Title: The Misadventures of Agent Souffle
Author: Paige Caldwell
Feedback: paigecaldwell@hotmail.com
Classification: MSR, Comedy
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: None, really...okay, maybe Season Five
Archive: Please do, just let me know where.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.
Summary: A movie, a mishap and Mulder in hot pursuit.


Part 1 of ?


     Dana Scully was a woman with a distinctive laugh.  It
resembled a hum, a quick fluttering of her vocal chords... the
sound of a frugal sense of humor.

     Not quite a snicker, never a giggle, her laughter didn't
define her...

     She defined it.

     Except now, she was snorting so hard her handful of popcorn
never made it into her mouth.  Instead, it sprayed through her
fingers with each burst of laughter.

     She was curled up on her sofa watching a video she had
rented on her way home from work.  It wasn't a new release, or
even a popular hit.  But, the rental was always guaranteed to be
on the shelf waiting for her.

     Over the years, the movie had became one of her all-time
favorites.  Perhaps it was the storyline, a comedy about an
ordinary woman accidently transformed into a world-class spy.
Maybe it was the humorous parody of her own profession...

     Not to mention the designer clothes the spy acquired during
her "misadventures" in Paris.

     When her cell phone rang, Scully shifted the bowl of popcorn
to the coffee table.  Eyes still fixed on the screen, she pushed
the button and answered,

     "Scully..."

     The screen went dark.

     Damn it all...

     She had answered her remote control instead of her phone.

     Shaking her head, she tried again.

     "Whatcha doin', Scully?"

     Leaning her head back against the couch pillow, Scully
sighed.

     "I'm trying to watch a movie, Mulder."

     "And, what's this Friday's selection?"

     "Nothing you'd know," she answered, flicking popcorn off
the silk shirt of her pajamas.

     "What makes you so sure?" he asked.

     "Because the title has nothing to do with throats being deep
or a five letter word used to describe a cat."

     When Mulder laughed, she couldn't help but join in.

     Pillow talk.  They were getting good at it lately.  There
was no "nighty night" or "sweet dreams".  It was more like "which
one of us can bite better than a bed bug..."

     "If you really want to learn how to tease with your tongue,
maybe you should try my film archive," Mulder suggested.

     "What do have in mind, Mulder?"

     He would back off, she thought.  He always did at this
point.

     "So... what's the movie about, Scully?"

     Chicken...she clucked to herself.

     "Hmm... well... it's a story of a woman, whose partner, I
mean husband, takes her for granted."

     "Am I hearing a little affinity here?"?"  Mulder
interrupted.

      Ignoring his last question, she continued,

      "Anyway, she enters an amateur writing contest and wins a
free trip to Paris to meet the author of a world-famous spy
novel."

     "Except her partner, or husband, won't go with her," he
added.

     "Have you seen it?"

     "Nope.  Doesn't take a profiler to figure out a worn out
plot device," he remarked.  "Keep going."

     "Well, she gets into an accident while in Paris.  She
sustains a concussion and a type of amnesia where she...."

     "Wakes up and believes she's the spy that she wrote about,"
he finished for her.

     "Really, Mulder!"

     "Oh, come on, Scully,"  he chuckled.  "I could have written
the script.  I can't believe you get into such pointless, banal
attempts at comedy."

     "It's a good thing I do or I would have stopped working the
X-files a long time ago," she retorted.

     "Ouch..." Mulder feigned pain in his voice.

     "Is there a purpose to this call, Mulder?"

     "Just a reminder, Scully.  Don't forget our appointment with
our friends tomorrow morning."

     Saturday morning with the Gunmen, listening to them ramble
on about the latest technological conspiracy...

     "I can hardly wait," she responded sarcastically.

     "I'll pick you up at ten..."

     Her ear then picked up a distinct noise in the background of
Mulder's apartment.

     "Mulder...." She smirked into the receiver of the phone.
"Whatcha watchin'?"

     There was a pause on the other end of the line.  Suddenly,
she heard papers being shuffled, a glass dropping... the clamor
of Mulder searching for his remote.

     "Shit," he muttered.

     "Is that Friday night's selection I hear?"

     "I'm not watching anything."

     "I hear moaning, Mulder."

     "It's my dishwasher.  Damn thing must be stuck in the rinse
cycle again."

     "Since when do you have a dishwasher, or dishes for that
matter?" she asked.

     "Since about the same time the Gods of civilized living
delivered the waterbed," he lied.

     "Yeah, right," Scully scoffed.  "Well, Mulder, let's hope
that your new dishwasher doesn't break down from overuse."

     Smiling to herself, she clicked off the phone.

     The bowl of popcorn had dwindled down to the last half-
popped kernels.  Eyes still fixed on the screen, she got up from
the sofa.  Backing up, her little toe hooked the corner of the
coffee table.

     "Shit... shit... shit..."

     Hopping up and down, she lost her balance and fell forward.

     Her last memory was that of distorted, jumping characters on
the T.V. screen.




     The next morning, Mulder waited for several minutes at his
partner's door before he dug into his pocket for his keys.
Despite ringing the bell and several loud knocks, she hadn't
answered.  He wasn't worried... only irritated.  She had either
blown him off or was still curled under her fluffy, down
comforter.

     "Scully...," he called out, letting himself in.  When he saw
the litter of popcorn and spilled glass on the coffee table, he
drew his gun.

     There was something wrong.

     Little Miss Meticulous would never leave her livingroom
looking...well... like his.

     Gun raised, safety unlocked, he slid along the wall towards
her closed bedroom door.

     When he crashed it open, Scully yelped in surprise.

     So did he...

     Except his was louder....

     Scully was dressed, or undressed, or partially dressed in
the most indelible getup Mulder had ever seen.  The lingerie was
not lacy, but sleek.  The bra was of satin, the color of
midnight, not only lifting, but compressing her B-cup cleavage
into triple-D excitement.  As his eyes traveled down to the
french cut panties, the strain of her garters, the curve of her
leg, Mulder felt more than just stirring curiosity.

     "Jesus," he exhaled sharply.  He fought to swallow as he
slowly lowered his gun.

     "What do you think you're doing?" Scully demanded.

     Was he salivating?  He couldn't feel his tongue. It was
stuck to the roof of his mouth.

     "I'm sorry," he stammered.  "You didn't answer the doorbell.
I knocked, too."

     Scully shrugged and turned her attention back to her garter.
Fastening it into place, she said,

     "No matter.. come on in.  I need help picking out something
to wear."

     He instantly picked up her tone. It was casual, the type she
would use towards a girlfriend.

     Christ, is that what he had become to her?  Had he become
such a "friend" that she no longer saw him as a man?  Had she
emasculated him to the point that she didn't expect him to react
to her prancing around half-naked?

     Dumbfounded, he watched her saunter over to her closet and
throw the doors open.  Hand relaxed on the curve of her hip, she
nodded towards her wardrobe and asked,

     "Which one of these wretched ensembles would you pick if you
were a world class spy?"

     What the hell was she talking about?

     "Well?"

     "Ah....," he faltered.  "The black one?"

     "Which black one?" she snapped impatiently.  "They're all
black, Mulder... even down to my lingerie."

     "Black is fine," he commented, his gaze now frozen on her
breasts.

     "Coming from a man who always manages to out dress me, I
expect more of an answer."

     Scully yanked a sleeveless, low cut dress from it's hanger.

     "You're not going to wear that, are you?"

     "Why?  Too much?" she asked, wriggling into it.

     "Actually, too little," he remarked. "Unless you like the
idea of Toto nipping at your heels. Remember, we're meeting the
Gunmen this morning."

     Finally, his words seemed to register.  His partner turned
back to her closet and surveyed it thoughtfully.  As she reached
up to the shelf, the hemline of the skimpy dress lifted, giving
him another prized glimpse of the garters.

     Oh my God...

     Heels.... spiky, thin strapped, "wanna feel the point" kind
of heels....

     He couldn't breathe.

     "Think these are high enough to keep the little nipper at
bay?" she asked as she slipped them on.

     This had to be a dream... a delusion... a fucking fantasy.

     Please...let it be the last one....


     "Well?

     "Sorry...," Mulder found himself backing up.  When his back
hit the door, he shook his head and gestured out to the
livingroom.

     "I'll just wait outside."



     In the livingroom, he made his way to the coffee table and
lifted the overturned glass.  It smelled lemony. Running a finger
along the rim, he tasted it.

     Nope, iced tea... nothing more.....

     It was a fantasy, alright.  One that was coming true.

     Scully was trying to seduce him.

     Finally, the wave of sexual tension between them was
cresting.

     Problem was that it had built to such gigantic height that
he was both scared and drawn to it.

     Don't fight it, you moron.  Swim parallel to it, hell...swim
towards it.  Drown yourself in what you only dreamed she might
someday offer you.

     Relaxing, he landed on the couch with a bounce, folding his
hands behind his head.

     Screw the Gunmen....

     This was going to be fun.

     "Get your feet off my couch, Mulder...."

     Mulder bolted up into a sitting position as his partner
strolled into the room.  As she leaned over her desk, he found
himself tilting to one side, hoping for another peep show.

     "Ah, Scully..."

     "Stop doing that," she interrupted, slamming one drawer shut
and opening another.

     "Stop doing what?" he squeaked, jerking back up.

     "Pronouncing my name as if it rhymes with gully," she
clarified.  "It's Scull..aye, remember?"

     "What?" he snorted. "Like Frito Lay?"

     "More like souffle..."

     Oh, this was definitely going to be fun.

     Role playing.  He liked the sound of it. What was the little
minx looking for in those desk drawers?  Handcuffs?  What would
she cuff him to?  The coffee table?

     Hmmm....

     He slid down to the floor and dangled his arm over the
table.

     He was ready.

     Let the games begin...

     When Scully turned around, Mulder saw that the only thing he
was about to play was the comedy queen's unsuspecting sidekick.

     She had been searching for a pack of cigarettes.

     Stunned, he watched her light one.  Only then did he notice
that she had painted her nails to match the crimson color of her
lips.

     Inhaled deeply, Scully looked down at him in odd amusement.

     "What the hell are you doing?" she asked.

     "Since when do you smoke, Miss Souffle?" he countered.

     "Well," she considered, blowing out perfectly formed smoke
rings. "In our line of work, we must accept each other for what
we are."

     "What are we, exactly?" Mulder climbed to his feet, both
suspicious and disappointed.  "Post-coital smoking buddies who
just happened to skip the coitus part?"

     Crossing one well-defined ankle over the other, Scully
approached him.  She offered him a slight, pitying smile.

     "If only...." she murmured, caressing his face.

     "If only what?"

     "If only you were... that way."

     "What the hell are you talking about... that way?"

     "Gotta run."  She gave his cheek a gentle pat.  "Be a dear,
and lock up behind you."

     "Dear?"

     When he tried to stop her, she jumped to the side, faking
him out with a move that would have qualified her for the NBA.
One silky leg shot between his, expertly tripping him.

     She left him flat on his ass... in more ways than one.

     "Don't worry," Scully said as she retrieved her purse from
the kitchen counter.  "This assignment is a piece of cake.  I can
slice right through it on my own."

     "Agent Souffle shouldn't be on assignment ... she's half-
baked," Mulder yelled.

     Wincing with pain, he struggled to his feet and began to
limp after her.

     By the time he reached the entrance of her apartment
building, a resident was yelling and pointing to the street.

     "She's stealing my car!"

     "Scully!"

     Mulder almost fell down the steps, fueled by incredulous
panic.  Scully had slid into the driver's seat of a black Porsche
and was inspecting her lips in the rear view mirror.

     "Scully!"

     Giving him a wink, she floored the accelerator.

     "Fuck..." Mulder swore loudly.  Drawing his gun, he kneeled
down to shoot the tires out from underneath the car.

     "Are you crazy?" the man behind him screamed.  "Do you know
how much that car cost me?"

     "You're the asshole who left it running," Mulder snapped.

     "Don't do it..." the resident cried.  "I know her.  She's my
neighbor, Agent Dana Scully."

     "Not today she's not," Mulder retorted, gritting his teeth
as he steadied his aim.  "Today, she's Agent Souffle."

To be continued...


Part 2 of ?


     When Mulder fired his gun, the bullet punctured the back
tire of the car, instantly flattening it.

     But, it wasn't the tire of the Porsche that Scully had just stolen...

     Instead, he'd incapacitated another car parked along the
side of the street.

     His car....

     Shit....

     "Great aim, buddy," Scully's neighbor scoffed.  "Let me
guess.  You're her partner, right?"

     Since when was his misdirected aim his "claim to fame"?

     Damn her.

     "Hey sharp-shooter, there's a group of kids playing on the
sidewalk," jeered the man.  "Maybe you can take them out, too."

     "Who the hell are you?" the agent growled as he limped up
the street to inspect the damage to his tire.

     It was fully deflated, alright.

     Just like his ego.

     "I'm the asshole who left his car running, remember?"
retorted the man, pulling out his cell phone. "The same asshole
who's about to call the police to report that his Porsche was
just stolen by a federal agent."

     He might be a crappy shot, but Mulder's reflexes were quick
and right on target.  Grabbing the man's cell phone, he said,

     "This is a Bureau matter, not local P.D."

     "Tell it to the `Boys in Blue'."

     "Agent Scully is involved in an undercover operation that is
classified."

     "Oh, she's classified, alright." The man folded his arms
obstinately.  "In my profession we call it `convicted of grand
theft auto'."

     "What profession might that be?" Mulder asked, turning away
to punch out the number to his partner's cell phone.

     "A lawyer...."

     The man suddenly whipped out a business card.  "I specialize
in personal injury, divorce, bankruptcy...and criminal defense."

     Mulder took the card and scrutinized the tacky logo on it.

     "Jack of all Trades?" he choked back a sarcastic laugh.

     "Jack Trader, Esquire," the lawyer advised.  "Catchy slogan,
huh?"

     "I'd definitely give it it's own classification,"  Mulder
replied in a deadpan voice.  "So, how handy are you with tires,
Jack?"

     "What?"

     "Excuse me," Mulder paused, lifting up a finger as Scully
answered her phone.  Hobbling away from the attorney, he
whispered furiously,

     "Are you out of your fucking mind, Scully?"

     "Who is this?"

     "Listen to me, damn it." He cupped the receiver close to his
mouth.  "I don't know what you're trying to pull off here, but
those little legs of your's are knee deep in shit."

     "Knee deep?" his partner responded smoothly.  "Good thing
I'm wearing six inch heels, isn't it?"

     "Scully..."

     "Mulder, did you just shoot at me?"

     "I was trying to stop you from stealing your neighbor's
car," he snapped.  "Unless you like the idea of strutting those
heels around a holding cell with other well-shod, underdressed
women."

     "Don't be ridiculous." Scully's response was light.  "I
didn't steal it.  I borrowed it.  By the way, have you introduced
yourself to Jack, yet?"

     "Oh yeah," Mulder sneered.  "Just what I need... a fucking
lawyer."

     "Well, that would depend on who he's with..."

     "Scully..."

     Mulder stopped, cringing as he heard the sound of future
transmission repairs.

     "Clutch, Scully.  That little pedal to your right is
supposed to be pushed to the floor when you shift gears."

     "Oh..."


     Mulder then heard the noise of screeching brakes.

     Holy shit...she must have rear-ended someone.

     Running his fingers through his hair, Mulder gasped into the
phone,

     "Scully!  Are you okay?"

     "I'm fine, Mulder."

     For a second, his partner sounded like herself.  Before he
could completely exhale a sigh of relief, his breath was cut
short by her excited cry.

     "It's a Versace!"

     "What's a Versace?"

     "A designer..."

     "I thought he was dead..."

     "Well, his designs are very much alive," she conveyed.
"And, there's one in a store window with my name on it."

     "The only thing you'll be buying is prison serial numbers,"
Mulder barked.  "Not to mention stripes, Scully... imagine how
unflattering black and white stripes are."

     "Thanks for the fashion tips," Scully laughed. "I'm off to
conduct a little boutique surveillance, Mulder.  Why don't you
ask Jack to help you change that tire?  He's quite handy."

     "Are you talking from personal experience?"

     Her amused titter only incited his anger further.

     "No, that would be, shall we say... contrary to his nature."

     "As what?  A shark?" he sneered.

     "Well, he does prefers the taste of mackerel to tuna..."

     "Exactly what are you implying, Scully?"

     "He's gay, Mulder," she chuckled.  "Don't let it be said
that I never did nothin' for ya."

     Scully hung up then, leaving Mulder standing on the curb
with his mouth dropped open.

     He couldn't fucking believe this...

     Scully not only thought that he was doing the "chocolate cha
cha", but was trying to fix him up with a dance partner.

     Oh, he'd set her "straight".  The minute he caught up with
her, he'd snap those garters so hard that they would leave red
marks on her creamy white ass.  Then he'd land her onto her back,
lock those stiletto heels around his neck and demonstrate his
definition of a "Scully souffle".

     She might be half-baked, but that didn't affect his hunger
for her.

     And, although he was angry, his thermometer was popping up
like a "cooking good chicken", straining against the denim skin
of his jeans.

     Unfortunately, Scully was blocks away...

     But, Jack wasn't.

     The shark was now circling him, honing in on Mulder's
pheromones as if they were chum being tossed off the back of a
boat.

     "What now?" the lawyer asked, narrowing his eyes with
predatory excitement.

     Scowling, the agent turned around and opened the trunk of
his car.

     "I hear you're pretty handy at pumping things up," he
remarked cynically.  "How are you with a tire jack, Jack?"

     "You expect me to help you change a fucking tire?"

     "Call it civil service," Mulder snickered as he pulled out a
spare tire.  "Or I'll be calling a certain IRS agent who's enjoys
using tax audits to string up lawyers... or as we say in my
profession, sharks."




     "Better late than never..." Frohike grumbled as he worked
the multiple locks of the door.  Leaving one of the chains
fastened, he peered through the crack into the dimly lit alley.

     What he saw made him smack his lips together with salacious
delight.

     Agent Scully...

     Alone...

     And, she was looking as delicious as a hot fudge sundae...

     The black dress that barely coated her two scoops of vanilla
packed cleavage...

     The luscious cherry-red lips...

     "Now this is what I call a tasty treat," he greeted her,
opening the door.

     Scully leaned forward, deliberately revealing the curve of
her thigh through the slit of her dress.

     "Melvin," she addressed him in a sweet, soft voice that
could only be compared to a marshmallow.  "Put your tongue back
in your mouth, darling.  It's not polite to drool and it does
make you look rather frog-like."

     Startled, the man hopped away from the door, landing on a
chair like a chagrined toad on a lily pad.

     "Where's Mulder?" Byers surveyed the agent's attire with
mild curiosity.  "You two been working the red light district,
again?"

     "Well," Scully tilted her head in amusement.  "I did leave
him on a street corner."

     "Mulder has all the fun," griped Langly, looking up from his
computer as Scully approached him.  When she bent over to study
the screen, he caught a prized glimpse of her breasts.

     That was, until his glasses steamed over...

     "Not anymore he doesn't," said Frohike, his tongue finally
snapping back into his mouth.

     Scully gave the Gunmen a bemused smile as she perched
herself on the edge of Langly's desk.  She gently removed the
blonde's glasses and wiped the foggy lenses with the hemline of
her dress.

     And, quite unintentionally gave Frohike a peep of her creamy
thighs and licorice colored garters.

     "So boys," Scully murmured as she crossed her slender legs.
"What's the assignment?"

     "We should wait for Mulder," prompted Byers.

     "Mulder, who?" Langly asked, leaning forward as the agent
replaced the glasses on the bridge of his nose.

     "This involves Senator Matheson," Byers remarked.  "Let's
not forget that Mulder has friends in a high places."

     "Right now, Mulder's busy make new friends," snorted Scully.
"So, I'm afraid you're stuck with just me."

     "I'm not afraid," Frohike croaked, leaping out of his chair
when the agent pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

     "Allow me, lovely lady."

     Offering her a light, Frohike beamed as the woman cupped her
hand around his.

     "Merci beaucoup," she replied, her fingers caressing the
back of his hand.

     "De rien, je vous en prie," he responded, thrilled to be
able to show her that his tongue was multi-lingual, not toady.

     "We really shouldn't discuss this without Mulder," Byers
said doubtfully.

     "Shut up, Byers." Frohike and Langly chimed in unison.

     "What does the Senator have to do with a technological
conspiracy?" Scully asked Byers before taking a drag off her
cigarette.

     "Remarkable suction for such perfectly formed lips," Frohike
whispered to Langly.

     "To think Mulder ignores the obvious," Langly murmured back.
"He must be more of a geek than we are."

     "Gentlemen," Scully turned her head and gave them a miffed
look.  "I'm not here to discuss my partner's alternative
lifestyle."

     The Gunmen exchanged quizzical looks.

     "I'm here to solve the latest technological conspiracy," she
continued in a crisp, no-nonsense voice.  "That is, once you tell
me what it is."

     "Nanotechnology," Byers said suddenly.

     "Please..." Scully rolled her head back and laughed, puffs
of smoke forming little grey clouds above her hair.  "We're
decades away from developing that type of molecular technology."

     "That's what our government wants us to think," Langly
advised.  "With the exception of Senator Matheson."

     "The Senator has been unsuccessful in promoting legislation
to fund research for Nanotechnology," related Byers.  "So, he's
sought out his own friends in high places, including a certain
German industrialist who now resides in Tunesia."

     "Herr Strughold," said Scully, mimicking a German accent.
"The commandant, himself."

     "You realize the potential abuse of Nanotechnology is
undefinable," remarked Byers, handing Scully a dossier for her to
review.

     Flicking ashes into Frohike's extended hand, she quickly
scanned the documents.  Shaking her head, she relayed,

     "Well, whoever controls this technology could easily control
the world."

     "Tonight the Tunesian embassy is hosting a gala to introduce
the Senator to several special interest groups," Byers told the
agent.  "And, we've managed to secure an invitation from our
inside source."

     "You're not giving me much time to prepare," Scully said
thoughtfully.

     "Just tell us what you need," Langly offered, gesturing to a
shelf lined with wire-tap and video equipment.

     "Well...," Scully contemplated her nail polish.  "A manicure
to start with.  Lucky for you boys, I managed to pick out a few
ensembles on my way over here."

     "Consider it done," Frohike grabbed his cell phone.  "We'll
have the limo pick you up at your apartment around seven."

     "Wait," the agent waved her cigarette at the man.  "Due to
the nature of this assignment I would prefer that more suitable
accommodations be made."

     "How does a suite at the Jefferson sound?" suggested
Frohike.  "Complete with a Jacuzzi and a magnum of Dom Perignon?"

     "Sounds like you've just retained a world class spy," Scully
blew him a kiss with the tips of her fingers.




     "I got it!" Mulder declared as he sped his car down the back
streets of D.C.

     "Got what?" asked Jack, frowning as he tried to rub tire
grease stains off his Armani suit.

     "It's a practical joke," the agent laughed.  "All of this.
Perfectly staged and executed, courtesy of Agent Souffle and her
three pastry chefs."

     "I don't know what you're talking about," the lawyer
retorted.

     "The meeting... the garters... even you." Mulder gave him a
brief, disgusted look.  "Especially you..."

     "Listen Agent Crapshot, I'm not interested in your
conspiracy theory.  All I want is my Porsche back."

     "Consider it done," Mulder snickered as he pulled into the
alley that led to the Gunmen's lair.

     The Porsche was parked by the door.

     "You take the car," Mulder said as he got out of the sedan.
"I'll take the driver."

     "Whatever keeps you on the highway, G-man," Jack remarked as
he got into his Porsche.  "But, give me a call... if or when you
decide to switch lanes."

     "The only thing I'd call you is a fucking asshole," Mulder
shot back.  "But, you'd probably consider it an invitation rather
than an insult."

     Grinning, the lawyer waved as he screeched out of the alley.

     "Jack-off..." Mulder grumbled.

     Turning his attention to the door, he pounded his fist
against it.

     "Come out... come out... before I blow your house down!"

     "Red's not here," Frohike sang from behind the closed door.
"And, from what I hear, it's the fox who has finally `come out'."

     "Very funny," Mulder sneered. "Open the door, Toto, before I
kick your hairy ass back to Kansas."

     "Oh, I'm so scared," whined Frohike as he opened the door.

     "Where is she?" Mulder yelled, pushing past him.

     "Agent Scully is on assignment," Langly replied, not
bothering to look up from his computer screen.

     "Now she's got you saying it," Mulder shook his head in
disbelief as he surveyed the room.

     "Saying what?"

     "That stupid pronunciation of her name."

     "We like the new french version," Frohike advised.
"Scullaye... like s'il vous plfit."

     "Which one of you three stooges put her up to this?" Mulder
asked.

     "You know better than that, man," answered Langly, turning
off his screen.

     "What the fuck is going on?" the agent demanded.  "Is this
Scully's way of getting even for last year's scavenger hunt for
Queequeg?"

     "She was pretty pissed off when you dog-napped her pooch,"
chuckled Frohike.

     "It was a game," insisted Mulder.  "And, I left a trail of
easy clues for her to follow.  The little yip-yip's collar, some
dog biscuits..."

     "A zip-lock bag containing dog shit..." snorted Langly.
"That was the best one."

     Suddenly, Frohike stopped laughing.

     "If this is Scully's idea of a practical joke, then the
joke's on us... including this assignment... not to mention my
credit card."

     "She's probably just tricked Byers into buying her that
Versace dress," groaned Langly, burying his face into his hands.

     "Relax," Mulder grinned as he pulled up a chair.  "Just deal
me in to the game, boys.  This time I intend to take home the
winnings."



To be continued...


Part 3 of ? 
 
 
Gliding up the steps to the front portico of the Embassy, 
Scully presented her invitation to the doorman. Although the man 
was impeccably dressed in a silk-lined tuxedo, there was no 
disguising the bulk of his bullet proof vest and shoulder 
holster. 
 
This was the difference between ordinary and world class 
agents, Scully smiled to herself. 
 
Beneath her white satin Versace, her garter was securing 
more than pearlescent hose. Her gun was strapped snugly to her 
thigh. 
 
Not that the guard even suspected... 
 
His eyes were focused on her gown. 
 
While the Versace had a high neckline, it was virtually 
backless, plunging low enough to accentuate the tantalizing 
roundness of her derriere. 
 
Of course, the guard was dazzled. 
 
Who wouldn't be? 
 
Twisting around to give him a better look, she said, 
 
"Do all the Embassy guards visually strip-search each 
guest?" 
 
Now, he was flustered. 
 
Exactly as she intended him to be. 
 
"Enjoy your evening, madam." He gave her a quick bow of his 
head and moved aside for her to pass. 
 
The guard had even forgotten to search her tiny beaded 
purse. 
 
Not that it mattered. The only items contained inside were 
evening essentials with fashionable names: Lancome lipstick ... 
a small bottle of Gucci cologne... her Dunhill cigarettes... a 
Trojan condom.... 
 
After all, even world class spies needed "protection" these 
days. 
 
As Scully entered the marble foyer, she surveyed the 
assembly of guests. 
 
There was no time to waste... 
 
"Champagne, madam?" 
 
Well, there was a little time... 
 
"Always," she smiled, lifting a fluted glass from the 
serving tray offered to her. 
 
Taking a generous sip, she paused to assess the diamond 
bracelet that dangled from her wrist. 
 
The Gunmen had done well on such short notice. Granted, the 
carat weight was less than she was accostomed to, but the quality 
of diamonds made up for it. They flashed with a brilliance that 
was only comparable to her eyes. 
 
Or, so she had been told. 
 
It wouldn't be long before every man in the room was 
captivated with her. Naturally, the most prestigious of them 
would engage her in a witty tete-a-tete, trying to impress her 
with his rank or credentials. Because she was intelligent, 
well-versed in topic... not to mention fluent in several 
languages... she was the ideal conversant. 
 
But, she'd likely be bored within minutes. 
 
Mulder had seen to that. 
 
Only her partner could stimulate her mind with his 
intellectual banter. Granted, his ideas were outlandish at 
times, but his dry sense of humor made up for it. 
 
Mulder... 
 
How she wished that he was capable of stimulating something 
else. Perhaps then she wouldn't have spent all these years using 
and discarding lovers as easily as she would her pantyhose. 
Because she was as discriminating about her men as she was her 
lingerie, few made it past the first try-on. 
 
Sighing, Scully took another sip of champagne. 
 
This was the true irony of being a femme fatale. 
 
The only man she desired was the same man who didn't desire 
her. 
 
Draining the glass, Scully reached for another. 
 
Oh well... 
 
It was time to go to work. 
 
Senator Matheson was easily found in the ballroom, looking 
distinguished in his tuxedo and dove gray cravat. He was 
surrounded by several diplomats and attach?s, all bidding for his 
attention. German, French... even the pathetic Russians were 
trying to impress him their nation's technological supremacy. 
 
Scully wondered if Senator Matheson understood the meaning 
of "dangerous liasons". 
 
It was up to her to protect him. 
 
And, in the process she would save the world. 
 
The group of men parted, obviously moonstruck by such a 
vision in white satin. She eclipsed all the other women in the 
room with their dark and typically dull evening wear. Moving 
with a certainty that was regal, yet incredibly seductive, her 
steps were as light as a ballerina. 
 
Of course, her hips did sway like a professioinal lap 
dancer. 
 
Had there been a chair, Senator Matheson would have fallen 
helplessly onto it. 
 
"Have we met?" He asked in a refined tone, lifting her hand 
to his lips. 
 
"If we had, you would most certainly remember," she 
responded. 
 
"Then allow me to introduce myself," the senator gushed. 
 
"I already know who you are, Senator." Scully leaned 
forward, her breath enticingly fanning his ear. "You're the 
reason I'm here." 
 
"How intriging." The man arched an eyebrow as he studied her 
face. "Yet, you do look strangely familiar." 
 
"No, strange and familiar would describe my partner," she 
smiled, giving him a slight wink. "Agent Mulder would be here 
tonight if he wasn't, well, shall we say... otherwise engaged." 
 
Stepping back, Senator Matheson glanced nervously around the 
room. 
 
"What's the meaning of this?" he asked in a low, threatened 
voice. 
 
"I'm here to protect you," Scully replied nonchalantly. 
 
Taking her by the arm, the Senator steered her over to the 
bar. He was obviously having a hard time maintaining his 
composure. His voice actually shook with rage as he ordered a 
Stoli vodka. 
 
"And, make it a double," he demanded. 
 
"For both of us," Scully added eagerly. 
 
"Listen, young lady," Senator Matheson growled. "Your 
appearance here could easily compromise my plans." 
 
"Being compromised isn't such a terrible fate," murmured 
Scully. "And, there's not a man in this room who wouldn't jump 
at this opportunity." 
 
To prove her point, Scully turned her head to the side and 
smiled at the group of diplomats. Instantly, a stampede of black 
tuxedos corraled her, each one trying to brand his lips on the 
back of her hand. 
 
The German diplomat was the first to hand Scully her drink. 
 
"Bitte," she thanked him. 
 
"Sehr erfreit freut mich," he responded, his fleshy cheeks 
stretching into a wide grin. 
 
Knowing that the Russians hated being excluded in any 
tribute to vodka, Scully lifted her glass towards them. 
 
"Ochen priyatno," she said in greeting before swigging the 
entire double shot. 
 
The Russians now oggled her with awe and respect. 
 
"Careful, fraulein," cautioned the German. "Our comrades 
drink vodka like water, probably because their little nuclear 
accidents have contaminated every other drinking supply." 
 
Ignoring him, the Russians were passing out another round. 
 
"Well," reflected Scully as she studied her shotglass. 
"That which does not kill you... makes you stronger." 
 
Suddenly the German gasped in horror. Reaching for his 
hankerchief, his sausage-like fingers dabbed at his sticky-bun 
face. 
 
Scully felt her stomach grumble. 
 
"I do hope that dinner shall be served soon," she remarked, 
oblivious to his discomfort. 
 
"Auf Wiedersehen," the man choked, stumbling away from the 
bar. 
 
"Was it something I said?" Scully shrugged at the Russians 
before clinking glasses with them. 
 
"Victor, wait..." Senator Matheson followed the diplomate, 
stopping only to tell her. "Don't you dare go anywhere." 
 
Clearly, he was enamored with her. 
 
So were the Russians, who begged to know her identity. 
 
Retrieving a cigarette from her purse, Scully paused as 
three separate lighters were ignited before her eyes. 
 
"You vant... to know... my name?" She teased, immitating 
their accents as she tapped each lighter with the tip of her 
cigarette. 
 
"It's Souffle...," a voice came from behind her. "Miss Half- 
baked Souffle." 
 
Mulder... 
 
Whirlling around, Scully found herself staring up at her 
partner. 
 
"And, I'm the only one who gets to flick my bic for this 
flaky croissant," he chuckled, lighting her cigarette. 
 
Tossing her head back, Scully exhaled both smoke and 
laughter. 
 
"I see you finally caught up with me, darling," 
 
"Better late than never," Mulder responded. Tucking his 
lighter back into his pocket, he continued, "Or, shall we say 
fashionably late." 
 
"Well, in that tux of yours, I'd say you're the catch," said 
Scully, rising up on her satin pumps to whisper. "By the way, 
you can have the German, dear, but the Russians are mine." 
 
"I think that's enough vodka for you," Mulder snorted, 
taking the glass from her hands. 
 
"Nonsence," protested Scully. "I can drink any man under 
the table." 
 
"Should I unzip my fly now or wait until we're seated for 
dinner?" Mulder murmured in her ear. 
 
Startled, she leaned back against the bar and gave her 
partner an incredulous look. 
 
"Are you toying with me, Mulder?" 
 
"It's your game, spy girl," Mulder replied. "I'm just 
playing by your rules." 
 
"And, what game might that be?" Scully asked indignantly, 
turning away from him. 
 
"Judging by the way you're drinking and that dress, I'd say 
it's somewhere between `spin the bottle' and `bottom's up'." 
 
"Well," she scoffed. "We certainly know which game you 
prefer playing." 
 
Just then, the dinner bell chimed. 
 
It was time to be seated. 
 
 
 
 
Outside the ballroom, the German dignitary was turning 
panicked circles as Senator Matheson tried to calm him. 
 
"You don't understand," he cried loudly. "She knows..." 
 
"She knows nothing, Victor," the senator said. "Her choice 
of words were coincidental." 
 
"I'd hardly call Strughold's classified instructions a 
coincidence," moaned the man. "Don't you realize what they mean? 
I'm to self-terminate my participation in our coalition." 
 
"You're being ridiculous," chided Senator Matheson. 
 
"I'm a dead man," wailed Victor. "By my own hand or by 
Strughold's one-handed assassin." 
 
Just then, the Senator glanced up at the front entrace, 
recognizing the late guest who presented his invitation with his 
prosthetic hand. 
 
Alex Krycek... 
 
And, in his tuxedo, he was "dressed to kill". 
 
 
To be continued... 


Part 4 of ?


     When Scully said she could "drink any man under the table",
Mulder had no idea that she meant it literally.

     At least, the "under the table" part...

     Drinking, shrieking with laughter and singing the Russian
anthem off-key, Scully and her comrades had become the main
attraction of the ballroom.

     As Mulder had become the main laughingstock...

     Both stunned and embarrassed, Mulder tried to steady the
crystal which shook over the fine linen.  Each place setting was
shifting to the left and right as their private table rocked into
public scrutiny.  The Embassy guests didn't know what to make of
it.  Such behavior was a severe breach of etiquette, so
outlandish that they could only stare and gossip in hushed
whispers.

     Humiliated, Mulder realized that his partner had pulled off
one of the best, or worst, practical jokes he'd ever been
subjected to.

     But, this one had gone too far...

     "Scully," Mulder lifted the edge of the tablecloth and
hissed under the table,  "If your plan was to make me look like
the world's greatest asshole, then you've succeeded."

     More laughter...

     Scully peeked out from beneath the table, resting her chin
on Mulder's knees.

     "World's greatest asshole?" she chided softly.  "Isn't it a
bit too late to be concerned about those hot cross-buns of
your's?"

     Clenching his fists, Mulder fought the temptation to stuff
his napkin into his partner's mouth.  Instead, he glared at her
with irate eyes.

     "I am not gay!" he pronounced loudly.  "Got it?  I do not
suck pearls out of oysters, nibble on bonbons or lick swivel
sticks."

     The whole room fell silent.  Even the small orchestra,
warming up for an evening of dancing, paused to listen.

     "Perhaps you should take another look at the menu," Scully
encouraged, her eyes scanning past  Mulder's chair.  "Your
favorite dish is about to be served."

     Alex Krycek.

     He casually draped his arm around Mulder's shoulders.

     "Is now a good time to deny everything, Mulder?"

     "I'll deny you of your one good arm, ratboy, if you don't
fucking get it off of me."

     "Ya tyebya lyublyu..." Krycek murmured, laughing at the
man's obvious discomfort.

     "Want me to translate?" Scully asked.

     "Thanks, but no thanks," snapped Mulder.  "You've done
enough already, Miss United Nations."

     "But, I'm multi-lingual," she hiccuped.  "I speak fluent
Russian, as well as German, French, Italian and Swahili..."

     "Swahili?" Krycek leaned over to get a better look.
"Scully, is that really you?"

     "She's full of shit," growled Mulder.  "Try translating
that."

     "I've been sent to interpret why the two of you are here,"
advised Krycek.  "According to Senator Matheson, he did not
extend you or Scully an invitation."

      "The night is still young for extending invitations,"
replied Scully, stroking the inside of Mulder's thigh.  "And,
before it's over there won't be a man in this room who isn't
madly in love with me."

     "Let's just focus on that mad part... as in insane,"
retorted Mulder, pushing her hand away.

     "Is this some type of joke?" Krycek asked.  "Like an X-
file?"

     "Very funny..." Mulder sneered.

     "Well, there's a certain German diplomat who doesn't share
your partner's sense of humor," advised Krycek.  "Exactly what
did you say to him, Scully?"

     "Look," Mulder interceded.  "It's not what you think,
Krycek.  Hell, I'm not even sure if it's what I think."

     "I'm not paid to think," said Krycek blandly.  "I'm paid to
deliver, which translates into your two heads being served up on
a platter."

     "Thanks, but I think we'll skip dessert," Mulder retorted,
pushing back his chair.

     "Mulder wait...," Scully lifted the tablecloth high enough
so that the Russians were clearly visible to Krycek.  "These
gentlemen would like to have a private word with you, Alex.
Seems likes my partner is not the only one who has friends in
high places."





     "What do you mean we can stay?" Mulder yelled as he paced
the floor of the ladies room while she used the facilities.
"We've got to get the fuck out of here, Scully, as soon as you're
done relieving that pea-sized bladder of yours."

     "Hold your voice down," she admonished.  "It's bad enough
you followed me in here."

     "I'll do more than that," Mulder threatened, shaking the
stall door. "I'm going to hold your head under a cold faucet
until you sober up."

     "You can be such a bitch, Mulder," Scully opened the door,
her hand flying up to her mouth in mock dismay.  "Oops... I mean
bastard."

     Grabbing her by the arm, Mulder propelled her up against the
bathroom wall.  The heat of his body, his breath... his
anger...it was far more intoxicating than vodka.  Arching her
back so that her breasts pressed up against him, she whispered
seductively,

     "What are you going to do, Mulder?  Give me a tongue
lashing?"

     "If only to demonstrate a better use for that tongue of
yours," cautioned Mulder, his lips inches from hers.

     Suddenly, Scully blinked.  For a minute, she lost her focus.
Her mind began to reel backwards, as if a movie was being
replayed before her eyes.  And, it was a scene she wanted to
forget... another lonely evening cooped up in her apartment with
only a T.V. to keep her company.

     "Mulder," she called out to him in a trembling voice.

     "What is it, Scully?"  His grip on her arms tightened as she
clutched the lapel of his tuxedo.

     Shaking the vision apart, she mumbled,

     "Nothing...it's nothing, Mulder."

     "Are you sure?"

     "Five years worth of sure," she said, pushing him away.

     "Is that what all of this about?" he asked, cupping her face
with his hands.  "Are you pretending to be a glamorous spy in an
effort to seduce me?"

     Averting her eyes, she responded bitterly,

     "I wouldn't go to all that trouble, Mulder."

     "Scully..."

     "Actually, I wouldn't put you through it," she sniffed.
"I'm not exactly your cup of tea, am I?"

     "You expect me to answer that without a taste test?" he
mused, lifting her chin with his thumbs.

     At first, Mulder's lips were gentle, so soft and tender that
Scully could have easily mistaken it for a friendly peck.  A low,
frustrated moan rose from her throat.  As she opened her mouth to
let it escape, Mulder's kiss deepened.

     Oh my God, she thought.

     His tongue began leading hers in a tango of taste and
sensations.  It was like imbibing the finest champagne, tingling
her mind while titillating her palate.  Bubbles of giddy delight
floated her up towards the ceiling, making her feel as weightless
as a feather...a balloon...

     A souffle....

     "I'm sorry..."

     Mulder broke away from her, sending her crashing to the
ground.  Fortunately, she was already standing, or she'd not only
be undercooked, but flat on the floor as if she was in a baking
pan.

     "You're sorry?" she gasped.

     "This isn't me...." Mulder shook his head.  "You're drunk
and I'm...."

     "What?" she interrupted angrily. "A bon vivant who prefers
his eggs sunny-side up?"

     "Scully..."

     "It's Scull-aye, remember?" She couldn't help the cynicism
in her voice.  "Like souffle, a tasty dish best served cold."

     "I think you mean revenge,"  Mulder paused, clearly trying
not to laugh.  "It's revenge that is a dish best served cold...."

     "Don't expect me to answer before I take a taste test."
Scully sneered, tossing her head contemptuously as she opened the
door.


To be continued...


Part 5 of ?


     Mulder knew he was in a "no win" situation.  What began as a
game, a practical joke to ease the sexual tension between them,
was now taking on a ironic twist.

     Scully was on the dance floor, twining her body like a
contortionist as she re-enacted "Dirty Dancing" with one of the
Russian dignitaries.

     While he was pressed up against the scrollwork like a
discarded wall-flower.

     "She can waltz, mambo and cha cha," he snipped sarcastically
to himself.  "Hell, give her a couple more drinks and she'll
probably show the Russians how to do the macarena..."

     Worst yet, was that she was an accomplished dancer. Her body
swayed to the music as if she had spent the last five years
partnered with Patrick Swayze instead of Spooky Mulder.

     And, judging by her smile, in which she revealed more teeth
than he'd ever counted, proved that she was, indeed, having the
"time of her life"...

     He couldn't be more miserable.

     The kiss in the bathroom had been a terrible mistake.  Not
that he had initiated it, but because he had broken it off so
abruptly.  Not only did he leave her confused and angry, but once
again convinced that he was gay.

     Why couldn't Miss Souffle understand that he craved only
her?  Didn't she realize that his "fast" was out of respect and
admiration for her?

     Had it been any other woman, he would have gorged himself
like a glutton by now.

     Instead, he was forced to watch Agent "Frito Lay" dip her
leg into rhythm to a salsa beat.

     God, he needed a drink.

     At the very least, it would curb his appetite.

     Leaving the ballroom, Mulder moved up the foyer to where a
bar had been set up to serve after-dinner cordials.  It was then
that he noticed a familiar stench wafting out a slightly cracked
door.  Stopping, he peered inside.

     Cigarette Smoking Man...

     And, the Embassy's host, Herr Strughold.

     Both men were drinking brandy, relaxing in leather chairs as
they viewed several security monitors.  Eyes straining through
the crack of the door, Mulder gasped when he realized who they
were watching.

     The spy girl, herself...

     Scully....

     "Breathtaking, isn't she?" Smoking Man remarked as he took a
deep drag from his cigarette.

     "The Russians seem to think so," responded Strughold,
gingerly sipping his brandy.  "Which is why I told your blood-
hound to back off."

     "Krycek is very adept at sniffing out traitors," advised
Smoking Man.

     "Why bother when the FBI can do it for us?" posed the other
man.  "Obviously, the traitor managed to leak information to
them.  For all we know, it could be Matheson playing a dual
hand."

     "You think Mulder is his trump card?"

     "Mulder?" Strughold chuckled suddenly.  "If he is, then the
Senator's not playing with a full deck."

     Clicking the remote, the German rewound the surveillance
tape.

     From the doorway, Mulder watched in horror as the camera
replayed the dinner scene.  At first, the lens panned back to
give a wide view of the table moving with the force of the
rambunctious revelers beneath it.

     But, then the camera zoomed in on Mulder, magnifying his
startled and embarrassed face.

     Both men joined in the bursts of laughter that reverberate
from the audio tape.

     "What a buffoon," snorted Strughold.  "To think we've spent
so much of our time and resources trying to discredit Agent
Mulder.  No, I think we should shift our attention to his
stunning, titian-haired partner."

     "She has certainly managed to upset the applecart," mused
Smoking Man.  "Perhaps through her, we'll be able to locate our
rotton apple."

     Fuck....

     Mulder pulled away from the door and moved frantically
towards the ballroom.

     He had to get the "apple turnover" out of there.

     But, as flaky as she was acting, Mulder knew that he would
have to turn up the heat.

     He just never expected that his own temperature would rise
in the process.

     Crossing the dance floor, Mulder saw that Scully had found a
new partner.

     And, his prosthetic hand was clamped firmly around Scully's
waist.

     Krycek...

     Cheek pressed to cheek, the ratboy was either whispering
"sweet nothings" into his partner's ear or nibbling on it.

     Either way, Scully seemed to be enjoying it.

     Damn her...

     Revenge was a dish best served cold, but Mulder felt his own
mercury rising with his partner's latest taste test.  And,
without quite realizing it, jealousy heated up an expertise he
didn't even know he had.

     With a demeanor both haughty and lethally assertive, he cut
in.

     "Move aside, twinkletoes...," Mulder said, spinning Scully
from Krycek's arms into his.  "You may be able to shake the
martini, but only I can stir her."

     "From what I hear, you're more interested in sucking the
pimentos out of olives," taunted Krycek.

     "One step closer and I'll see that your olives are pressed
into capers," threatened Mulder.

     "Mulder, stop...." Scully tried to wriggle out of his
embrace.

     Ignoring her pleas, Mulder steered her over to the
orchestra.

     "Por Una Cabeza!" he demanded in a loud, uncompromising
voice.  The violinists paused their bows before launching into
the dramatic Argentinean classic.

     "You want a taste test?" Mulder said, whirlling her
aggressively across the dance floor.  "You've got it..."

     They were perfectly partnered.  Scully responded deftly to
each of his moves, matching each step and pulsing rhythm of the
sensual latin beat.  Her blue eyes held his, widening in delight
as he twirlled her away only to jerk her possessively against his
chest.

     "Consider this an appetizer," Mulder murmured, lifting her
leg so that her thigh was pressed up to his hip.  As he took
several strides back, the toe of her one satin shoe swept along
the floor.

     "Consider my tongue between your legs, savoring you like a
hot, buttered rum..."

     "Mulder..." she gasped.

     "The only `bottom's up' game I intend to play is with your
ass six inches above the bed."

     "Oh my God..."

     When Mulder released her leg, Scully tried to retrace her
steps.

     "No you don't...." Snapping her back into the crook of his
arm, he gave her a rakish grin. "Not until I've worked up your
appetite for the main course."

     "This isn't you, remember?" Scully clutched his arms when he
bent her backwards at the waist.

     Dipping her periously close to the floor, Mulder continued,

     "Why settle for the Russian bourgeois when a gourmet can
offer you something you've never tried before?"

     "What might that be?" Scully asked, her lips quivering
beneath his.

     "Making love with someone who loves you," Mulder murmured,
dropping his facade and revealing the heartache in his eyes.
"Someone who has spent the last five years trying every recipe in
the book to make you want him."

     The tango came to an abrupt halt, both the music and the
dancers.

     "I want you, Mulder." Scully's chest rose and fell as she
cried out in a contorted voice.  "I've never wanted anyone else,
but you."

     Suddenly, the room exploded into a round of applause.
Looking up, the two Bureau turned dance partners realized that it
was for them.

     Even Krycek was somewhat moved by their performance.
Standing on the sidelines, he shook his head with grudging
appreciation.

     "Quite a pair," he snickered.  "The last to waltz, but the
first to tango."



To be continued...


Part 6 of ?

    "My limo or your's?" Scully asked as they raced down the
steps of the Embassy's front portico.

     "Mine's parked right over there," offered Mulder.

     He pointed to his Bureau issued sedan.

     "Not all of us can afford champagne on a beer budget," he
said, giving her an apologetic look.

     "Who cares?" she shrugged, hiking up her dress so she could
trot along side of him.  "My suite as the Jefferson is less than
five minutes away, and after five years of waiting I don't care
how we get there."

     Once inside the car, Mulder reached over and drew the safety
belt across her chest.

     "Let's just try to get there safely," he murmured, his hand
skimming the sleek fabric over her breasts.

     "Safe?" she asked, fluttering her eyelashes seductively. "Do
you really want to play it safe, Mulder?"

     "If only for the next five minutes," he winked, turning on
the ignition.

     When the car screeched into the hotel's driveway, the valet
hurried to open the passenger door.  He was an elderly man,
dressed in full livery including a hat that caught Scully's
attention as much as his eager, wistful smile.  Accepting his

hand, she gracefully slid out of the car.

     "Why, thank you," she smiled. Suddenly, she grabbed the
unsuspecting man and kissed him full on the lips.

     Dazed by such an unusual gratuity, the valet didn't even
notice that she had taken his hat.  Planting it squarely on her
head, she saluted him before marching up the steps.

     "I guess that takes care of the tip," Mulder retorted,
tossing his car keys to the speechless valet.

     Catching Scully by the elevator, he verbally applauded
her.

     "Well, my hat's off to you, too, Miss Croissant.  You've
certainly impassioned every man you've come into contact with
tonight."

     "Including you?" she murmured in a tantalizing voice as the
doors opened.  Stepping into the elevator, she leaned against the
railing and parted her legs invitingly.  "Going up... or going
down...?"

     "Beneath that cool, but definitely flaky crust, you really
are a tasty treat, aren't you?" he snickered.

     "Would you like me to answer that?" she purred, rubbing her
hand along the inside of his thigh. "Or would you prefer to
conduct another taste test?"

     "A Scully sorbet?"

     "Think I can refresh your palate?"

     "Only if you promise to linger on my lips."

     Their banter was dangerously provocative, a play on words
that aroused Scully's mind as much as her body.  She felt giddy
with excitement, thrilled to have finally found herself on her
partner's menu.

     Once inside her suite, Mulder surveyed the lavish
furnishings with cynical interest.

     "The Gunmen paid for this?"


     "But, of course," responded Scully.  She moved over to the
bar.  "Champagne...caviar..."

     "I'm lucky if I get a stale hoagie and a Bud...," he
commented dryly, removing his tuxedo jacket.

     "Maybe they prefer a champagne investigation to a beer
budget X-file," she teased, pointing to a bottle of Dom Perignon
in a chilled, silver urn.  "Should I pop the cork now, or later?"

     "I have a better idea," Mulder said, stripping off his bow
tie and tossing it across the couch.  Before she could respond,
he pulled her against him.  "How about I make you a nice, hot
toddy?"

     "Is that a drink or an offer?" she asked, twining her arms
around his neck.

     Scooping her up, Mulder carried her into the bedroom where a
canopy bed and softly lit fire awaited them.  As he eased her
onto the chintz coverlet, she exhaled with sumptuous abandon.

     It was a scene she had replayed a hundred times. Like a
favorite movie, one that was always guaranteed to be on the
shelf...

     A movie...

     "Mulder?"

     "Scully?"

     He leaned over her, removing the silly hat.

     "Is this real?" she whispered, lifting her fingers to her
forehead.

     For a minute, Mulder held her gaze.

     "It's real," he said, gently stroking her hair.  "We just
managed to fabricate the illusion to compensate for so many
feelings left unspoken."

     Pillow talk...

     They were getting so good at it, lately.

     Suddenly, she felt a sharp pain along the side of her head.
Cringing away from his hand, she gasped.

     "What is it?"  he asked.  When she didn't respond, he
carefully probed her hairline.  "Jesus...that's some bump,
Scully.  Did you hit your head tonight?"

     "Did I?" she repeated uncertainly.

     "Maybe we should have a doctor take a look at it," Mulder
suggested, withdrawing his hand.

     No....

     Blinking, Scully forced the threads of confusion back to
where they belonged...to the back of her mind where she had
stored all her lingerie-clad dreams.

     "Wait," she cried, sitting up on the bed. Pointing to the
mirror over the fireplace, she said.  "Look, Mulder... I see a
doctor..."

     "Scully..."

     "And, she says I'm just fine."

     Collapsing back on the pillow, she giggled.

     "Fine, but a little fruity," Mulder remarked, his face
registering doubt.

     "Consider it an aperitif," she suggested, reaching up to
unbuttoned his shirt.

     "Are you sure?" he asked, his hazel eyes meeting hers.

     "I'm sure..." she whispered, running her hands across his
chest.

     His mouth captured her's.  Gone was the restraint of
tentative, questioning lips.  He devoured her with a hunger of a
man half-starved, driven crazy with want and reckless need.

     Closing her eyes, she gave into the swirling darkness of
sensation.  The tang of his mouth was delicious, like dark
chocolate melting on her tongue, a pure confectionery of
pleasure.

     "More..." she moaned when he lifted his lips.

     "More?" Mulder's eyes assessed her quivering mouth.
"Whatever happened to my calorie conscious partner?"

     "She discovered a gourmet," Scully said, licking her lower
lip to make it more enticing.  "And, he better not be frugal..."

     Her breath was cut short by the feel of his edible kisses
along the side of her neck.  She gasped as he unfastened the
neckline of her gown and glided the material down to her waist.

     His mouth was stirring her, whisking her breasts into two
tender peaks of excitement.  Coating each nipple with a generous
frosting, he waited for them to harden then greedily lick them
off.

     "More?" he lifted his head and grinned like a triumphant
pastry chef.

     "More..." she gurgled, wriggling her hips impatiently
beneath him.  "Make me your tarte au sucre."

     "Sugar pie?" Mulder asked, snorting with laughter as he
eased the gown down her legs.

     "I didn't know you spoke French, Mulder."

     "I didn't know you were packing heat, Miss Souffle."

     He was, of course, referring to her gun which was fastened
to her garter.

     Raising herself up on her elbows, Scully lifted her shapely
leg.

     "Oops, I forgot," she said, watching him slide the elastic
holster down her shimmering hose.

     "You forgot something that was cocked and loaded between
your legs," he chuckled.  "Now, that's definitely open for
interpretation."

     "So is this," murmured Scully, parting her thighs.

     Her white, lacy panties were crotchless.

     "Oh my God..."

     Mulder lowered himself between her legs to get a better
look.

     "Bon appetite," Scully laughed, stretching her arms
luxuriously above her head.

     It was a taste test that intoxicated them both.  Ladeling
moisture as one would Grand Marnier to a flaming dessert, Mulder
was seconds away from igniting her.  Realizing this, he nudged
the lace up with his nose and began sucking her clit as if it was
a liquor-soaked cherry.

     "Oh...."

     She couldn't help but cry out as her orgasm seared through
her.

     Nor could Mulder stop himself from flaunting his sticky,
pleasure-stained mouth.

     "More?" he teased.

     "What?" she gasped.

     "More..." he murmured before lowering his head.

     He was already helping himself to seconds.  This time he
added texture to taste, inserting one finger inside of her and
then another....

     Scully found herself gripping the mahogany headboard.  No
man had ever done this to her before.  When it came to orgasms,
she was a connoisseur.  Quality surpassed quantity.  Yet, Mulder
seemed determined that she experience both.  His fingers were
pulsing in tempo with each flick of his tongue.  What should have
been a relaxing afterglow was quickly building up into an
inferno.

     Her second climax literally exploded from deep within her.
She screamed his name as he guzzled her, his mouth tapping into
the source of her sweet, hot syrup.

     "More?" he lifted his face and smiled at her like an
insatiable glutton.

     "Mulder...." she whimpered, trying to squeeze her trembling
legs shut.

     "What's wrong, my little hot toddy?" Mulder joked, pressing
sticky kisses on the inside of his thigh.  "Can't handle being
the toast of the town?"

     It was a poor choice of words.

     She was, after all, a femme fatale... a world class spy who
was as well-versed in martial arts as she was in love-making.




     Without warning, Mulder found himself in a silken-leg
headlock.  Choking on her perfume scented hose, Mulder gasped for
air as his partner flipped him over onto his back.

     Talk about erotic asphyxiation....

     "That's so much better" she crooned, lowering her legs so
that they straddled his hips.  "You've had your taste test,
Mulder.  Now, it's my turn to sample the coq au vin...

     Unable to speak, much less breathe, Mulder watched her
unfasten the belt of his trousers.

     "Of course taste is a manner of discernment...," Scully
related as she continued to undress him.   "And, like any
gastronome would tell you, taste is the mouth's reaction to what
is put in it."

     To demonstrate, she coaxed his penis into her mouth.

     Well, it didn't take much coaxing...

     But, it did require control... that was not to shove the
"coq" down the "vin" of her throat....

     Swirling her tongue around him like a petulant child with a
candy cane, she paused and gazed up innocently at him.

     "More?" she asked sweetly.

     "Scully...."

     "More," she nodded, going back down on him.

     Oh my God...

     "Scully," he groaned.  "If this is your idea of a taste
test, then I'm about to pass with flying colors... say bursts of
eggshell white...."

     Humming with approval, she increased the suction of her
mouth, taking him in deeper.

     And, like a can of shaken whip-cream, he exploded inside her
mouth.

     With a hearty gulp, she swallowed the "proof of his
affection"....

     "More?" she asked, smacking her lips with relish.

     "You're going to have to give me a minute here," he gasped.

     Pouting, she lifted his wrist and studied his watch...

     "Okay, minute's up," she announced. Wriggling her hips
over his, she leaned up to nip at his earlobe. "Ready for
the entree, Mulder?"

     Gripping the threads of the bedspread, Mulder realized he'd
finally met his match....

     They were quite a pair....

     Agent Souffle and the Galloping Gourmet....

     Except, by the way she was mounting him, he suspected that
she intended to do most of the riding....





To be continued...


Part 7 of ?


     The next morning Mulder woke to the sound of his cell phone
ringing.  Cracking his eye open, he pushed aside the strands of
red hair that was still plastered to his cheek.

     What a night....

     Scully was asleep on top of him, her body twisted around his
like a pretzel, both pliant and salty from the evening's
exertions.  Careful not to wake her, he reached for his phone in
the pile of clothes beside the bed.

     "This better be good," he whispered into the receiver,
thinking it was the Gunmen.

     "Is this Agent Mulder?"

     "Depends on who's asking," he murmured, caressing Scully's
back as she stirred in her sleep.

     "Jack Trader." The caller identified himself.  "Agent
Scully's neighbor."

     "Mr. Esquire," Mulder snickered.  "What's up, Jack... run
out of ambulances to chase?"

     "Nope, got one right here," the lawyer advised.  "It's
picking up a potential client.  Did I tell you that I specialize
in wrongful death?"

     "What?" Mulder sat up suddenly, grimacing as Scully's body
landed beside him with a thud.

     "The police have just found a decently dressed but recently
departed man in Agent Scully's apartment."

     "We'll be right there," he said, clicking off the phone.
Glancing down at his partner, he sighed.

     "So much for breakfast in bed."



     "Mulder, I know this man," Scully said, kneeling over the
corpse in the livingroom of her apartment.  Having taken a quick
peek at his face, she gingerly drew the coroner's sheet back over
his head.  "It's the German diplomate.  I was introduced to him
last night at the Embassy."

     "You're about to make a better acquaintance," Mulder
relayed, having spoken with the D.C. homicide detectives that met
them at the door.  "I want you to do the autopsy."

     "Autopsy?" Scully whined, her fingers recoiling with
distaste.  "But, I just had a manicure yesterday."

     Mulder turned to the detectives and chuckled self-
consciously.

     "Excuse me just a minute."

     Crouching down beside his partner, he whispered,

     "It's time to take off the ball gloves, glamour girl and
snap on some latex.  This is serious."

     "I am being serious," she said, mimicking his stern
expression.

     "Quit fucking around," he retorted, exasperated by her
attitude.   "We need to know what killed this man."

     "Fine," she retorted.  Yanking the sheet off, she pointed at
the gaping hole in the man's tuxedo.

     "Cause of death is a penetrating bullet wound through the
chest," she announced in a crisp voice. "Autopsy concluded."

     "Scully..."

     "Mulder..." she leaned forward to murmur in his ear.  "I'm a
world-class spy.  I captivate men's hearts.  I don't dissect
them."


     "You're acting like a world-class wacko," he hissed.  "And,
right now the role your supposed to be playing is a pathologist,
not comic relief."

     Suddenly she flinched, her eyes squeezing shut tightly.

     "Scully," Mulder reached out to support her arm as she
wavered unsteadily.  "You okay?"

     "Agent Mulder...."  One of the detective's approached them.

     "Not now," Mulder growled, helping Scully to her feet.

     "Not ever," the man said, pointing to the German's passport.
"The autopsy, I mean.  This man is a foreign dignitary.  That
knocks it out of the Bureau's ball park."

     Glancing at the passport, Mulder nodded.

     "All the way back to Herr Strughold's Field of Dreams," he
said cynically.  "Looks like this man was the German Ambassador
to Tunisia..."



     Once they were alone, Mulder went into Scully's kitchen to
make her a hot cup of tea.  Standing at the counter, he found
himself not only seeping bags, but simmering over his partner's
behavior.

     What was supposed to be a practical joke, a game both
sophisticated and sexy, was now just a frightening dilemma.

     Glancing over to the couch, he watched Scully tap her
fingertips methodically against her lips.  Perhaps she was
finally coming to her senses, realizing that her little plot
device had introduced danger into their story line.

     When she stopped to examine her nail polish, Mulder frowned
and returned his attention to the tea cup.

     "Mulder, why do you suppose the German ambassador came here
last night?"

     "Maybe he, too, was captivated by your Oscar winning
performance," he answered sarcastically.

     Performance....

     Withdrawing the tea bag, Mulder stared at it as ideas began
to trickle from his overly saturated brain.

     "Scully, exactly what did you say to Victor last night?"

     "I've been replaying that scene, myself." she commented.  "I
think it was something like `that which does not kill you makes
you stronger'."

     "Why would you say that?"  Balancing the cup as well his
tone, Mulder moved cautiously towards the couch.

     "I don't know," Scully answered in a hesitant voice.  "I
must have heard it in a movie, once."

     The cup suddenly fell from his hands and crashed to the
floor.

     A movie....

     Friday's night selection...

     A preview of Saturday's coming attraction.

     The rental tape was still in her VCR.  Rewinding it to the
beginning, Mulder stood for several minutes in front of the T.V.
as the truth played out across the screen.

     Scully had said it, herself.

     A movie about an ordinary woman, whose "partner" took her
for granted.

     Oh my God....

     "She gets into an accident... sustains a concussion and a
type of amnesia...."

     The bump on her head...

     "She wakes up and believes she's a glamorous spy...."

     How could he have been so blind?

     Probably because he, too, was dazzled.  Especially by last
night's glittering finale.

     Turning to gaze at her, he saw the panicked tears in her
eyes.

     "It's all breaking apart, isn't it?"

     "No," Mulder tried to reassure her. "I think it's all coming
together."

     "I have to go," she cried, springing up from the couch.  "I
need to ... to save the world, to get my nails done..."

     "This isn't you, Scully," he caught her by the arms and
tried to reason with her.  "It's a character in a movie."

     "No!"

     Breaking away from him, she ran towards the door.

     Within seconds, he was behind her, tugging her into his
arms.  She fought him, her fists pounding against his chest as
hysterical tears streamed down her face.  When he finally
restrained her hands, she closed her eyes and shuddered.  And,
like any grand dame of the stage, she fell forward into a
swooping bow.

     Except the curtain had already fallen.

     She had fainted.




     "How are you feeling?"

     Scully lowered the hospital blanket a fraction of an inch so
she could peep towards the door.

     Oh God...

     It was him....

     Her co-star, Agent Gourmet.

     Except now, this souffle wasn't half-baked.  Exposed to the
searing heat of humiliation, she felt her blood bubble up to
flame her cheeks.  No wonder she had to use the blanket like some
type of pot holder.

     "I brought you some flowers," Mulder said sheepishly,
entering her room.  His eyes widened with surprise when he saw
the enormous bouquets across from her bed.

     She accepted the bunch of wilted daisies from him, quickly
withdrawing her hand when his fingers made contact with her skin.

     Mulder was obviously uncomfortable.  Unable to meet her
eyes, he crossed the room to study the card that came with the
two dozen red roses.

     "The Gunmen..." he said cynically to himself. "Guns and
Roses... how appropriate.  No wonder I couldn't reach them.  Out
of town, on their latest cross-country tour."

     "It's not their fault, Mulder," she protested.

     Not answering her, Mulder moved on to the next three floral
arrangements.

     "The Russians..." he sneered.

     Creeping further under the blanket, she nodded.

     The last vase held a rare, exotic orchid.

     "Ya tyebya lyublyu," he read the card aloud.  "It's signed
Alex.  That's in Alex Krycek, Scully.  What the fuck do these
words mean, anyway?"

     "They mean I love you...," she offered, too embarrassed to
laugh.  "But, Mulder... the envelope is addressed to you."

     Groaning, he sank into a chair and buried his face into his
hands.

     "What a nightmare."

     "A nightmare?" Scully heard an icy edge creep into her
voice.  "Your's or mine?  I'm the one who just spent the last
forty-eight hours traipsing around D.C. in little more than
garters and spiked heels."

     "Scully...." he began, lifting his head to give her an
apologetic look.

     Ignoring his expression, she continued to vent her anger.

     "But, rather than stop me, to pause and consider that your
partner was acting like a liquor-soaked fruitcake, you let me
make a fool of myself."

     "I tried...."

     "You tried?" She asked, her tone rising an octave.  "Exactly
when did you try, Mulder?  Was that before or after you stuck
your tongue into the meringue for a taste test?"

     "I'd say `more', but I think I've had `enough'," Mulder
barked, rising from his chair.  "If you had one ounce of fiber
instead of all that gristle, maybe this would have never
happened."

     "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

     "It means that if you had expressed your feelings, you
wouldn't have been sitting home on Friday nights watching stupid,
B-rated movies."

     "Get out, Mulder."

     She knew he would stop at the door.  He was never content to
let her get in the last word.

     "I miss her," Mulder said, turning around to give her a
bittersweet smile.  "Agent Souffle, that is..."

     "She was a character in a movie," sniffed Scully, lifting
the daisies to hide the tears in her eyes.

     Nodding, Mulder left her room.

     "I miss her, too," Scully whispered, crying into the soft
petals of the flowers.




     "I appreciate your coming to get me," Scully said the next
morning as they left the hospital.

     "What are girlfriends for?" Jack laughed, carrying her bouquets.

     "Especially considering how I stole your car," she lowered her
eyes to the sidewalk.

     "Borrowed it," the lawyer corrected her.  "Well, maybe
you can return the favor sometime.  You can loan me a bureau-issued
sedan... and the G-man that likes to shoot tires out from
underneath it."

     "Oh, Jack..." Scully almost smiled through her tears.  "I think
I'd better set you straight about Agent Mulder."

     "Nah," the man laughed.  "I already know which side of the
street he prefers to park his car."

     Pointing to the parking lot, he added,

     "And, judging by his curb-side demeanor, so does he."

     Glancing up, Scully saw that Mulder was standing by his car.
The passenger side door was open, waiting for her.

     "I'm sorry," he called out to her.  "For every single Friday night you 
were lonely."

     "Mulder..."

     She took a step closer.

     So did he.

     "For not telling you how much you mean to me," he continued.  "I'm not 
in love with a character from a movie. I'm in love with you,   Scully.  And, 
if you're willing to give me a second chance, I'll prove it."

     "Sounds like another taste test," she murmured, lifting her lips
to his.

     Watching them kiss, Jack sighed and shifted the flowers into
the backseat of Mulder's car.

     "Some girls get all the luck," he grumbled.

     Suddenly, he was pushed face-first on top of the roses.  When
the door slammed behind him, he jumped up in surprise.

     Mulder and Scully were being escorted to a limousine that had
just pulled into the hospital's parking lot.

     At gunpoint....

     Jack tried to scream, but couldn't.

     Like any dancing queen, he had managed to get a long-stemmed rose
caught between his teeth.

     But, one of the thugs thought he was enchanting...

     The man with the prosthetic arm gave him a knowing wink.

     Oh.... Talk about a hottie....


To be continued...

Part 8 of 8



"You don't understand," Mulder repeated, feeling his temples
throb as the blood pounded inside his head. "Scully thought she
was a character in a movie."

"A movie...," Strughold murmured to his colleague. "Is
there no limit to this man's absurdity?"

"You're talking about Fox Mulder," Smoking Man scoffed.
Tilting his head to study the agent's pained expression, he
continued with amusement, "Of course, now that he's strung up
like the `catch of the day', I'm sure we'll hook a more
plausible explanation."

"Go fish," snapped Mulder. Straining against the ropes that
dangled him upside down from the beams of the Embassy's attic,
he glanced over at Scully.

His side dish, the bubbly, effervescent Souffle was swinging
next to him like a rope of red hot chili peppers. Face flushed
red with embarrassment, not to mention constricted blood vessels,
she said loudly,

"This has got to be the most ridiculous interrogation
technique known to espionage."

"I'm with her," Strughold agreed. "Why can't we just do this
the old-fashioned way and shoot one of them?"

"Ask our Russian blood-hound," Smoking Man nodded towards
Krycek. "This was his idea..."

"Well?" Strughold glared at Krycek who was securing the
ropes. "Is this supposed to be some type of proletarian water
torture?"

"Let's just say that I saw it in a movie once." Krycek
snickered, giving Mulder's head a push so he spun like a tether-
ball.

"I'm not interested in slap-stick comedy," Strughold
growled. "I want answers...now!"

"For a man who attempts to grow corn in a desert, I would
think you'd have more patience." shrugged Krycek.

"A valuable piece of technology has been stolen,"
conveyed the man. "Victor went to Agent Scully's apartment to
trade it for what he thought was protection against a death
threat."

"That which does not kill you makes you stronger," Smoking
Man recited. "Obviously, the German ambassador misread the
script."

"Perhaps he was merely fed his lines," offered Krycek,
grinning at Scully.

"Enough," thundered Strughold. "You have exactly thirty
minutes to wrap up this farce you call drama, Krycek. Or, your
next feature will make `Pulp Fiction' look like a fairy tale."

"Spoken like an executive producer," Krycek murmured as the
two men left the attic. "As usual, they have no appreciation for
the director's vision."

"View this," Mulder taunted. "Never seen before out-takes
of Alex Krycek being `taken out'."

"It was you...." Scully gasped suddenly, her blue eyes
bulging with exertion. "You killed the German and stole the
nanotechnology data."

"I'd like to thank my supporting cast," Krycek announced,
mimicking an Oscar acceptance speech. "Especially my leading
lady... that's Scully, by the way... not you, Mulder."

Twisting her body around, Scully murmured to her partner,

"Krycek set us up."

"No shit," Mulder grumbled, trying to work the rope that
bound his hands behind his back. "He's also strung us up, Miss
Frito Lay. Care to pull out another useful tidbit from your bag
of chips?"

"Here's one," Krycek offered as he opened the attic window
and climbed out to the ledge. "Pay a little more attention to
your partner's choice of movies, Mulder. Unlike you, she is
really is a world-class spy."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Mulder asked,
watching Krycek make his escape.

"It means I'm not the only one who spends their Friday
nights scavenging the shelves of a video store," retorted Scully.
"He's not only seen the movie, Mulder, he's re-enacting it."

"Okay," Mulder said cynically. "How would the Grande Dame
of the American theater play out this scene?"

"Swing your body towards mine," Scully instructed, rocking
sideways towards him. "Try to catch my hands."

"Like this?"

"That's my hair, Mulder," she said in an exasperated voice.
"Lower..."

"Gotcha...." Mulder felt her fingers tug at the rope that
bound his hands. Within seconds, he was loose.

"Untie your feet," she urged. "Hurry..."

Hoisting his body upwards, Mulder unraveled the knot at his
ankles and freed himself.

"This was in the movie?" he asked, dropping to the floor.
"Talk about a waste of good rope and inverted positions."

"You can re-write the climax later," relayed Scully as he
untied her hands. "For now, let's just end this misadventure."





"C'mon Mulder," Scully hissed, retracing her steps along the
ledge. "Now's not the time to develop a fear of heights."

Following Krycek's escape route, she and Mulder were inching
their way along the steeply pitched roof of the Embassy.

"Don't they use stuntmen for scenes like this?" he whined,
his feet overhanging the narrow ledge. "Why couldn't we just
escape the old-fashioned way, like using the stairs?"

"The plot dictates otherwise," Scully conveyed, stretching
out her hand. "Here, let me help you."

Just then a bullet grazed the tile above them, splintering
bits of slate in her eyes. Crying out, she lost her balance and
teetered perilously close to the edge.

All of a sudden, Mulder assumed the role of an action-packed
hero. Forgetting his phobia, he grabbed her around the waist and
pulled her against him. When the second shot ricocheted off the
pediment, he pushed her up a crowstep gable to where a brick
chimney offered temporary refuge.

"Can you see?" he asked, crouching before her, his
fingertips brushing the grit from her eyes.

"Enough to realize that someone's trying to kill us." she
gasped.

"C'mon Scully," he spoken in a low, joking voice.
"Someone's always trying to kill us."

"That's not funny," she protested, turning around to peek
around the chimney.

"Just a worn-out theme," Mulder added, pointing over her
shoulder. "But, it looks like the plot has shifted in a
different direction."

The guards who had been taking shots at them like clay
pigeons were now focusing their aim on the Consortium's stool
pigeon.

Krycek....

Having scurried down the drain pipe, the ratboy was weaving
his way through the Embassy's rose garden to where a black
Porsche was waiting for him.

"You've got to be kidding," Scully breathed in disbelief.
"Jack?"

"Looks like your neighbor's found someone else to shift his
gears," snorted Mulder.

"You think he was in on this?"

"Who knows? Maybe he just knows a good lube job when he
see's one," Mulder responded sarcastically. "Either way, the
guards are chasing them so that allows us to escape."

"The drain pipe...," she squeaked in dismay.

"Unless you can think of a better way," Mulder said, coaxing
her towards the edge of the roof. "How did the characters in the
movie do it?"

"First, they professed their love for each other," began
Scully, sliding carefully down the slate tiles after him. "Then,
they jumped hundreds of feet into a rock-filled river."

Both of them stopped and glanced over the side of Embassy's
roof.

"I don't think that pebble-filled bird bath is deep enough,"
assessed Mulder.

Turning to gaze into each other's eyes, both said in unison,

"The drain pipe..."




"So, what's the Friday night selection?" Scully asked her
partner a week later.

"Nothing to do with throats being deep or a five letter word
used to describe a cat," he snickered.

As she carried a bowl of popcorn from the kitchen, he loaded
the tape into her VCR.

"Give me a hint," she purred, curling up next to him when he
joined her on the couch.

"Give me a question," Mulder smiled. "Or, a lick."

"Is the movie a rental or is it from your personal archive?"

"Rental...," he hinted, enjoying the sound of her levity.

Not quite a snicker, never a giggle, her laughter didn't
define her...

She defined it.

Except, now Scully had a gourmet to entice her frugal sense
of humor.

And, share her popcorn....

"I'll give you a clue," he said. "It's about the
misadventures of a world-class spy."

Groaning, Scully reached for a pillow and took a swipe at
him.

"What?" Mulder feigned pain as it hit his shoulder. "Are we
now replacing pillow talk with pillow fights?"

"No more," she asserted. "I've had enough."

"That's not what you said earlier, Miss Tarte Au Sucre,"
Mulder reminded her.

"I'd rather watch anything else... do anything else."

"We could always go dancing," he teased. "I hear the
Argentinean Embassy is hosting a tango contest."

"Now that you mention it," Scully interrupted, toying with
the fringe on the pillow. "Where did you learn how to dance like
that?"

"Observe...." Mulder turned on the movie with the remote
control. "It's one of my all-time favorites."

Several minutes later, she gasped with surprise.

"`True Lies'? As in Arnold Schwarzenagger?"

"As in Jamie Lee Curtis..." he added. "Talk about a hot
dish."

"Which one?" She gave him a smug grin. "The actor or the
actress?"

"I thought we answered that question, already," Mulder
reached over and pulled her onto his lap. "Or, is that your way
of asking me for another taste test?"

Before she could respond, he was licking the salty butter
off her lips.

Maybe this Friday night ritual wasn't such a bad idea, after
all.

Maybe she should spill some popcorn down the front of her
shirt to see if he would nibble his way down to her breasts.

"Here's the scene you've been waiting for," Mulder broke
away and turned up the volume. "Por Una Cabeza!"

Arching her head to the side, Scully watched the famous
tango sizzle cross the screen. Her heart began to race to the
tempestuous beat of the music... the seductive dance steps...

But, in her mind she imagined the re-enactment of two
characters...

Not fictitious...

Just perfectly partnered.

"Notice how she lifts her leg so that it's anchored around
his neck." prompted Mulder.

"Notice how she's not a good six inches shorter than her
partner," she noted.

"Couldn't help but notice several pairs of six inch heels in
your bedroom closet," he urged.

"Then, what are we waiting for?" Scully rose from the couch
and extended her hand.

Grinning, Mulder reached for the remote and turned off the
movie.


The End