The Airport

DISCLAIMER: Let's see, don't own them, don't own Bad Company, don't own the
airport, don't own Chili's, don't own nothin'.
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Anywhere, just let me know.
SPOILER WARNING: Through The Goldberg Variation
RATING: Oh, NC-55? (even I can't read it without feeling dirty)
CONTENT WARNING: Ladies and gentlemen, please return to your seats. The
captain has turned on the Fasten Seatbelts sign, as we expect to encounter some
turbulent SMUT.
CLASSIFICATION: SMUT, SMUT, SMUT, MSR, SMUT
SUMMARY: Up, up and away!

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This little bit of TOTALLY IRREDEEMABLE SMUT is dedicated
solely to Darla, for not only providing the setting ("you know where I've
never seem them do it..."), but also for providing the most excellent final
line. Woman, you make Shortee look unpersuasive. You know what I mean.

Email me, I'm collecting them to send to David one day as proof that he
should reconsider the whole Tea Leoni thing in favor of a certain short
redhead.

THE AIRPORT (a very uninspired title. Email me and tell me all about it)

"So, here's the plan, as I see it: we inform the Chicago field office about
Weems, leaving it to them to secure his testimony, you change your
clothes... we fly back to D.C. by sunset, and all is right with the world."

That was what she said. What you can't hear, what you can't understand
unless you were there, is how she said it. There was this... growl... thing.
There was. I mean, I've known Scully now for seven years and there was never
a growl thing when she talked about DC until that very moment and if the
damn elevator had worked we would be home right now, naked and sweaty and
completely legal.

This, at the very least, is what I plan on telling the security guard now
picking his way around the tables in the O'Hare airport Chili's
Restaurant/Bar with a murderous look in his eye. That same murderous look is
directed at my partner and myself as we attempt to stuff me back into my
pants.

You see, we just had sex for the first time. In a red vinyl booth. In the
deserted restaurant/bar. At two-thirty in the morning. Ok, it's not exactly
what I always pictured when I thought about the two of us together, but it
hardly matters now. The deed, so to speak, is done, and I am a very happy
man. Well, I would be, if I wasn't so sure we're about to be arrested. I
mean, it's not like anyone actually saw us. Except the waiter, but that
doesn't count since he practically told us to go ahead. And the security
guard, and he only noticed when the table broke.

Right, maybe I should start over. Scully and I were in Chicago to
investigate a man with more luck than is reasonable to expect in anyone
outside of the back room of a Vegas casino. And things were going well, very
well, in fact. We solved the case, sort of, and a nice little boy got the
treatment he needed to save his life.

But you see, ever since I kissed Scully on New Year's Eve, things have been
a little... different between us. In fact, to the casual observer, I suspect
we look like we're doing it. I mean, she giggles at my jokes now. She purrs,
she bats her eyelashes, she fiddles with the tip of my tie.

She's driving me insane.

Don't get me wrong, she has always been desirable. It's just that, until
recently, I never felt like I had much of a chance with her. I kept
thinking, this is Scully for god's sake. This is the woman who wore that
horrible green face thing to bed to keep me from looking at her as desirable
in her pajamas and big fluffy robe. I mean, come on, I know she normally
sleeps in satin. Was it that important to keep me at arm's length? And it
doesn't exactly send your libido flying when she replies to your profession
of love with, and I quote, "oh brother". That's what I thought, anyway,
until I got sick.

Until that moment when she walked into my hospital room, musky with fear,
and sat beside my bed.

You have to understand what it was like, when I touched the center of
Scully's soul. Diana... I had to dig pretty deep there, but I found what I
was looking for in the depths of her murky intentions. She wasn't a bad
woman, really, she just wasn't a good one.

And then Scully was there, and it was like dipping my whole body into a
clear mountain stream after swimming in an algae-choked puddle. Everything,
every lovely little molecule in her body was focused on the same thing: me.
Do you know what that's like? To be the forgotten child, the guy in the
basement, the weirdo, and then to realize that the woman you love with your
entire being actually thinks you might just be the most important thing in
the universe? And remember, she'd just seen a hell of a lot more of the
universe.

Anyone who thinks it was the brain surgery that's made me as soft as putty
when she walks into a room, is a fool. And it wasn't because I kissed her,
either. It was because she has a purity of intent that is completely
blinding.

I'm a little satellite spinning wildly around the celestial object that is
Scully. She sends me into fucking orbit.

She makes me weak in the knees, like a great kiss.

So how could I help myself? I had to kiss her. And it was the single most
sweepingly, Victorian-literature, glorious-sunrise romantic moment in my
dark life. And afterward, she smiled at me. Ok, then she frowned, but that
was the result, apparently, of reality. Well, fuck reality.

We wrapped up the case last night, then spent today down in the hospital
with Richie, saying good-bye before he goes into treatment. Scully was
particularly tender with the boy, even going so far as to buy him a baseball
cap to wear in case his hair falls out during his hospitalization. Chicago
Cubs. When I asked her if that was Richie's favorite team, do you know what
she said?

"I don't know, Mulder, but I'm a big fan of underdogs who go the distance,
as you know."

Jesus. I was absolutely convinced that if I could just get her home, I would
finally, finally be able to get her into bed. And then the world could end,
the sky could fall, and chicken-shit little me would die a very happy man.

And until we got to the airport, things were going pretty well.

Seven hour delay. Snow, they said, in Dallas. We're in fucking Chicago, the
air is about negative five hundred, and we're stuck here because it's
fucking snowing in TEXAS. Oh, ok, I see. Scully gives this little weary
shrug and checks her luggage anyway.

"Well," she says, hands on hips - have I mentioned those hips lately? No?
They're... um... curvy. There, it's official. My brain has shorted out.
Snow, you know. "Well, what are we going to do to occupy the next seven
hours, Mulder?"

I can think of several things and none of them are legal to do in a public
facility. We end up doing them all anyway, but at the time, I keep my mouth
shut.

"I don't know. Is there anything to do in an airport?"

"Drink," she says. "That's what I always do when I'm stuck in one."

This is a side to Scully I haven't seen before. I'm immediately aroused as
hell. That, and she's wearing this new pink sweater thing I haven't seen
before. It's... well, it's fuzzy, damnit. Fuzzy and pink. What the fuck am I
supposed to do?

"Ok," I say. "Let's find somewhere to get some food and I'll buy you a
drink."

"Deal," she says and we set out down the concourse, looking for somewhere to
get a little food. I find myself tempted to put my arm around her and it's
Chicago, after all, not DC, so what the hell. I slip one arm over her
shoulder and look down at her to see what she thinks of this latest
demonstration of give-Mulder-an-inch... and she just smiles up at me.

She is so fucking sweet in that little pink candy sweater thing that I'm
finally overcome. I topple like a big Mulder-tree.

"Mulder?" she raises an eyebrow as I stop in front of the Southwest ticket
counter and take her gentle face into my hands. "What? What's wrong?"

What's wrong? She's giving me the most beautiful look and I suddenly realize
that she's been looking at me like that for days and days and I, me, Fox
Mulder, who has never before had a lucky moment in his entire life, put that
look there.

You want to know how she looks? She looks smoochable. That's the only way to
put it. I'm not fucking Superman. I have to kiss her.

All right, it's on the forehead, though I try to linger there, to taste her
skin through the scent of her. I'm also not Don Juan. I'm more like Don
Doffus. Or maybe Dork Juan. But I try.

"What was that for?" She's looking at me with this amused crinkle around her
eyes and I can't respond. The enormity of all the things that was for are
too much for me. "Mulder," she says softly. "Are you all right?"

I nod, rapidly, and I'm swallowing lumps the size of a jawbreaker. She nods
and puts one arm around my waist, squeezing my side with her small hand.

"Come on," she says. "Food, drink. I think low blood sugar is getting to
you. You've gone all soft."

We make it to Chili's with no further interruptions. Scully picks a booth
behind the retaining wall, which is, incidentally, not the one the waiter
wants us to sit in. That's my Scully.

"So," she says, sliding in next to me. "What's good here?"

Like I have any fucking idea. I'm so blinded by love that I can't even read
the menu. I keep looking over at the sweater thing and thinking: is that as
soft as it looks? Because it looks like it would feel exactly like the
inside of Scully's left thigh. Not that'd I'd know. I'm just theorizing,
here.

"Fajitas," something in my mind answers, so that's what I say.

"Good," she says. "I love fajitas. Let's get a double order and split them.
We can snag each other's chicken."

Was that a come-on? How far gone am I, that that sounded like a come-on?

"Great," I say and nod rapidly, like one of those damn bobbing-head dolls
people put in the back window of their cars. The waiter appears and smiles
at Scully, who is as fluffy as a little pink kitten. I'm glowering. Touch
her, my look says, and I'll rip off your nametag and shove the pin through
your heart. He smiles again anyway, bastard, only this time it's at me.

"Would you two like something to drink?" he asks.

"Two margaritas," Scully answers immediately. "And we're ready to order.
We'll have the fajitas. To split. With black beans. And extra guacamole."

If I said I liked a woman who knows what she wants, I'd be only stating the
obvious. I'm trying to avoid total clich. But sweet Jesus, I love it when
she gets bossy. I really do.

"Right," the waiter says and, nodding, leaves us alone. Well, alone in a
crowd of twenty other people. I am still reeling in my little world of
adoration, and there she is, sitting next to me. The little sweater thing,
which is, incidentally, composed of two little sweater things, (one with no
sleeves, so help me god) seems to have slipped off her shoulder a bit,
exposing a strip of very pale Scully skin. She's as lucious as a pear. I
lean over and gently pull it back up, stroking the skin on upper arm with my
finger tips.

"Mulder," she says. "You're staring." And her voice has that same little
growl thing.

"I can't help it," I say, the thought of margaritas with Scully making me
bolder. "You look infinitely better than my dinner will, I know it."

"What," she says coyly, lifting the edge of the sweater to reveal more skin,
"this? You like it?"

"Very much," I tell her.

She cocks her head at me and smiles that inscrutable little smile. "What
about this?" she asks, slipping off the outer sweater thing and revealing...
a tank top, just as pink and fuzzy as the other, but with a hell of a lot
more skin.

"That too," I say, wishing I could bury my face between her breasts and rub
at her until my stubble wears a hole in the fabric big enough for my tongue.

"Good," she says, then slips the other sweater back on. "I'm trying to
soften my image. Less ball-buster, more woman."

For a moment, I think she's serious and my jaw actually opens like a doofus.

"Oh for heaven's sake," she says and I realize she was kidding, flirting
with me.

The waiter returns with our margaritas and we both sit for a moment, sipping
contemplatively. I am pondering the fact that in addition to the sweater
thing, which I suspect may be cashmere (we Mulders know our pricey fabrics,
thank you very much), she is wearing a little pleated black skirt that ends
just above her knees and those four-inch fuck-me shoes she's so fond of.
Now, this is not normal Scully work attire, and I find myself wondering what
that might mean.

"Nickel for your thoughts," she says, and tosses one at me, hitting me
square in the nose. "Oops!" She's giggling. At me. I pocket the nickel and
consider the proposal.

"I was wondering why you're dressed like that?" I say, very obtusely.

"Dressed like what?" She seems confused.

"Like... that. In that... skirt and that sweater and..."

She raises the brow. "Is there something wrong with my outfit, Agent
Mulder?"

A touch of coldness in the formerly warm voice. I back-peddle as rapidly as
possible, like a cat trying to beat up my own brain.

"Not at all, Agent Scully. It's sexy as hell."

Well, that ought to do it. I can feel the alcohol reaching my empty stomach
like a warm, wet, gripping hand. She turns the same color as her sweater and
stirs absently at the margarita with the little plastic flamingo they've
included. It occurs to me that maybe she's not into this. Even though I've
kissed her, even though I've been flirted with and tugged and touched, it
occurs to my self-confidence deprived brain that I could, just possibly, be
wrong. How many women have I loved over the years? Three? And just how
developed was my radar? I forget all about cool mountain streams and start
thinking like an idiot.

"I'm sorry," I say, "that was out of line."

Her head shoots up and she stares at me, the words "you're an idiot" clearly
forming on her tongue.

"Out of line?" she squeaks and then goes back to staring at the drink. "What
the hell does that mean?"

Our fajitas arrive at that very moment, brought to us by grinning
wait-people, sizzling and popping, and we pretend to be concentrating on
them. It's like we're both building tiny a-bombs and just one slip up, one
pepper in the wrong place and kaboom! I keep eyeing the stirring of the
plastic flamingo wondering when it all went to hell.

"Mulder," she says suddenly, and some of the warmth is back in her voice.
"Are you really attracted to me, or are you just talking out of your ass?"

I am astonished enough to set my half-eaten fajita down in my "Mexican" rice
and stare at her.

"Seriously," she says and then takes a bite and chews it with the
deliberation of a cow. Christ.

"Of course I'm fucking attracted to you!" People look up and we both glance
down at our dinners as if we were talking to the tortillas.

She nods, slowly, and then takes another bite. "I guess," she says when she
has finished chewing, "I just always thought it was all about this glorious
platonic thing, you know? We flirt and all, but... well, it was like you'd
go to the ends of the earth for me, but you wouldn't really want to see me
naked."

I can't believe I'm hearing this. Somewhere in my lust-addled brain I am
processing the fact that: a. she doesn't think I want her and that I'm
probably going to hell for not setting her straight long ago because she is
obviously God's favorite minion here on Earth and therefore, I've royally
pissed off the Big Guy and b. she wants me. You can imagine which of those
two phrases gets stuck in a groove in my head.

I lean forward and put one hand on hers. "Scully, let me just state for the
record, that I would abso-fucking-lutely go to the ends of the universe JUST
to see you naked."

She blushes again (a theme!) and picks at her beans. "Really?"

"Really," I say and then lean back. There. It's out there between us and
there isn't any way to take it back. Unless one of us claims to be very
drunk, which isn't really likely on one margarita.

She seems to be taking this quite calmly, eating one little lucky bean and
then nodding. It's her scientific nod. I know it well. I'm about to be
analyzed.

"Because you know, before you kissed me on New Year's Eve, I was so sure you
didn't feel that way. I mean, after the whole... um... fall and all. I
thought you sort of saw me like..." she hesitates, so I finish it for her.

"Like Samantha."

"Exactly," she says.

"How the hell did you get that impression?" I ask, genuinely puzzled. I
mean, did I, or did I not, once tell her she was hot?

"Well, think about it," she says. "I mean, you flirt with everyone, Mulder.
Everyone. Waitresses, stewardesses, Kimberly, small children, dogs..."

"Thank you for that image," I grimace and she smiles.

"But I know your type."

"My type?" I say, staring at her. "What type?"

"Oooo, let's see... tall, dark... though you'll take blond in a pinch,
especially if it's completely obvious that she's bleaching... leggy,
breasty, mysterious, dangerous... I'm just a short little red-headed
Catholic girl with thick calves and no..." she gestures to her chest, which,
despite the terrible nature of her confession, makes me hard as a rock.

"Scully," I say. "That's totally full of shit."

"Explain," she counters.

"Ok... first of all, you are the single most mysterious woman I have ever
met. Hands down. How long have I known you? Seven years? And I have no
clue."

"Great," she says, dabbing at her mouth with her napkin and looking prim,
"I'm 'mysterious'. Is that sort of like saying I've got a 'great
personality'?"

"You didn't let me finish," I point out sternly and she rolls her eyes but
sits there quietly. "Secondly, you are absolutely gorgeous, Scully, and you
know it. You aren't tall, it's true, but you are very nicely...
proportioned. Your calves are not thick. Your hair is not red."

She grins.

"I know that for a fact. But that wouldn't matter anyway. I would find you
attractive even if your hair was green."

"Like you'd be able to tell the difference," she says.

end part 1 of 3

Email me and I promise I'll let the freedom fighters live.

TITLE: The Airport (2/3)
EMAIL ADDRESS: snarkypup@mindspring.com

THE AIRPORT CONTINUED (god, the tension!)

"Exactly. I find you attractive, Scully, not just because you have a lovely
little figure and the best lips I've ever seen, but because you are
intelligent and loyal and funny and sweet. So stop thinking I look at you
like a sister, for god's sake. I mean, I kissed you on New Year's Eve for a
reason, not just because you were the only one standing there."

"There was no tongue," she points out and I realize that Scully has finished
that margarita before she's eaten much of her dinner and things are getting
interesting. I shift slightly and grin at her.

"I didn't want to overwhelm you," I say and she laughs happily.

"Jesus, Mulder, your head is huge!"

And then we're both laughing. This is much, much more like it.

"So..." I say. "You're attracted to me, I assume?"

She snorts. "You would assume, Mulder. But yes, I am attracted to you. I
think I first realized it during the whole Phoebe Green thing. I kept
thinking: why am I so jealous? And then it occurred to me that there might
just be a reason."

I am stunned. "That was ... that was six and a half years ago."

"I know," she says. "And you kissed me for the first time what, three weeks
ago?"

"No wonder you thought I wasn't attracted to you," I whisper, dejected. She
grins and shovels another bite of fajita into her mouth. And then I do
something stupid, which actually turns out ok, but looking back on it... I
mean, god, I want to smack myself in the head with the fork. "I don't know
when I first realized I wanted you, Scully. I mean, it feels like I've
wanted you since I met you, but I know what an ego maniac I was then..."

"Then?" she queries.

"I like to think I have become a more well-rounded human being, Scully, in
the last six or seven years..." She shrugs and keeps nibbling. "But anyway,
as I was saying... I don't know, I just remember when you were returned to
me, after the abduction..." And then it wells up inside me, just how much
that hurt, just how bleak that time was, and I am off and running at the
mouth. "... I was overcome, Scully, by how much I needed you, how essential
you had become to me. I was, hell, I am so madly in love with you I hardly
know where you end and I start..."

And then, mercifully, I stop. It occurs to me, seeing her shocked face, that
we were discussing attraction, not love, and that I have made an assumption
(again!). She has, after all, had an opportunity to tell me she loves me and
passed it right by, whoosh, leaving me gasping in the dust.

"I'm sorry," I mutter. "I'm being presumptuous."

She slips over to sit beside me, her body pressing against mine, and she
says, with characteristic aplomb: "Shut up, Mulder."

I nod, miserable, and then realize she is leaning over to whisper something
in my ear. What could it be, this vast mystery that is Scully's response to
my, admittedly, second confession? Will she profess her own love? Will she
reject me soundly? Will she tell me she isn't ready for this? What? I'm
practically having a coronary.

Her breath smells warm and mediciny, after the alcohol. "When we get home,"
she murmurs, "I'm going to fuck you until you really can't tell where I
start and you stop."

Well, it wasn't exactly what I'd expected, but from the small party going on
in my boxers, I'd say it worked for me.

"Oh god," I groan.

"Would you like that?" she asks with her tongue in my ear (in my ear!
Jesus!), and the growl returns with a vengeance, like Godzilla, wreaking
havoc in my alcohol-addled mind.

"Yes," I tell her with as much sincere desire as a fifteen year-old kid
selling bibles door to door. "I sure as hell would."

"Then finish your fajitas, Mulder. You're going to need your stamina."

I wait for my backbone to spring back into action, but nothing happens. A
waiter drifts by and leaves the check on the edge of the table. Very subtle.
It's now nearly ten and the restaurant is emptying out. There are two
couples left and they're both eating something with ice cream. I devour my
cold fajita like a ravenous wolf on the verge of a hunt. Scully's hot little
hand is on my thigh, though she's eating her last fajita with delicate
grace.

We finish and loll around in the booth like we've just eaten an antelope.
The hand on my thigh is making small circles and she's letting me slide my
own hand up under the very edge of her skirt toward the oasis.

"You folks all done?" the waiter asks hopefully. I hand him my AmEx and nod.
"The restaurant's closing in ten minutes, but the bar stays open till
midnight. You can stay here, if you like."

I like. It's not like I could move anyway.

"I'm going to go... get us some wine," she says.

Scully slips out the other side of the booth and brushes down her skirt. The
drunken look has vanished and she walks easily off toward the bathrooms at
the back of the bar. I take a moment to get myself in gear.

I wonder if she loves me. She hasn't said that she does, or doesn't. Just
that she wants me. This isn't as surprising as you might imagine. After all,
how could she love me, in that sense? No one else ever has, and yet many
women have wanted me. I'm not completely undesirable, after all, until you
get to know me. When I glance back, I see her standing at the bar, buying a
bottle of wine. She rubs one little stockinged foot against her right calf
and I think, damn, I'll take whatever she has to offer.

She returns then, carrying the bottle and two glasses.

"Shit," she says, looking at the bottle and then back at the bar. I glance
back and see that the barman has pulled the metal gate down. Guess he's
closed. "He didn't open it," she says in astonishment. "What a fuck."

My, my, Scully. The language! She shrugs and reaches over the table to snag
her bag from the seat. To my utter surprise, she retrieves a Swiss army
knife from the bottom, pops the corkscrew out and shoves it with a practiced
ease into the cork.

"Wow, Scully, you really are prepared for anything."

She glances up and grins, and then, as if I weren't already so horny I can't
move, she inserts the bottle between her thighs and in one quick motion,
jerks out the cork. I wouldn't have thought I'd be envious of a bottle of
wine until that moment.

Sliding back in beside me, she pours me a glass and then one for herself,
before lifting them in a toast.

"To you and me, Mulder," she says. "To a millennium without mutants."

"God willing," I answer and we clink glasses. The wine tastes slightly sour,
but in a good way, like lemonade.

We laugh and sip and then she's looking at me with this sort of raw hunger
and I can't take it anymore. So I take her wine glass from her hand and set
it on the table next to my own. Then I reach over and cradle her face in my
hands. We've both twisted around in the booth and are staring into each
other's eyes like we're standing on the deck of the Titanic and they've just
called out "women and children first" and it's clear I'm not going to pass
as a gal.

"Mulder," she whispers. So I lean in and I kiss her, and it's not the kiss
we shared at midnight. That was the 1999 model. This is the new, improved,
Millennium Kiss. Now with tongue!

My stomach, which was handling the fajitas, margaritas, and wine fairly
well, decides the kiss is just too much and starts doing these sexy little
somersault things that may be butterflies. She's got her hands on my knees
and she's kneading like a kitten on a blanket, working up to my thighs.

And what's the kiss like? It's soft at first as we figure out how to lock
lips without knocking out our teeth or me giving her a black eye with my
nose, but once we've got the hang of that, it's wonderful. Just pure
wonderful. Every time her tongue touches mine, I can feel it in my toes.

Remember that I said she makes me weak, like a good kiss? Jesus. Little did
I know.

After... ten minutes? Three hours? Who knows, she pushes me back gently and
giggles. I'm already lunging for her again, content to knock her back onto
the vinyl bench and grind into her like an animal, but she shakes her head.

"Calm down," she says, her hand on my chest, "I need a drink."

Calm down? I've never been more happy or excited in my life. If I were a
dog, I'd be widdling on the carpet. I've kissed her. And she's kissed me.
And there's the possibility of more kissing to come.

Scully lifts the glass to her lips, those lips I've just kissed and I can't
stop myself. I have to kiss her again. I don't care if it's her lips or some
other part of her body. I nibble at her neck, which is warm and tastes like
perfume, spicy and delicate. After a moment of this, she gives up and pulls
me close to kiss my lips again. God, she tastes like the wine and I'm
drinking her, sucking at her sharp little white teeth. I'm frantic with need
for her, and all seven years of yearning and fear and loneliness peak in
this single moment. I throw caution not just to the wind, but right off the
fucking cliff.

"I love you," I tell her in between bites of her earlobes, which are as
plump as raisins.

"Mmmm," she moans. I realize it would be completely pathetic to demand an
answer from her, so I concentrate on sucking. I intend to become very, very
good at this. "Wine," she moans. "I need a lot more wine, if I'm going to
make it through this."

"Make it through what?" I whisper, horror creeping into my voice.

"Oh for Christ's sake," she says. "I'm not having second thoughts." And she
whacks me with her hand, which also contains the, fortunately empty, wine
glass. "I just don't think I can sit here and just make out for the next..."
she pauses to glance at her watch, "... two and a half hours, Mulder. I'm
not a teenage girl. I know what else can be done in these situations and
after a few more minutes of this, I'm going to want to do it."

I'm intrigued. "Oh yeah, Scully? What else can be done in these situations?
Explain it to me. In detail."

She rolls her eyes and takes a sharp nip at my wrist.

"Tell you what, Mulder. You let me have some more of that wine, and maybe
I'll just show you."

This is the point where I fill her glass so quickly I spill about half a
glass of wine onto the table cloth. But Jesus, what did she mean by that? I
swear, I don't know this woman. Seven years, and I just don't know her at
all. What a treat getting to know her is going to turn out to be.

"Steady there boy," she says and downs the entire glass. I admit to gulping
my own wine as well, anxious to get on with this. I feel like the crowd at a
cheap strip club, yelling "show me!" over and over in my head. "There are so
very many things," she says, looking as if she's pondering a specimen. "I
just have to figure out which one I want to do first."

That's it. My palms are sweating, my upper lip looks like Niagara and I've
just realized that if I tried to stand up, I'd push right through my pants
like a knife. I close my eyes and that's when I feel her hand, not touching
me, but hovering just millimeters away from my groin and radiating heat like
a blow drier. Which is an analogy that in my present condition, I should
have ignored. I jump right into her waiting hand.

"Oh Mulder," she whispers, "where have you been keeping this?"

"Believe me, Scully," I manage to croak out. "It's been right there this
whole time."

Her hand runs from the tip of my penis to my balls, then back up. I feel
like I'm about to come just from the slightest touch and the fact that
through the slits that were formerly my eyes, I can see beads of
perspiration at her hairline.

"Mmmm," she whispers. I pull her onto my lap, knocking her back into the
table but not caring in the slightest, and we start to dry hump like kids in
my dad's 1979 Buick. She's slipping her hand down my pants and touching me
right through my underwear and my god, it's like I'm virginal all over
again. I'm shaking so hard I can hardly get my hands onto her breasts
through that little furry thing.

"God, Scully," I groan. "Why are we stuck here in this fucking airport?"

She laughs, kissing her way down my chin and grinding her hand into my
crotch in a way that under any other circumstances, would be extremely
painful but that right now, feels like heaven.

"Fate, Mulder," she answers. "Nothing could actually be easy for us."

She sits back and reaches behind her for the wine, sipping it straight from
the bottle. Lucky, lucky bottle. She hands it to me and I swear I can taste
her on the rim. The wine is soaring through my blood like a symphony as she
stares at me, flushed and eager.

"I love this song," she says suddenly and I strain to hear it. Bad Company.
"Feel Like Makin' Love". We both giggle as she sings, drunkenly:

"Baby, when I think about you, I think about love." Except that because it's
a drunk Scully singing, it comes out: "luuuuuvvvv." "Baby, if I live without
you, I live without love. And if I had those golden dreams of my
yesterdays... I would wrap you in the heavens, as they lay dying on the
way."

I don't tell her that this brings back memories of making out in the back of
said Buick. Instead I gaze rapturously at her as she finishes the verse.

"Feel like makin'... Feel like makin' love. Feel like makin' love to you."

"Why, Scully," I query, accepting the wine again, "does every song you sing
to me involve the words 'make love'?"

"I don't know, Mulder," she whispers, leaning in and kissing my lower lip.
"Coincidence?"

"God, I hope not," I tell her and slide my hands up under her little sweater
thing to touch her through her bra. At least, I would be touching her
through her bra... if she were wearing one. Jesus, I actually jump.

"Built-in," she whispers, noting my reaction, and sure enough, I can feel
the cotton attached to the cashmere.

Then it sinks in that I am actually fondling Scully's actual breasts,
actually. See, I'm completely beyond functioning. Her skin is as soft as the
sweater, except for her nipples, which are tiny little rock-hard nubs. God,
the beauty of human biology. I circle them with my palms, ever so gently,
like my hands are made of silk, and she sighs. Then I tweak one nipple
lightly and she licks my upper lip with just the tip of her tongue.

Oh, is this good. This is better than wine, than drugs (not that I'd know,
officially...), than sex with most people. Scully is openly frenching my
neck as I touch her and I'm trying, not entirely successfully, to shove my
dick against her pantyhose-coated crotch.

Suddenly, she moves away, looking at me with, I realize, completely sober
eyes. Leave it to Scully to use the alcohol instead of the other way around.

"I want you," she says, and my entire body rises up to meet her.

"I know," I say, "I want you too."

"No," she says. "I mean, I want to touch you. Right now."

And she's unbuttoning my pants.

On the other side of the retaining wall, I can hear a few of our fellow
passengers wandering by, and the steady beep, beep, beep of one of those
luggage cars traveling past.

"What the hell," I say. "Go for it."

Have I ever mentioned that I am a complete sucker for this woman? If she had
asked me for my heart on a platter, Phillip "Fucker" Padget would have been
impressed with how rapidly I managed to rip it out of my body.

She giggles. "Oh boy, did I have to twist your arm." And then her hand is on
my dick, stroking me. My hips move up uncontrollably and I'm suddenly
looking at the ceiling and swearing like a sailor.

"Fuck," I tell her. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Feel good, Mulder?" she whispers, and it's actually my name that does it to
me, making me shiver from head to toe.

"Yes," I say, screwing my eyes shut in an effort not to decorate the
underside of her breasts.

"Well, how about this?"

And then she does something so completely insane, and yet so wonderful, it
leaves me quaking in my figurative boots when I think about the future of
our sexual relationship.

Dana Scully, the single most conservative little woman I have ever known,
proceeds to slide bonelessly down my body until she's kneeling on the floor
beneath the table, then she slides my unbelieving penis into her mouth and
sucks. I grab the edge of the table and feel myself leave my body for just a
moment. Now, I know that most women give reasonably good blow jobs, and to
be truthful, Scully doesn't do anything so amazing that I haven't had it
done to me before, but my oh my, I can't stop moaning quietly as she manages
to pull something like fire through every muscle in my body toward my balls
with her hot breath and slick tongue.

"Scully," I breathe, not wanting to alert anyone to what she's doing to me.
"I'm going to... you need to stop, Sweetie." There is something about having
a woman slide the whole flat of her tongue up your throbbing shaft that
makes you want to call her pet names, you know?

She proceeds to ignore me, in classic Scully vein. Her left hand tightens on
my thigh, where to be honest, I didn't even realize it was, and she sucks
even more vigorously.

Ok, I warned her. My orgasm starts like a bright point of light in my
stomach and explodes so painfully I know, in a detached sort of way, that I
am squinting and grimacing. But god, it feels so wonderful, what am I
supposed to do? Scully is eating me, for fuck's sake. I'm not superhuman, no
matter what some members of the Consortium would like to believe. She rises,
licking her lips, and watches in amusement as I shudder to a stop. Then she
kisses me, and I can taste myself all over her mouth. Normally, I'm not too
fond of the taste of my own sperm (show me a man who is), but it's actually
something of a turn on to know that's me on her lucious, plump lips.

"Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?" she asks. Considering I'm
looking at her with all the comprehension of a plant, I doubt it.

"God, Scully," I whisper.

She grins, a little cock-eyed smile and says: "You have no idea how many
times I've wanted to just slip under the desk at work and do that."

"Don't," I groan, feeling my aching cock harden beneath her. "I can't take
it, Scully. I'm no longer a young man."

She laughs. "If I'd known I'd have this effect on you, Mulder, I'd have
gotten you while you still were."

But the truth is, and we both know it, that now is the right time. Any
earlier and we simply would not have survived all that has come in the last,
miserable year.

For a moment, I am content to let her kiss me, to let my body recover. But
like all great things, I am eventually left wanting... more.

end part 2 of 3

TITLE: The Airport (3/3)
EMAIL ADDRESS: snarkypup@mindspring.com

THE AIRPORT, THE FINAL CHAPTER (will they? won't they? who can tell?)

"Scully," I demand. "What time is it?"

She looks down at her watch and sighs. "Only two."

One and a half more hours before our plane leaves. Great. Just enough time,
I figure, to give as good as I got.

I push her gently off my lap and take a huge swig of wine. This really is
pretty good vino, and deserves more respect than we're affording it. Right
now I'm actually more in the mood for something in a jug.

"Sit back," I tell her. She looks at me uncomprehendingly for a moment, then
her eyes widen.

"Oh Mulder, no, I couldn't..." she breathes, looking very much like she
could, and will.

"Why not?" I ask, sliding my hand up her thigh. She's so small, it makes me
want to nibble her like a creamy white chocolate bunny.

She seems at a loss until she looks around.

"We're in a bar," she hisses, saying "bar" like it's the sewer.

"So?" I say, pushing past the barrier of her nylons to cup her through her
clothes. God help me, she's so wet I can feel it on her upper thighs through
the mesh, sticky and wonderful. It occurs to me that maybe she's already
come at some point and I missed it. But that can't be true, I think. And if
it is, there's only one way to reconcile it.

"So..." she says, but I hear the growl in her voice and think, ok, fuck it.
It takes me a bit longer and I look a bit sillier trying to get under the
damn table, but once I am, I find that she's actually shaking, which
delights me to no end. Or maybe quivering is the right word.

When I was a kid, if someone gave me something wonderful for dessert, I used
to eat my dinner very, very slowly to prolong the anticipation. Perhaps this
has something to do with why it's taken me seven years to find myself with
my hands on Scully's inner thighs, gently pushing her legs apart. At any
rate, I know it's what keeps me looking at her little hands clasped tightly
in her lap rather than up her skirt. Reaching up along the outside of her
hips, I blindly find the top of her nylons and start to slide them down. She
lifts her hips, a bit reluctantly, and I manage to work them down her legs
to her feet.

Scully's feet, in case I've never mentioned this, are a great source of
erotic fantasy for me. I'm like a Chinese man, staring at the Golden Lotus
and imagining putting the entire thing in my mouth. Ok, I'd never make her
bind her feet or anything, but you know what I mean. They're so small, so
delicate, so... encased in four-inch stacked heels that also make me hard as
stone. I slide her shoes off and she starts, like she's surprised. Then the
nylons come off entirely and when I glance up, she's got one hand held out,
waiting for them. That hand is shivering like a branch caught in a cool
breeze. I hand her the nylons and watch as she stuffs them in her purse.
Then I reach up under her skirt again, sliding my hands along her upper
thighs. Which, incidentally, she hasn't shaved in a while. I don't know why
women do this, but it cracks me up. I find the fact that I'm feeling the
little hairs on her legs standing on end as I brush by endearing rather than
repulsive. But then, I suspect if I found out Scully didn't shave her
armpits, I'd suddenly find that endearing too.

But I digress. Slipping my hands around the edge of her underwear, I pull
them down her legs very, very slowly. She's shaking almost violently now and
I'm so hard I can barely kneel without pain. She's also wearing bright red
satin undies, which is a good thing to know in the future, but I could care
less about that now. I hand those to her too.

And then suddenly, her hand is in my hair, gripping me very tightly,
painfully in fact and I hear the sound of footsteps. They stop right in
front of the table and I look back to see a pair of black polyester pants
and black shiny shoes.

"Ma'am," a voice says and I recognize the waiter with a rather intense sense
of relief. "I'm taking off, and just wanted to check and make sure you and
your friend were... ok."

"We're fine," she says, rather huskily.

"I just thought you and he might like to know that you can stay here all
night, if you like. There's no one else here, so you're free to... DO
anything you like."

And from the way he says it, I realize he knows exactly where I am. Scully's
hand tightens again, but I hear the humor in her voice.

"Thank you," she says coyly. "I'm sure he'll appreciate hearing that when he
comes... back to the table."

"Goodnight Ma'am," the waiter says and steps away.

"Jesus," Scully says after a moment. Her knees have slid back together and
she's still clutching my head.

I say nothing, but start planting very wet kisses along her left knee. Her
hand relaxes and she brushes it through my hair as if to apologize. I grab
the hand and slide two fingers into my mouth. She sighs.

Now, I think, letting her fingers go, we can get down to business. I press
on both knees, not wanting to force her to do anything, but wanting to be a
little aggressive. She relents and slowly opens her legs.

I let myself look.

Scully's skin is as white and translucent as paper, and she's covered in
goosebumps, all the way up. And it ain't cold in here, so I'm flattered.
She's also got a lovely, soft mass of dark brown curls at the top of her
legs. I wasn't really expecting them to be red, so there's no disappointment
there. I do, after all, have a photographic memory and no red head in
history has ever died their hair brown, so... She spreads her legs a bit
more and suddenly I'm looking at the whole thing, the real deal, the hot
tamale. Gleaming with moisture, she looks drenched and swollen and I forget
all about the glory of anticipation and dive right in.

She squeaks and spreads even wider when I stroke her with my tongue. She
tastes musky and fragrant and heavy, and I'm in heaven. This is Scully I'm
devouring. Scully who is spreading and spreading her legs like a ballerina,
Scully who is moaning and shoving her crotch into my face, Scully who tastes
so very sweet and wet. I back off for a moment so that I can watch as I
slowly insert one finger into her, pushing gently past quaking muscles to
feel her grip and suck at me. She feels tight to my single digit, for
heaven's sake, I can only imagine how fucking wonderful she's going to be
when I slide into her for the first time. Her hands haven't moved from my
hair, and as I withdraw and then enter her again she tightens them, though
not painfully this time.

"Do you know how long it's been since anything good was in there?" she moans
from up above me. I don't want to ponder what exactly what she's had in
there that wasn't good, but I get the point.

"How's this?" I ask and slip my tongue into her instead.

She doesn't answer, moving against me and letting go of my hair to grip the
table edge. I know that table well now.

Then I decide to stop torturing her and slide my tongue up to her clit.

"Oh, oh god!" she cries. "That's so nice. Keep doing that."

As if I were going to stop, for crying out loud. I circle her and then try
sliding the finger in again, just to see if she likes it. From the way she
moans, I'm going to say yes. So that's it, I think, circling and fucking her
with my finger, eventually sliding two into her, noticing she likes it when
the shorter finger hits the edge of her body before slipping in. I keep it
up, listening to her, for no more than another minute when suddenly she
stops moving completely and clamps her legs around my head.

"Oh god!" She's coming, pulsing wildly around me and drenching my fingers in
liquid. I've never been so completely blissed-out in my entire life, I
swear, as I am in that moment, tongue pressed to her body, feeling her throb
against my face. I realize she probably doesn't always come this quickly,
just as I like to think that I can, on occasion, last longer than five
little strokes of a woman's tongue, but I'm indescribably flattered to know
this. I'm guessing she's come not just because no has had his head between
her legs in years, but also because it's me down here. At least, I know that
was a huge part of what happened to me. I lick tentatively at her and feel
her shudder.

"Get up here," she whispers, her voice catching.

"Don't you want me to..." I begin, thinking of the multiple orgasms women
have in my porn flicks.

"I want to kiss you," she says, a bit loudly and I start up without thinking
about it. My head hits the table, hard, and I sit down heavily on Scully's
shoes. And then I hear her laugh. Not just a little girlie giggle, but a
full-throated belly laugh that courses down over my body like sunlight on a
cold day. God, it just sounds so lovely.

"I'm so glad you're amused." I try to sound wounded as I crawl out to sit
next to her. She's looking at me with this smirk that says she's just had a
monstrous orgasm and I grin back at her, because hell, so have I.

And then she crawls into my lap and kisses me with this particularly
predatory look on her face. When she draws back, leaving my lips aching for
more, she leans over and whispers in my ear.

"Fuck me, Mulder."

My entire body shudders and my penis, acting totally of it's own accord, I
swear, pushes out of my shorts and reaches up for her. We didn't ever buckle
my pants, I realize.

"What, here?" I ask, making sure.

"Right here, right now," she affirms. "Do me. Fuck me. Take me. Make love to
me, Mulder."

"Oh, ok," I whisper, like she's talked me into it. She's already straddling
me, so I simply lift up and push my own pants down a bit then sit back down.
"Do your worst, G-woman."

We're both shaking now, and I wouldn't be surprised to find every single
muscle in my body aching tomorrow. I don't think I've simultaneously used
them all before.

She rests her forehead on mine for a moment, then slowly, slowly lowers
herself toward me. Did I say I love the anticipation of the event? Fuck
that, I can't wait to be inside her. It's torturous to wait as she hovers
above me. Then suddenly, she's sliding down onto me and anything I ever said
or felt about sex becomes totally irrelevant. I have discovered something
new.

We both groan in unison as she slips further and further down me. Usually I
don't think of myself as that huge (I think I watch too much porn), but
she's clearly enjoying-slash-hating this.

"Oh my god," she says. "You're..." and I fill in the blank with all sorts of
flattering things. "You're..."

"What?" I gasp as she reaches the mid-way point.

"Killing me," she finishes, and she's panting like a marathon runner.

"Too much?" I ask, praying for once in my life to shrink.

"No," she says, rather forcefully. "I love it."

Ok, side to Scully I didn't know about. I bet she liked getting that tattoo,
too.

"That's good," I say. "Because I don't think it's going to get any smaller."

She hits bottom, at last, taking me fully inside her and when I manage to
lower my craning head, I'm looking into her eyes and she's happy, I can see
it.

"Well, hello, Miss Scully," I whisper tenderly, "How are you today?"

"Grateful," she whispers back and I'm suddenly swallowing a huge lump.

Then, before I can start bawling like a baby because the woman I love is
finally, finally letting me in, both literally and figuratively, she starts
to move. She's riding me like a pro, not that I would know, you understand,
clutching and releasing in perfect rhythm. And suddenly, I'm not too big or
small anymore. We gasp in unison.

"Oh god," she says, "This is perfect."

"Yes," I agree, closing my eyes to savor how hot and wet and tight and all
those cliched little ways of describing the inside of a woman's body she is
and it's so true and fuck it, I'm losing it, absolutely, as she kisses me
deeply.

She picks up the pace and I realize we're hitting the table, but I don't
care and apparently, neither does she, since she's the one doing the
banging, so to speak.

"I love you," I gasp to her. "I love you, Scully." And I do, and not just
because she's absolutely the best fuck of the century, though, ok, that's
all right with me too.

"Mulder," she says and I'm about to get frustrated despite the warm suction
of her body when she lifts up, slams down and says: "God, I love you too."

And I'm flying. All the tension, all the worry I've ever had in my entire
life releases in that moment and I'm bucking into her like a madman. Ok,
maybe not all the tension, but you know what I mean. At least for that
blissful moment, I have no other thought in the world than the fact that
Scully loves me back. And I feel a bit foolish for ever doubting it, but I
am a fool, and always have been. So sue me. I'll still be the one sitting in
the airport lounge seriously getting some from the woman I love.

Then I'm coming, gloriously, for the second time. I think she does too, but
I'm too happy and sweaty and wonderful to ask. It really doesn't matter,
anyway, how many times we come together or apart, since we're here.

"That was..." she stops, pressing her head to mine.

"Yes, it was," I say.

We rest for a moment, just sitting there with me still giving little pulsing
shakes in her.

"Did I say I love you?" she asks and I freeze.

"Yes," I whisper. "Don't you?"

She smiles and I relax. "I was just checking to make sure you knew," she
says.

"Don't do that to me, Scully," I say. "I'm not exactly Mr. Self-Confidence."

"Really?" she teases. "And you'd think with a dick that size..."

Fine, now she can joke about my penis. This is exactly why I wanted her. I
try to look more wounded than I feel, but she isn't buying it.

"I need to put my underwear back on," she sighs. "I hate this part."

I'm still looking at her with a shit-eating grin, since she's just told me
I'm a big boy, and am a bit surprised when she actually slips off me and
settles back down beside me to slide her panties on.

I should probably have put my pants right back on, but I don't. Until we
both look up and realize we're being watched.

We've BEEN watched.

First, there's the waiter, who's now sucking on a cigarette over at the bar
with this huge smile, damn him. And there's the security guard, who is
striding over with a very annoyed frown. I whip those pants on pretty
quickly, believe me, and we are both at least fully clothed by the time he
reaches us.

"Just what the hell were you two doing?" he says, as if it wasn't completely
obvious. Scully raises one eyebrow at him and then reaches into her bag. As
she knocks the table, it slides slowly forward and stops at a new, rather
rakish angle. I groan to myself as the empty wine glasses slip off and roll
under the table. Thank god the bottle's on the seat beside me.

"Special Agent Dana Scully, FBI," she says and I turn to look at her like
she's insane, which she may actually be. "And you are?"

The guard's eyes widen considerably at that point. I wonder if he knows what
he's getting into.

"Ma'am, I'm Airport Security. Devon Franks."

"Well, Mr. Franks, it's about time you people showed up."

Huh? Um Scully, I don't think we'd really have wanted to see Mr. Franks even
a moment earlier.

"What?" he says, incredulous.

"What's your badge number, Franks?" She's stepping out of the booth and I'll
be damned if she isn't wearing both her shoes and, astoundingly enough, her
pantyhose.

"Why?" he asks, staring at her and at me. I look like I'm a drunk who's just
had sex, she looks like she's about to be elected to Congress. How the hell
does she do it? And could I love her any more?

"Because I'm going to report you, that's why."

"For what?" he demands, but he's looking a bit nervous now.

"This, Franks, is Special Agent Fox Mulder and we are here as part of an
undercover investigation into the lax security at O'Hare. I should tell you
right now that I'm recording this entire conversation."

I'm fishing my badge out of my pants pocket and presenting it to the
astonished Franks, who looks at it rather distastefully and then hands it
back.

"You really expect me to believe that?" he says. Gotta hand it to him, he's
holding up pretty well. The waiter has slipped away somewhere, probably the
bathroom, if he's doing what I think he's doing.

"No, I don't. Would you like to contact my superior officer at the Bureau,
Franks? I'm sure he'd be delighted to be awakened at two o'clock in the
morning to hear that you, the employee of a private security firm, are
questioning me, an officer of the federal government."

Franks stares at us both for a moment.

"Cut the crap, Agents," he says at last. "You were caught doing the wild
thing, ok? Now, I may not be an official employee of the federal government,
as if that says anything about your morals, but I do know fucking when I see
it, and you two were doing it on what is, fortunately for you, private
property. Now, I could drag you both down to my boss and you could attempt
this little bullshit parade on him, but I'm tired, it's late and all I want
is for you two to get up and go catch your plane. I don't have time for this
shit, seriously."

Scully opens her mouth, looking totally indignant, as if we really were
conducting some covert operation and not fucking madly enough to break the
table, but I decide to spare Franks some trouble for the night.

"Thanks man," I say, slipping out of the booth and taking her arm gently.
"We've had a really, really long week. Catching criminals and all that."

He nods, rolls his eyes and stands behind us as I usher Scully quickly from
the restaurant.

"Mulder," she says as we trot toward our gate. "That man was completely out
of line."

"Scully, give it a rest," I say gently. "He was absolutely right and being
very, very nice about it."

She laughs then and slips her arm around my waist. "I'm so tired," she
yawns. "What a day."

"Yeah," I grin, "what a great day."

"You know," she says as she guides me over to one of those plastic chairs
the airport so kindly gives you to wait for hours and hours upon, "I never
really pictured us, you know... in an airport bar. You're not disappointed,
are you, Mulder?"

I think about this for a moment, then lean over and kiss her cheek.

"Scully, even the best laid plans don't always mean you get laid like you'd
planned."

end part 3 of 3

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