open her legs and acquiesce.  Or she wanted to think that anyway, she
thought, sliding her hand into his gaping fly.

"Oh, jeez!" she whispered, jerking it back.  She looked up at him in wonder. 
No underwear, and wool trousers.  She hoped for his sake they were lined.

Her fingers crept into the blackness of his fly again, feeling the semi-soft
smooth flesh of his cock bump against her hand.  Her fingers circled it
gingerly, tugged it, slipped it into the open air of the car.  Then she drew
back again, waiting for his reaction.

Mulder slept the sleep of the dead.

The dead and the hard, she thought, brushing it with one finger, then
another, then her whole hand, her palm, her fingers curling around it and
slipping up and down over and over, enjoying the silky feeling of hot flesh.

It was impulsive, what she did next, although it was the logical conclusion
to what she had begun frivolously, on a whim, but she leaned down and closed
her mouth over Mulder's cock anyway, running her tongue over the head slowly.
 She glanced up, still holding him with her lips.

He sighed once, still asleep, and when he exhaled she slid her lips down as
far as she could in the confines of her awkward position, sucking him in all
the way to her throat.

The gasp of his breath told her that her partner had re-entered the land of
the conscious.

"Jesus!" he hissed, and jerked with surprise as she did it again, running her
lips up and them down his shift, licking his whole length with one swipe of
her tongue.

"Scully?" he gasped, and her other hand, the hand that wasn't grasping the
base of his cock went up and closed over his mouth and she swallowed him
again.

He must have gotten the hint because his head fell back and his hips came up,
arching toward her, giving her access.  His hands flew to his belt, fumbled
there for a minute, and the fly of his pants came open.  Then they went away,
a gesture for which Scully was profoundly grateful.  Most men thought women
wanted hands on their heads when they were performing, but it just wasn't
true.  Hands interfered with concentration, especially in limited space.

She moved up and down steadily now, sucking and releasing him periodically,
pausing to swirl her tongue over the head, bathing it the way she imagined a
cat would, her hand working a counter-rhythm to her mouth.

She tasted the faint salty flavor of arousal on the head of his cock and
smiled to herself, licking the palm of her hand to reduce the friction on the
base of his cock.

"Oh, Scully," he said.   He'd been moaning steadily for a time now, his breath
coming in short gasps and pants, his hips flexing in tiny aborted movements,
a parody of actual sex, twice as restrained and, to Scully's mind, four times
as erotic.

She switched hands on the base of his cock, and used her free hand to slide
Mulder's pants down on his hips, reaching down and drawing his balls up.  She
rolled them in her hands, cupped and squeezed them gently, swiped them with
her tongue, tasting the crisp short hair there, and the pleasant saltiness of
his sweat.  He must have showered before they came on stakeout--all day in
wool pants and she would have had to give this up.  She drew one of his
gonads into her mouth, then the other, her spit-slicked hand working steadily
on his cock, squeezing and sliding over the head.

Mulder's moans were growing more frantic now, the pulsing of his hips more
insistent.  She felt herself moving, pressing her own groin against the edge
of the seat-cushion, her own body slippery with arousal.

"Oh, please, Scully, please," he gasped, hands clutching the edges of the
seat.  "Oh, oh, god!"

She lifted her head and swallowed Mulder, sucking firmly on the head of his
cock, stroking him with one hand, squeezing his balls with the other, and her
mouth filled with the hot bleachy salty taste of semen, a bitterness that she
had willingly undertaken for so sweet a pleasure.  Mulder pumped into her
mouth twice, three more times, then fell back into his seat, panting.

Scully licked his softening cock, drew it into her mouth and suckled it until
Mulder squirmed under her.

"Quit, quit," he whispered.

She sat back, feeling the stiffness in her neck and shoulders, and trying to
suppress a smile.  She reached out and folded the fly of his pants up,
leaving the zipper to him.

"Scully, what the hell--"

She pressed one finger against his lips, wondering if he could smell himself
on her hands.

"Ask no questions and I'll tell you no lies," she said.

He gaped at her, stunned.  "You don't want--"

"Shh," she said, and the smile came anyway.  "If you talk too much it might
not happen again."

Mulder was silent for a long time, zipping his pants, and adjusting in his
seat.  He fidgeted, glancing out the window, flipping the radio on and off,
playing with the electric locks.

"Hey Scully," he said suddenly.  She turned to look at him.  "You look tired.
 Maybe you should take a nap."

~~~~~end~~~~~