Alternatives I: Frustration 
By Shannon O'Connor (shannono@iname.com) 
and Brandon D. Ray (publius@avalon.net) 

DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT:  Anywhere and everywhere, so long 
as our names and e-mail addresses stay on it and no money 
changes hands. 

FEEDBACK:  PLEASE! shannono@iname.com and/or publius@avalon.net 

SPOILER WARNING:  Set shortly after the events of "The 
Beginning".  There are various small spoilers for episodes 
aired up through that time.  I guess if you don't know about 
Phoebe Green, or that Kersh is the A.D., you may have problems. 
Oh, and it gets hot in the DC area even in late September.  Don't 
know if that's a spoiler or not..other than for veggies that get left 
out on the counter. 

RATING:  NC-17 

CONTENT WARNING: Smut. A little angst. MSRish. 

CLASSIFICATION:  SRA 

SUMMARY:  In adjoining motel rooms, Scully and Mulder each 
seek relief following a bad day. 

DISCLAIMER:  In our dreams... 

========== 

AUTHORS' NOTES: 

Shannon goes first ... 

Well, after weeks of buildup (intellectual foreplay?), 
Brandon and I have decided to completely ruin what's left 
of our reputations and team up for a smut epic. Yes, 
folks this is just the beginning ... a prologue of sorts 
to a series of stories heading pretty quickly toward MSR. 
(Like by the next story, most likely.) All will be rated 
NC-17, so keep the kiddies away, thanks. 

Over to you, Brandon ... ;) 

Well, I ALWAYS believe in ladies first...especially when 
it's a delicate or dangerous situation.  I don't really have 
much to add....Reputations?  We don't need no stinking reputations.... 

Oh...and no marriages or other long term relationships 
were harmed during the writing of this fic. ;) 

And now...on with the show.... 
  

Alternatives 1:  Frustration 
  

I am not the kind of person who can simply go out and have sex 
for the sake of sex, no matter how frustrated I become. But 
I'm also a woman in her "sexual prime" who hasn't had sex in 
so long she's having trouble remembering the feeling. I don't 
lack for self-control, but I've become quite proficient at 
using water sprays and my own fingers to find relief when 
absolutely necessary. 

Tonight is one of those nights. 

It takes a special combination of events to drive me to 
masturbation. I could, I suppose, just do it whenever I 
thought about it; it's easy enough for me. But like anything 
else, familiarity so easily breed contempt, and since I have 
no other options at the present time, I'd rather not tempt 
fate. 

Tonight, however, has provided me with more than enough 
reason for what I'm about to do. It's been a difficult day in 
general, between the early morning start, the unseasonable heat 
wave, the long drives between crime scenes, and the entirely 
too close for comfort proximity to Mulder. But what has 
pushed me over the edge, so to speak, is that I'm due to 
start my period in the next few days. Yes, it is a fact of 
nature that most women get ... well, horny, for want of a 
better word, during that time, because of the rush of 
hormones. And on top of everything else, that "rush" has 
left me aching for release. 

It's particularly unusual for me to do something like this when 
we're on the road. Normally, I would not consider touching 
myself with Mulder in the room next door, but I've run into a 
stroke of luck this time. Not only are we in adjoining rooms, 
meaning that our bed and bathrooms are on opposite walls, but 
my room is even on the very end of the building, so I don't 
have to concern myself with disturbing any neighbors. 

Not that I'm all that loud when I'm alone anyway. Despite my 
Catholic upbringing, I do tend to be quite vocal during sex, 
but masturbation doesn't bring that out in me at all. Just the 
noise of the shower running should be more than sufficient to 
mask any sounds I might make. 

And if Mulder does question anything, I'll blame it on the 
noisy pipes. 

At least this place is pretty decent. Some of the motels we've 
stayed in have left me afraid to even touch the bathroom walls, 
much less touch myself anywhere near them. Others, however, 
have even gone so far as to have massaging shower heads -- 
which I have never taken advantage of for anything other than 
relaxing muscles tightened by too many hours over an autopsy 
table. 

Unfortunately, this bathroom has no such amenities, so I'll be 
on my own tonight. 

First things first: Make sure that connecting door is locked. 
Mulder would never walk in unannounced unless he thought I was 
in imminent danger, and he won't even knock if he thinks I'm 
in the tub, unless it's an emergency. He knows long baths and 
showers are one of my few indulgences, and he also knows better 
than to interrupt me if it's not absolutely necessary. 

Door locked, and main entry door locked and chained, I turn on 
one light over near the window and start a slow walk back to 
the bathroom. I plan to make this last as long as I can stand, 
because it will probably have to hold me for quite some time. 

I undress slowly as well, shedding my business suit and 
tossing it neatly onto the end of the bed -- along with my 
professional persona. A soft sigh escapes me as I feel the 
weight of responsibility lift from my shoulders, and I roll 
my head from side to side to release some of the remaining 
stiffness. 

The only tension remaining is anticipation. 

My underwear goes next, dropped into a small pile next to the 
suit. I'll worry about getting it into a laundry bag later. 
Right now, I'm enjoying the feel of the cool air on my nipples, 
bringing them taut without so much as a touch. I raise my palms 
to feel the hardness, brushing my hands lightly against the 
tight points. 

I smother another sigh and decide I'd better get the water 
running before Mulder overhears. 

Crossing into the bathroom, I start the water but keep the 
light off, instead turning on the heat lamp for illumination. 
I push the door shut and lock it as an extra barrier against 
the world, then pull the curtain back and step in. 

#          #          # 

God. What a rotten day. What a really, really rotten day. 

It wasn't enough to get hauled out of bed -- well, off my 
couch -- by a phone call from Kersh at four o'clock in the 
morning, ordering us to be in Wilmington by eight. And it 
also wasn't enough that it just happened to be the hottest 
day we've had in over a month, with the temperature passing 
the 80 degree mark before we were even off the Beltway and 
ending up somewhere above 90, way too damn high for late 
September. It wasn't even enough that we were then expected 
to visit multiple crime scenes and examine some of the more 
gruesomely mutilated human remains it has ever been my 
displeasure to see. 

No, on top of all that, I had to be sitting next to Scully 
the whole time. 

It was torture. 

It doesn't usually hit me this hard.  I mean, sure, she's an 
attractive woman, and I'll even admit that I've got some 
feelings for her.  Strong feelings.  But I've pretty much 
reconciled myself to the idea that it isn't going to happen, 
and most of the time I'm content just to spend time in her 
company and have her as a friend. 

Most of the time. 

But today it was different. 

It was a combination of things that made it different:  It 
was partly a consequence of having been dragged out of bed so 
early; it was partly a consequence of the harrowing nature of 
the case; it was even partly a consequence of the fact that 
Scully got a haircut yesterday, and looks simply stunning. 
But the big reason is that I think she's about to start her 
period. 

Trust me on this one. When you spend as much time with a woman 
as I've spent with Scully these past six years, you get so that 
you recognize the signs.  And when the woman in question is one 
you're already attracted to ... well, knowing that she's in her 
fertile period just makes it that much more tempting to grab her 
and -- 

Stop it, Mulder.  Think good thoughts.  This is your partner 
you're thinking about.  Your friend.  And it's particularly 
insensitive since you know Scully can't HAVE children.  Take 
a couple of cleansing breaths. 

Okay, that's better. 

Anyway, we've finally decided to knock off for the day.  We've 
visited six crime scenes, and Scully has got three autopsies 
scheduled for tomorrow, starting at six a.m.  She just dropped 
me off at our motel, muttering something about needing to pick 
up a few things she forgot to throw in her bag this morning, 
and I'm standing in front of the television in my room jangling 
my keys indecisively. 

The bed is so tempting.  I'd like to just stretch out and click 
on the television and find some bad science fiction movie to 
watch until I can finally drift off to sleep.  Maybe DINOSAURUS! 
is playing.  That'd be nice; I really like that film. 

The problem is that I stink.  Literally.  I don't think I've 
smelled this bad since the manure warehouse exploded.  So I 
guess what I really need to do is take a shower.  That's it; 
a quick shower, then into bed with the remote control and try 
to while away the hours until exhaustion finally overtakes me. 

Decision made, I proceed to strip off my clothes, leaving them 
scattered around on the motel room floor.  In a matter of seconds 
I'm naked, and I pad into the cramped little bathroom and pull 
back the shower curtain and twist the knob. 

Fuck. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. 

The shower is broken. 

This is NOT my day. 

I stand here for a moment and consider my options.  I could 
just skip the shower and find some way to deal with it in the 
morning. Maybe get up a little early and see if I can find a 
nearby Y or a public gym.  The problem with that is that it 
really has been a fucking hot day, and I really do stink so bad 
that I'm not even comfortable being around myself.  So that's out. 

Another option would be to ask Scully if I can borrow the shower 
in her room.  I've done it before, and she's used mine from time 
to time when something like this has happened.  But there are two 
problems with this plan:  The first is that Scully hasn't gotten 
back from running her errands yet, whatever they are; and the 
second is that she probably wants a shower as bad as I do, and 
that means I'd have to let her go first.  And that is NOT a good 
idea. 

Have you ever taken a shower right after a woman who's on the 
verge of menstruating?  I have.  And let me tell you, you can 
tell.  Being exposed to intimate Scullyscent is bad enough -- 
and this has happened to me from time to time.  But trying to 
take a shower in a stall which is simply drenched in her 
pheromones, while Scully herself is in the next room, probably 
stretched out on her bed wearing nightclothes.... 

I just can't do it.  Not today.  It's out of the question. 

Which leaves me no alternative but to take a bath. 

I hate baths. 

With a sigh of resignation, I start running water into the tub. 
Once I've got the temperature adjusted I climb awkwardly over 
the side and sit down.  My knees are kind of hunched up out of 
the water, and my upper back is resting against the rough tile 
rather than the smooth side of the tub, but all in all it's not 
too bad, and as the tub rapidly fills with water I finally start 
to relax a bit. 

This is actually pretty nice.  Relaxing.  I'm still not entirely 
comfortable, and in the back of my mind I'm feeling slightly guilty 
because I know I should be studying the casefiles we borrowed from 
the local office.  But dammit, it's been a hard day, and I'm going 
to enjoy this and relieve a little stress.  I idly touch my cock, 
and think for a minute that maybe I can relieve some stress that 
way, too. 

But I know that's not going to happen tonight; I'm just too tired 
and too much on edge, and I'm not going to be able to get it up. 
Well, maybe if I thought about Scully I'd be able to manage, but 
I've disciplined myself not to do that.  It's hard enough working 
next to her every day without having fantasy images of her writhing 
naked on top of me, or of her perfect blowjob lips sliding down 
over my -- 

And then I hear the shower come on in Scully's room, and suddenly 
I'm hard as a rock. 

#          #          # 

The water rushes across my skin, already sensitized by thoughts of 
my planned activities. I smile slightly as I turn under the spray, 
soaking myself from head to toe and enjoying the pleasant buzz 
building up throughout my body. God, I didn't realize just how much 
I needed this. 

Washing my hair is a sensual experience all its own. I love to get 
my hair cut -- which I did yesterday, but trust Mulder not to even 
notice, much less comment. I simply love the feel it. The 
cosmetologist always makes the shampooing less like washing and 
more like a scalp massage, and the sensation of scissors slicing 
through hair held taut sends shivers down my spine. 

I always carry two different kinds of shampoo with me when I travel 
and choose based on what I've been doing that day. I have a special 
lemon-scented one that does a great job removing formaldehyde smells 
and other unwelcome scents, but I also have a floral scent that 
matches the body spray and lotion I usually use. 

I could probably use the lemon scent tonight; I'm certainly 
sweaty enough to warrant it. But the floral is my favorite, so 
it wins out. 

I take my time with my hair, rubbing the shampoo into a thick 
lather and massaging my scalp with my fingertips until it tingles 
all over. Then I rinse and start over, working the shampoo through 
again and relishing the feel of my own hands running through the 
wet strands. I stand under the spray for a long time to rinse the 
last of the suds away, letting the water pound against the back 
of my neck, easing away the tension there. 

Hair finished, I pick up the tiny bar of motel soap and glide it 
across my stomach and thighs, ostensibly to wash but in reality 
simply another reason to touch myself. Lather slides into the 
curls between my thighs as I bring the soap up to run across my 
shoulders, then down my chest, where I run it lightly around my 
nipples, not touching, just teasing. 

I continue soaping myself up from neck to toes, drawing the edge 
of the soap across my lower abdomen, the back of my knee, the 
curve of my ass. I turn under the spray again to rinse, then work 
up a mass of bubbles between my hands and place the soap back in 
the dish. 

My feet slide apart almost of their own accord as my fingers slick 
the lather through my pubic hair and onto the sensitive folds of skin 
below. I'm already swollen and wet -- not from the shower, either -- 
but I'm careful to avoid directly touching my clit as I wash. I don't 
want this to be over too quickly. 

Finished washing, I turn back to the spray to rinse. I use my hands 
to pull myself open, spreading my legs and tilting my hips forward 
so the water hits at just the right angle to wash away the soap. 
Again, I avoid too much direct contact, though just the few seconds 
of water pounding so close to where I want to feel it is enough to 
make me groan deep in my throat. 

Now, this is the point where I normally rinse one last time, then 
turn off the water and get out, at least, when I have to be somewhere. 
But I don't have to be anywhere but in my own bed, and I have plans 
for the next fifteen minutes or so. 

#          #          # 

For a few minutes I am just mesmerized.  Scully's shower has just come 
on ... and that means that Scully herself is probably at this moment 
stark naked and only a few feet away, right through that door and on 
the other side of the far wall.  I know I said I've tried to discipline 
myself, but now I just can't help it:  In my mind's eye I can see her in 
all her naked glory, standing there under the spray, eyes closed, lips 
slightly parted.  It's almost as if that wall weren't even there...my 
hand grips my rock-hard cock and starts to stroke.... 

No.  I am NOT going to do this.  I am NOT going to sit here and jerk off 
while I fantasize about my partner.... my friend....my Scully..... 

No no no!  Not MY Scully.  Just Scully.  Just Scully.  That's all she 
is.  Really.  Just Scully. 

God. 

She's probably washing her hair first.  That beautiful, beautiful hair. 
I know she has a sensitive scalp; once when we were on a case she had a 
blinding headache, and asked me to give her a scalp massage.  I thought 
she was going to have an orgasm just from that, and at one point she 
actually moaned, and I almost came in my pants.... 

I imagine her hands running through her hair, working in the shampoo. 
I wonder whether she's using the lemon scented shampoo, or the floral? 
She usually saves the lemon scented for post-autopsy washings....she 
probably doesn't realize that it's my favorite of the two, and I'm SURE 
she doesn't realize how much the scent of that shampoo turns me on.  My 
hand begins to glide up and down my cock again, slowly, slowly, the 
tension gradually building.... 

Jesus.  I am not doing this.  I am not GOING to do this.  Try to think 
of something else.  Try to think of someONE else.  Anyone. 

I can't.  I can't get Scully out of my head, and I can't bring anyone 
else to mind.  I shut my eyes in resignation....this is going to happen, 
whether I want it to or not.  My cock twitches eagerly as I begin to 
stroke it again, and I groan slightly.  I imagine her hands sliding 
across her body, holding the soap, maybe as just a pretext to touch 
herself.  She gives special attention to those special places....to her 
breasts, to her belly. 

To the back of her knee.  Oh, god, the back of her knee.  I KNOW that's 
one of her hotspots.  I know it because she's ticklish there, and I know 
that all MY ticklish spots are also erogenous zones.  So she's probably 
soaping the back of her knee...then finally, finally, her hands glide up 
her thighs towards the tangle curls between her legs...sliding her 
fingers across those slippery folds....pulling them gently apart and 
allowing the warm water to splash against her.... 

And then from the other side of the wall I hear a moan.... 

#          #          # 

I twist the shower head up so it hits the back wall, moving aside 
enough to allow the water to warm the slightly rough but, thankfully, 
clean tile. Then I move into the spray, which hits precisely in the 
small of my back, shift my feet as far apart as they will go in the 
confined space, and bend forward from the waist until my head 
nearly touches the wall. 

The water sluices down my back and between my legs, curving under 
to slide across the sensitized flesh. I bring one hand back to 
follow the water's path, a single finger dipping into my own 
wetness and spreading it farther forward. My stomach muscles 
flinch involuntarily as my fingertip touches my clit, just 
briefly, before I draw my hand away. 

I straighten up slowly, then lift one foot to the side of the 
tub, spreading my legs wider. The water still pounds against 
my back as I bring my hand back down between my legs, this 
time using two fingers. I slide just the tips inside, then 
use them to coat my folds, again avoiding direct contact 
with my clit. 

As my fingers keep up their teasing movements, I bring my other 
hand up to my chest and run my nails around each nipple in turn, 
flicking them against the tips, circling and teasing. That doesn't 
last long, though, and in moments I'm kneading my breasts and 
twisting the nipples between my fingers. 

I follow suit with my other hand, gradually increasing the 
pressure of my fingers on the strip of skin between my clit 
and vagina. I somehow doubt this little spot is a particularly 
universal erogenous zone, but it is for me; I've come from 
stimulating just this area before. 

But not tonight. 

I dip my fingers lower again, plunging them inside and thrusting 
slowly, then drawing them back up to lightly circle the very 
tip of my clit. A small moan escapes me, tiny frissions shooting 
along my arms and legs as my hips buck involuntarily. 

I can't keep the hand on my breasts any longer. I need it to 
keep my balance, so I plant it on the tile beside me, using 
the leverage to tilt my pelvis forward more. This gives me 
better access to my vagina, and my fingers plunge back in, 
thrusting deeper and harder this time. 

God, this feels good. 

I can't get the right angle to use my thumb on my clit, so 
I settle for alternating between penetration and stimulation. 
My hand works harder and faster as I approach my climax, my 
breath coming in short pants as I work. 

My weight falls more and more heavily on the hand I have 
braced on the wall as my legs began to tremble. My hips 
have taken up a counterrhythm to my hand, moving in tight 
little circles and thrusts. 

The orgasm starts somewhere at the base of my neck, blossoming 
out across my skin like a flash fire and converging on my clit, 
where my fingers are working furiously. I continue the 
stimulation as my body bucks and shakes, then gradually draw 
back to a soothing caress, tiny aftershocks still shooting 
along my spine. 

#          #          # 

She's using both hands now; I know it.  Hell, I can almost FEEL 
it. She's using both hands, and her fingers are trailing through 
her hot, wet folds, dancing around her clit, not quite touching 
it.  I wonder if she's sensitive in that little strip of flesh 
between her clit and her vagina?  I've known a few women who 
were -- always the most passionate ones.  There was one girl I 
knew at Oxford -- before that disaster with Phoebe -- who could 
come just from being touched there.  I wonder if Scully's like 
that?  I bet she is.  The rest of the Bureau thinks she's an ice 
queen, but I know better. 

She must be fingerfucking herself by now, and I can feel my cock 
swelling and growing even harder just at the thought of it.  How 
many fingers is she using?  Two?  Three?  i just don't know.  All 
I know is that it's probably the hottest, tightest place a man 
could ever hope to be, and her fingers are there instead of me. 
My cock throbs in agony at the very thought, and my hand increases 
the tempo of its strokes. 

Oh, god...I almost forgot about her breasts.  How could I forget 
about Scully's breasts?  I know they're sensitive; more than once 
I've heard her catch her breath when I accidentally brushed against 
her.  And it really was accidental; I don't need that kind of 
torture.  So she's probably playing with her nipples while she 
fingerfucks herself. Tickling them, caressing them, maybe twisting 
them just a little. 

This is really getting out of control; I know I'm not going to last 
much longer, and i just don't care.  Eyes still closed, I throw my 
head back, breathing in harsh gasps through my mouth and pumping my 
cock.  Pumping, pumping, pumping, and imagining now that it's 
Scully's hand doing it. Scully's hand....her hand..... 

#          #          # 

The ringing in my ears fades away and I realize at the same time 
that my still-ragged breathing sounds very loud in the small 
room -- and that the water is freezing. 

I turn on still-shaky legs to flip the water off, then just stand 
there under the warmth of the heat lamp for a few moments before 
pulling back the curtain and stepping out. 

The rough hotel towel feels harsh against my oversensitized skin, 
so I dry myself off as quickly as possible, wrapping the damp cloth 
around me. 

I unlock the door and step into the cool, conditioned air of the 
outer room, moving over to the dresser where my suitcase sits to 
get out my pajamas. 

I pull out my favorite blue satin set and clean panties -- then 
pause. 

Something's not right. 

I listen intently, then step closer to the wall. Nothing. 

And that's the problem. Mulder is never, *never* in his room alone 
without the television on. 

Dropping the towel, I quickly slip into my clean clothes, then 
grab up the towel and toss it into the bathroom. I step up to 
the adjoining room door and pause, listening again. 

Is that ... water splashing? 

No way. Mulder is *not* taking a *bath*, is he? 

Mulder has never, to my knowledge, taken a bath instead of a 
shower. At least, not out on a case ... though I do recall him 
joking once about me drawing him a bath... 

What in the *world* would have driven him to take a bath? I knew 
he'd probably want a shower after a day like today; he was getting 
a bit ripe after so many hours outside. But I can't imagine him 
taking a bath. 

I guess his shower must be broken. But I don't know why he didn't 
just wait and ask to use mine. I mean, we've certainly done that 
in the past. 

I open my side of the door slowly, just to be sure his is closed, 
which it is. So I lift my hand to knock -- 

#          #          # 

Not long now.  My fist is pumping and pumping, and my hips are 
jerking spasmodically as I near release.  Water is splashing 
everywhere, but I just don't care anymore; all I'm aware of is 
my own cock and my phantom image of Scully's hand pumping at it, 
pumping at it, pumping at it.  God, she's so hot, she's so good 
at this, I can hardly believe it. 

Building, building, building....I can feel the pressure growing 
stronger with each passing second, with each stroke of Scully's 
hand.  My hips are bucking continuously now, and I want to scream 
from the pleasure of it, but somehow I manage to suppress it.... 

...and then I'm coming, and god it's wonderful, it's intense, it's 
almost blinding in its brilliance, and it's all because of Scully, 
my Scully, beautiful, gorgeous, horny little Scully, and I can't 
keep myself from uttering a loud groan of pleasure.... 

#          #          # 

... and I hear a long, guttural groan, accompanied by more splashes 
and a deep squeaking sound that can only be skin against porcelain. 

Holy shit. 

I'm frozen in place, my hand an inch from the surface of the door 
to his room, and I can't believe what I'm hearing. The only 
possible explanation for that specific combination of sounds ... 

My entire body jerks back from the door, and it's all I can do to 
keep from slamming my side shut. I take several deep breaths to 
slow down the pounding of my heart, then carefully push the door 
closed. 

I didn't hear that ... I didn't ... 

Shit. I did. I shouldn't have, but I did. I feel almost as if I 
just walked in on him -- guilty, embarrassed ... 

... and unbelievably turned on. 

No. No, I am not going to think about this. That was an accident. 
His time is private, and I'm not going to let myself consider the 
fact that while I was in my own shower touching myself, he was 
doing the same thing in the next room ... 

Oh, God. What if he heard me? 

Shit shit shit. Don't think about it, don't think about it ... 

I realize I'm pacing from one end of the room to the other, my 
bare feet pounding against the carpet, and I force myself to 
stop. Almost against my will, I find myself holding my breath, 
listening intently again for sounds from Mulder's room. 

I can hear water running now, probably the tub draining. And then 
footsteps. He's out of the bathroom ... naked, as I was when I 
came out? 

Suddenly I'm pacing again. Oh God, I can't think about this ... 
I can't ... 

I can't help it. 

My steps gradually slow, and I come to a stop in front of the 
connecting room door. My hands twitch from my longing to knock, 
to turn the handle ... to see if he'll open his side of the 
door ... if he'll even bother to dress first ... 

#          #          # 

After a few minutes of just lying there in the tub like a dead 
animal I finally mange to get my breathing back under control 
and open my eyes, and I see to my relief that the ceiling is 
still there -- I did NOT blow the roof off with that one, no 
matter how intense it may have seemed at the time. 

I suddenly realize that Scully's shower has stopped.  Oh god. 
What if she heard me?  I can't even remember what I may have 
said while I was under the influence.  I know I managed to 
stop that one scream...but did I let anything else out?  Was 
there ANOTHER scream I don't remember? Were the groans and 
splashing about loud enough that she heard me? Jesus...did I 
call out her name at any point?  I don't THINK so...but I just 
can't remember. 

THIS is why I swore I'd never fantasize about my partner. 

I hastily lean forward and pull out the plug, and as the water 
drains I stand up.  My legs are still a little wobbly, and the 
bottom of the tub is wet and slick, but somehow I manage to climb 
out without killing myself.  I grab a towel from the rack, and 
for an instant I consider wrapping it around my waist, but to 
hell with it -- there's no one here but me.  More's the shame. 

I pad on out into the main room, my towel draped over my shoulder. 
I'm still dripping wet, but what the hell -- I'm sure this motel 
carpet has had worse things drizzled on it.  I'm walking by the 
connecting door to Scully's room when suddenly I freeze in place. 

She's there.  I don't know how I know, but I know.  She's there, 
standing on the other side of the door.  And if I'm right -- if 
this isn't just some demented fantasy of mine -- then she did hear 
me, and she knows exactly what I've just been doing.  I wonder how 
she feels about that?  Is she amused?  Disgusted?  Angry? 

Aroused? 

My cock twitches again, and I feel my heartbeat speed up a little. 
She's standing there on the other side of the door.  I'm sure of 
it. All I have to do is reach out and open my side and knock.... 

A moment passes.  Then another.  Then a third. 

And then she isn't there anymore.  She's moved away.  And I let 
out the breath that I hadn't realized I was holding, and I turn 
away from the door and sprawl out on my bed. 

Not tonight, I guess. 

#          #          # 

Slowly, haltingly, I back away, my eyes never leaving the 
painted surface. I stop only when my back hits the wall, and 
I brace my palms beside me, the only thing that keeps me from 
sliding down into a heap on the floor. 

I can't let this happen. 

I can't. 

But somehow, I know it will. 
  

#     #    END    #     #