From: dakluz@stkate.edu Date: Wed, 21 Oct 1998 08:39:50 -0500 Subject: NEW: Momentary Lapses III: Slow by Dasha K. Momentary Lapses III: Slow by Dasha K. (1/1) Please archive at Gossamer. Anywhere else, just let me know where you've put it so I can visit. Summary: Confessions, confessions, plus flying running shoes, lurking nuns, sour cherry muffins, Indian Pudding and slow torture. Continues the tale told in "Momentary Lapses" and Plausible Deniability's "Momentary Lapses II: Delirium". Rating: R for all that bad stuff your mother warned you about Classification: VRH Keywords: Mulder/Scully romance Spoilers: Nope Feedback: But of course, dah-ling. dakluz@stkate.edu Disclaimer: Must I? Okay, they aren't mine, you know that. Note: Snaps to dear Plausible Deniability for writing such a fantastic companion to my story that I shoved the angst aside for another weekend to continue this bite-sized, foil-wrapped nugget of mind candy. If you want to read Parts I and II, you can find them at http://www.geocities.com/TelevisionCity/Studio/7367 Momentary Lapses III: Slow by Dasha K. Morning comes far too quickly for my taste. One eye pops open and then the next and the morning check-in begins. Where am I this time? Boston, the psychic hotline case. Where am I sleeping? Oh yeah, the Marriott. Who is next to me? Someone is next to me? Oh God, I inwardly groan, my eyes involuntarily shutting against the morning light streaming through the open drapes. Not again. Please don't tell me that's Mulder sawing wood next to me. It is. Fuck. It all comes back to me in a sweaty and frantic rush and I bury my face in the too-soft hotel pillow, which has the unfortunate quality of smelling just like his skin. I can't even take refuge in a simple pillow these days. With infinite stealth, I creep out of bed and gather my t-shirt and panties, which are tangled in an intimate heap with Mulder's underclothes. I tiptoe out of the room, but Mulder doesn't move a millimeter, simply continues to snore away in his own little world of oblivion. That nose of his can produce a lot of noise. Well, he's tired, poor thing. I kept him up most of the night. In my own room, where the bed is neatly, and tellingly, made, I decide I should go running. Yes, wholesome physical effort will clear my mind. My gym teacher in seventh grade, Sister Rose Claudia, told us, "When you have impure thoughts, girls, that is when you need to exercise your temple of the Lord." I'll sweat out the Mulderinfection in the streets of Boston. As I'm lacing up my Nikes, the ringing of my cell phone on the bureau startles me. "Scully," I mumble. A flat, nasal Bostonian voice greets me. "Agent Scully? It's Detective Rourke." "Oh hello, what's going on?" We've been working with him since we arrived in the city. He barks out a laugh. "It's your lucky day. We caught the dude, one Duane Allen Henderson, a former employee of the service. Found him knee-deep in the blood of his latest victim." My breath catches in my throat. "Do you need me to come down and do the autopsy?" "Nah, county coroner's coming in this morning. Henderson is plum fucking crazy, we found him raving about how the Superstars Psychic Hotline was transmitting messages to a radio in his head. We carted him off to the psych. ward at Mass. General. The admitting said you guys can come up in the late afternoon to question him, after he's completed all the intake stuff." "Thanks, Detective." "Hey, it's early yet. Go back to bed." I hang up the phone and grin. Happy, happy day, a normal resolution on a case. It's time for a celebratory run. On the elevator down to the lobby, I loll against the wall and my mind goes back to last night, how I was the one who crept into Mulder's room. How our bodies crashed together on the bed and didn't separate until an obscenely late hour. My face turns a most attractive shade of beet red as I realize I'm sharing the elevator with two nuns in full habit. I didn't even know they still wore those things. This is definitely a sign from God. Down quiet Saturday morning Boston streets, tinted amber by the rising sun, I run, pushing myself to go faster, harder. Sweat it all out, yeah that's it. With each step I shed my wanting, my desire. Goodbye illicit hotel room sex. Farewell, naked Mulder. After four miles, I begin to feel like my old self again. I may be dripping and messy on the outside, but inside I'm once again cool, collected Dana Scully. I knew I could do it. It just takes a little willpower, that's all. Next door to the Marriott there's a ubiquitous Starbucks and I go inside and order a grande iced skim latte for myself and because I'm a nice person, a big cup of Kenyan for Mulder. That, and two sour cherry muffins. Can't skip breakfast, it's the most important meal of the day, you know. Up in my room, I debate for a second about the wisdom of going into Mulder's room. I don't want to wake him up and start an embarrassing conversation about last night's activities. Silence is golden has always been my favorite adage. Finally I decide I'll just dash in, dump the goodies on the bedside table and dash back out before he awakens. Call it a little visit from the Scully Fairy, she of the fine-quality coffee and baked goods. I pad in, bag and cup in hand, to the sight of my partner sprawled on his back, the sheet tangled around his feet. And, hoo boy, he's sporting one monstrous erection. How does he do that? He's pushing forty and after last night's romp you'd think he'd be as limp as a three day-old party balloon. I may have taken several physiology courses in my life but I still fail to fully understand the workings of the male body. Not to mention the male mind, but no one understands that . . . I set the stuff down on the bedside table and turn to walk out of the room, but some bizarre force makes me turn back around to look at him. Damn, damn, damn, I scream at myself, we discussed this! No more sex with Mulder! I've never seen him fully nude by the light of day and I have to admit that on a purely aesthetic level, he's a pretty sight. Long, slender, tightly muscled body, for once quiet and still. My hand reaches out to touch the puckered scar tissue under his right shoulder. How many women can say they shot a man and still made love to him at a later date? Yes, I'm one tough broad. Mulder's eyes snap open. Uh-oh, I'm busted. He mumbles something incoherent. "I brought you some breakfast," I say briskly, pretending not to notice the hard-on, which is akin to pretending not to notice he's sprouted another eye during the night. He sits up and wipes his eyes. "What time is it?" "Just after seven." Mouth dropping open, he says, "Shit, we have to go and interview that witness in Allston." I laugh. "Nope, Boston PD caught our man this morning, literally red-handed, a psychotic former employee for the Superstars service. We don't have to be anywhere until this morning. Have a sour cherry muffin." His eyes light up like a little boy unwrapping an air rifle on Christmas morning. "Muffins?" He gleefully grabs for the bag. How can Mulder just sit there and pretend he's not buck naked? Maybe he really spends his vacation time at those tacky nudist colonies, playing volleyball and barbecuing in the buff with pudgy couples from trailer parks. "Enjoy your breakfast," I say. "I just went running and I need a shower." I turn around. A hand reaches out and grabs my forearm. "Not so fast, Scully," he says through a mouthful of muffin. Oh no, I think, as my stomach does a sudden lurch. "Have breakfast with me." I shake my head. He's not going to trick me, not sitting here naked as a newborn. It'll take something a lot more subtle than that to fool this woman. "I have to take a shower." "I like the way you smell," he rasps. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, give me strength and fortitude in my time of need. But it's too late for divine intervention, I'm getting wet already. With one swift tug, he pulls me to the bed and I tumble atop him like a pile of dirty laundry. Red alert, red alert, flash my internal sensors as he yanks off my running shoes and hurls them in towards the dresser. Two more pulls and my shorts and sports bra are somewhere in the vicinity of the bathroom door. "Admit it," he growls. "Admit what?" "You want me." He places my hand around the silken hardness of his cock. "You want this." Oh boy. His mouth crushes against mine. "Tell me," he mutters into my lips. Tipping my head back, I sigh as his hand makes its lazy way up my thigh. "Okay," I moan, half in annoyance, half in arousal. "I give up. Uncle. I want you, Mulder." He snorts a laugh. "I knew you weren't sleepwalking last night." A new, devilish thought enters my addled brain. Why deny myself all this? Is it wrong? Yes. Do I care? Not right now as he crouches between my legs and shoves his tongue between my folds. Nope, I really don't give a shit. Amazing how a little oral sex can just wipe away all the rules for myself I have set over the years. Let's face it, I tell myself, as I squirm against the pillows at his ministrations, he's a bad boy, a punk, the kind of man my mother warned me about when I hit puberty. He runs around with his cell phone and black leather jacket, thinking he's God's gift to the fairer sex and the horrible thing is, he's right. He makes me want to heave desk chairs at him, I can get so angry at his cockiness, but now I admit I also want to fuck him blind. Having sex with Mulder doesn't mean I still don't get the urge to throw office furniture at him. Nothing's changed in that respect. Mulder pulls him mouth away from me and gives me a decidedly evil look. "What are you doing?" I demand from the other side of the bed. He moves up so his face is level with mine. "Too quick," he mutters. "Huh?" I hate it when he gets oblique with me. Smoothing away the hair from my forehead, he puts his face so close to mine we nearly touch. "Every time we've been together it's been too fast. This time we're in the daylight, and I want to take my time to touch you, to taste you. I want it slow . . ." His voice trails off as his lips head for that particularly sensitive area that lies where my neck and clavicle meet. Slow it is, probably classified as torture by Amnesty International. However, there are rewards, and one of them is making Mulder shout my name. I may have shouted his, too, but I'm taking the Fifth on that one. A few hours later I awake from a brief spell of sleep and this time, waking to see Mulder next to me doesn't send me into near- cardiac arrest. Instead, I chuckle at the way his mouth is hanging open and head for that long-awaited shower, my legs feeling like rubber appendages. In the shower I use up all of Mulder's complimentary Marriott shampoo and conditioner. When I step out of the bathroom, wrapped in a big towel, I hear Mulder's voice on the phone. "Great, we'll be there at 8:00." I totter to the bed and sit down, wincing in pain. Mulder hangs the phone up and turns to me, a silly grin on his face. "Who was that?" I ask. "Durgin Park, a Boston institution. We need to fatten you up with Indian Pudding." I flash him one of my patented looks. "Mulder, the case is largely over. Hadn't we better go home tonight?" He pulls on my towel, letting it fall open. Oh no, not again, my poor body screams. My hormones tell another story, though. "Nope," he says as his hands begin to do their maddening little roving thing. "We're staying tonight, having a nice dinner and then we're going for a walk through beautiful Boston. I'm gonna show you all my favorite spots." "Sounds like a plan," I gasp, as his fingers have found that spot, oh yes, that spot that turns me into a certifiable case. Bless me, father, for I have- Never mind that. I have better things to do than confess right now. END Feedback will make the Lord forgive you for the sin of reading this smut. dakluz@stkate.edu All pleas for a follow-up should be sent to Plausible Deniability at pdeniability@hotmail.com Many thanks to my betas, who are better than gods to me, Alanna, Gwen and PD.