From: Jori <damienma@bellsouth.net>
Date: Wed, 01 Mar 2000 18:27:33 GMT
Subject: NEW: 'Dust Mites' 1/4 by MoJo and Jori NC-17/MSR

Title: Dust Mites 1/4
Authors: Jori Remington and MoJo
E-Mails: damienma@bellsouth.net and mojober@aol.com
Rating: NC-17
Category: SHR
Keywords: MSR/HUMOR
Archive: Yes. Spooky award archivists, this can be found at:
http://netroenterprises.com/stories/hpdustmites.html
Disclaimer: Not ours. They belong to CC, 1013 and FOX
Summary: A hot night. Adjoining rooms. A missing key. A rain storm. A
leaky roof. One bed. Ahhh.... the simple pleasures of motel fic
cliches.

Authors' Notes: Inspired for our love of fonts and cheap, sleazy motel
fic, 'Dust Mites' can be found at http://fonts.linuxpower.org/ and
probably any Motel 6.

We have both done them and we know it. We are guilty as charged. The
motel/hotel fic. We are lightheartedly making fun of ourselves. If it
weren't for a stormy night (okay, a hurricane), an adjoining room and
a power outage, there would be no Christopher Ryan. If it weren't for
a snow storm in St. Louis trapping two special agents in a hotel near
the holidays, there would be no Weekend Series. Where would X-Files
fan fiction writers be be without hotels and some wonderful cliches?

************

Gulfport, Mississippi
2:35 a.m.

Shit.

Where is it?

I put it in my pocket. I know I did. I try to catch my breath as I pat
down my pockets one more time. These are running shorts, for
chrissakes. If I didn't find the key by now, it isn't here. I squat
down, trying to catch my breath, as I consider my next move.

The humid early morning air is infused with the smell of the Gulf and
of shrimp. And of me. Hopped up after yesterday's discovery, I could
sleep so I ran seven miles instead. Upon my return, I discovered I
lost my key somewhere during those miles. Well, technically, since I
ran the same path there and back, the key could be somewhere in those
three and a half miles.

I bang on the window to the front office and shake the door. The 'No
Vacancy - We're Closed' sign rattles on the other side of the glass
but no one comes to my aid. Obviously, the '24 hour On-Site
Management' promised by this lovely establishment in crooked, painted
on letters didn't really mean this hour. Maybe they meant another 24
hour time span.

Suddenly, rain begins to beat its way across the parking lot, racing
toward me faster than I can get to where the awning will offer minimal
protection. Now I'm not only dripping in sweat, but I'm also soaked
with warm rain. At least it kills the fragrance of me a bit.

Leaning back against the glass, trying to stay dry, I know what I must
do. I have only one option now and it isn't a good one. I have to wake
up Scully.

Scully, my partner who didn't say a word more than five words to me
after we left the Gulfport Police Headquarters. Scully, who spent the
better part of the week in the Midwest looking at cattle mutilations
with me and who performed two autopsies at my request just this
morning even though the county had a perfectly good pathologist who
could do them. Scully, who jumped on a plane with me late this
afternoon and listened to my latest theory on the latest deaths
occurring up and down this region of the Gulf coast just long enough
for her to rip it apart so wide the Mississippi could flow into it and
get lost.

Now I have to bang on her door and tell her I lost my key and could
she let me pick the lock to the adjoining door. Well, at least that
was lucky. We never get adjoining rooms. I don't think we necessarily
want to be that close after a day of 'togetherness.' Especially if
that day includes obese dead men with farmer tans.

Well, I'm one lucky man tonight. Her light is still on. She's probably
banging away on her laptop, finishing some report and trying hard to
explain what business the FBI would have with six mutilated Guernseys.

I rap softly at her door and call her name. "Scully?"

No answer. Pressing my ear against the door I can't even hear a heavy
sigh of disgust. Maybe she fell asleep and I'm going to be stuck out
here for the night. Well, I do have another option . . .

The door swings open in front of me and I almost lose my balance and
crash in. I catch myself on the door frame and the look on her face
shows not one glimmer of amusement. Actually, that normally expressive
face shows nothing but contempt.

"What do you need?" she asks, holding the door stationary so I can't
see in easily.

"Did I wake you?" I ask, peering easily over my shoulder. Her laptop
is on the bed, the blue glow cast from its screen reflecting off the
peeling beige wallpaper attempting to cover the walls.

"No, I was just finishing up. What do you need?" she asks again,
crossing her arm and bracing the door with her foot.

"I, uh, lost my key while I was jogging . . ."

"Why don't you get another one at the office?" she asks as if I hadn't
thought of that novel idea myself.

"The office is closed. I banged on their door for a half an hour," I
lie. I lean casually up against the doorframe, waiting for her to
invite me in.

"Did you go back and retrace you steps? Maybe you could find it . . ."

"Scully, I just ran for over seven miles and now you want me to do it
again to find a key?" I asks and I can tell she really wants to nod
her head 'yes.'

Instead, she rubs her temples while she tries to figure out how to get
me out of her doorway and into my room.

"You can't break in?" she asks, looking down at the lock and realizing
that would be harder than it sounds with what I have on me. "Or you
can try my key. Maybe they are the same -- like luggage keys."

"Scully, give me the keys to the car and I'll go get the lock pick and
get to my room through yours," I say. I bounce in place, my muscles
still burning from my run. It is hot out tonight, even with the rain,
and all I want to do is take a shower and go to bed.

"I'd love to, Mulder, but you have our only keys and if you don't have
them on you . . . well, I don't know what to tell you," she says,
looking me over. All I'm wearing is a pair of running shorts, my shoes
and a soaked t-shirt. There would be no where for me to keep the keys.

"Fine. Well, goodnight, Scully. I'll see you tomorrow. Flight's at
ten, right?" I ask as I begin to walk away. Damn. Now I have to resort
to desperate measures.

"Where are you going to go?" she calls after me as I begin to step out
into the rain. I stop and think for a moment about my answer. I even
go as far as to bite my bottom lip while formulating my plan. I hate
having to do that.

"I think Det. Cullen lives just about a mile from here. I'll just jog
over there . . ."

"You can stay on the couch in my room," she says a little too quickly
and I smile. "Until we can figure out how to get you back into your
room."

"What? You don't like Det. Tessa Cullen?" I ask, putting on the
smuggest look I have. I begin to walk slowly toward her and out of the
rain, my hands on my hips.

I'm sure Scully loves Tessa Cullen. The Gulfport detective just about
drooled every time we were in the same room together today. Even
invited 'us' out to dinner, but looked at Scully with the evil eye.
Scully turned her down for both of us and we went on our way. She
called me in my room earlier tonight, letting me know that if I needed
anything, she lived on some street with the word Gulf in it and to
drop by anytime.

"Detective Cullen is a very competent peace officer. It's just late
and I wouldn't want you to disturb her at this hour. She has to work
in the morning, you know," Scully says, as I lean against her door
frame again.

"I'm sure she won't mind," I say. I reach out and touch her arm
briefly, but she pulls back enough to break the contact.

"But what would you wear for pajamas?" she asks and I answer her with
only a grin. I'm familiar enough with Tessa's type to know that I
could jog over there, get my rocks off and jog back here but that
isn't what I want.

"Come on, Scully. I'll sleep on the little couch. I'm used to it. You
won't even know I'm here," I say as she finally lets me by and into
her room. I look at the loveseat and shrug. "I think it pulls out. Is
it hot in here or is that just me?"

The room is just as crappy as any other motel we've ever been in. This
one comes with a double bed and a couch that is supposed to turn into
what I'm sure is a very uncomfortable and lumpy bed. We also never
have much luck with temperature control in any of our rooms.

"No, it isn't just you. The air conditioner died about two hours ago
and I called the office but no one answered. What *are* you going to
sleep in?" she asks, looking at my sweat and rain soaked shorts as
they cling to my body.

"I'll take a shower, sleep in this. It's late. I don't care," I say,
heading toward the bathroom.

"After an afternoon of chasing pirate ghosts, I guess even *you* would
be tired," she mumbles under her breath, but I catch it.

Then the last thing I hear as I shut the bathroom door is a that heavy
sigh of disgust.

************

Shit.

Now my room smells like the Gulf, shrimp and sweaty Mulder. I follow
the trail of wet footprints across the brown shag carpeting to the
bathroom door. Inside, Mulder is banging around as the pipes squeak
their protest at being violated once again this evening.

"I probably used all the hot water earlier," I yell out. "I don't know
how much you're going to get tonight."

"Don't worry, Scully. I'm getting some," Mulder yells back in such a
tone that I know he isn't just talking about hot water.

I sit back down on the bed, slam my laptop closed and toss it on the
nightstand in disgust. I wasn't really getting anywhere on my report
anyway. Not even *I* can explain six vivisected bovines, two dead
farmers and a 'pirate ghost.' I'm sure Skinner is going to get a good
laugh at what I've got so far, I know it amuses the hell out of me.

And who do I have to thank for this? Mulder, who kept carrying on
incessantly about obese farmers and Guernseys all the way from the
Gulfport Police Headquarters to this godforsaken dump. Mulder, who
dragged me out to the Midwest to ogle cattle mutilations with him then
made me performed two autopsies at his request first thing this
morning despite the fact this county had their own resident
pathologist who could have gotten his ass out of bed instead of me.
Mulder, who dragged me on a plane cramped beside him in coach this
afternoon and proceeded to give me a dissertation on the latest deaths
to which I had plenty to say.

Now he shows up at 2:35 in the morning, banging on my door with some
stupid story about losing his key and can he pick the lock on the
adjoining door and wouldn't it be terrible if he has to run all the
way over in the rain to Det. Cullen's so she can fuck him as payment
for her hospitality. I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction.

I hear another squeak in the direction of the bathroom, only this time
it's the door. It's too small for the frame and it doesn't close
right. It's opening on its own. The room starts to fill with steam,
making it even more unbearably hot. All I've got on is my underwear
and terrycloth robe and now I can't change into anything else until he
gets out of the bathroom. What's taking him so long, anyway?

My eyes drift up to the ever-widening crack of the door. Behind the
frosted glass shower stall, I can make out Mulder's tall form. And
he's using my pleasure puff to lather up his body with the
complimentary Ivory soap. Now I'm really pissed. Is nothing sacred to
him?

I get up to close the door discreetly, but then he turns around.
Giving me an albeit fuzzy view of his naked ass. I stop momentarily as
I see one hand slip between his legs. I hope he's not doing what I
think he's doing in my shower. And he better not be thinking about
Det. Cullen while he's doing it either. I slam the door shut angrily.

"Scully?" Mulder asks, obviously alarmed by the sound.

"The door, Mulder," I answer loudly, obviously irritated. "It doesn't
close right."

I sit back down in the center of bed cross-legged. I reach for the
worn copy of "Explore Mississippi" magazine on the other nightstand
and throw it open to any page so it looks like I'm paying attention to
anything else besides Mulder. He's not the goddamn center of the
universe anyway, despite what he thinks. I don't care that he's here.
I don't care that he's naked. I don't
care he's going to be sleeping just ten feet from me.

"Reading up on the Pirate's Ghost?" he asks and I look up.

Mulder walks towards me, clad only in wet jogging shorts and a towel
that he's rubbing vigorously over his head. The shorts cling to his
semi-erect member.

"That's what you're reading, isn't he?" he continues, as he comes a
little closer. He casually throws the towel over one shoulder, leaving
his hair spiking up in all directions.

My eyes snap downwards and sure enough, I'm on a page entitled 'Local
Legends.'

Mulder crawls across the bed on his stomach to meet me in the middle,
reclining beside me and dripping water over the bedspread. He smells
like Ivory soap and his own musky, Mulder scent.

"Horn Island Lighthouse," he reads, lips turning up at the word
'horn.' "Did you read that one yet?"

"No," I answer, scanning the page for something--anything that's proof
I was actually reading this article. I point down at the second
paragraph. "I'm still enthralled with the Legend of Chaffi and
Tuculo."

He gets nice and comfortable beside me, like we're at some
prepubescent slumber party. "The former station was washed away and
the keeper, his wife and their daughter drowned. Fishermen hold that
this light is an unlucky place and rarely pass within hailing distance
of it."

I roll my eyes.

"Don't like that one?" he asks, eyes all lit up with bemusement at my
frustration. He rotates his hips and gets even more comfortable.
"Here's the one I was referring to. The Pirate House."

"Do enlighten me," I say, forcing my mind to stare at the glossy
spread and not the spread of his buttocks beneath his wet shorts.

"After she turned off the living room light and started up the
staircase, Mrs. James W. Falkner screamed. Standing at the top of the
stairs was a death-like image of a man who's stare was almost
hypnotic. When Mrs. Falkner moved towards, him vanished into
nothingness," Mulder reads. He brushes my knee with his fingers.
"Getting scared yet, Scully?"

"Oh, I'm just shivering with anticipation," I answer sarcastically.

"Blood stained walls, unexplained moans, screams and ghostly
apparitions had long been a part of the Pirate House mystique," he
continues eagerly. "The 1930's incident was one of the many incidents
stretching over..."

Does he really think I care about this stuff after all that's happened
today? What I really want to do is climb into bed. Just because he
doesn't sleep doesn't mean the rest of us don't need to. Outside, the
storm is getting louder and louder as the rain pelts against windows.
At least it's muffling the sound of the couple next door having sex.
Or maybe they're just resting before starting up again. That's all I
need to be trapped in this room with Mulder to the sounds of "yes,
Larry" and "give it to me, Larry" all night. Although, Mulder will
probably love it since he doesn't have to pay $4.99 a minute for it.

"The large house reportedly was built in 1802 by a New Orleans
businessman who moonlighted as a pirate and financial agent for Jean
Lafitte and his Barataria pirates. Some accounts say the house
actually belonged to Lafitte. A tunnel ran from the water's edge to
the house's basement, which some believed doubled as a holding place
for 'black ivory" or illegally smuggled slaves. . ."

I'm not shivering with anticipation. I lied. I'm sweating. It's so
damn humid and hot in this room now thanks to his shower. I reach up
and wipe the sweat off my neck and clavicles, then snake my hand
beneath my robe and rub into my neck muscle. It is one huge knot that
keeps getting tighter and tighter the longer Mulder keeps reading.
Doesn't he know what he's doing to me? Doesn't he care how tense I am?
Can't he just shut up and let me get some sleep?

"In the mid 1930's when the Singreens bought the house, a family
photograph was snapped of everyone standing on the front gallery
steps. When it was developed, an image of a man in shirt sleeves could
be seen at the window of an upstairs room..." Mulder stops and rolls
over on his side, head propped up on his elbow as he stares at me
intensely. "Scully? What's wrong?"

"My neck hurts," I say, continuing to knead it with my fingers to no
avail. "Two autopsies on dead obese farmers did me in."

"Sorry," he mutters, scrambling into an upright position. Before I
know it, Mulder is sitting behind me, his warm body pressed up against
my back. "Here, let me. It's the least I can do."

Before I can cite some FBI code of conduct, his hands slip the back of
my robe down and settle on my skin. I close my eyes, soaking in the
touch of his fingers as he starts to massage the trapezius muscles of
my neck. Involuntarily, a tiny moan escapes my parted lips.

"You're tight," Mulder whispers, as his warm breath skims across the
nape of my neck.

"Just a little," I say, raising an eyebrow at the other connotation to
his words. His thumbs dig into my aching muscles and work the knots
out in small circles, releasing tension with every revolution. So
Mulder is good for something after all. Very good, actually.

"Lower? Higher?" he asks in a hushed whisper. Outside, the thunder is
clapping louder and louder as the flashes of lighting rip across the
sky. One-one thousand. Two-one thousand. Three one-thousand. Crash.
The storm must be almost on top of us now.

"Lower," I reply, wetting my lips. I arch my back against his hands
and lean into his touch. I feel the robe shift a little farther down
my body as he starts on my rhomboideus muscles. The bra strap hinders
him across my back, but he maneuvers around it skillfully. I bet he
could snap it off in one motion if he really wanted to.

"Jesus Christ, Scully. You let six dead cows upset you this much?" he
muses, holding onto one of my shoulders for leverage as he makes a
fist and twists into another knot with his other hand.

"No, I let you upset me this much," I say, looking over my shoulder at
him. He's smiling like the cat that ate the canary.

"Do I really make you this tense?" he asks slyly. He leans into my
body and whispers, "God knows what else I do that you're not sharing."

One one-thousand. Two-one thousand. Crash.

At that comment, a rush of heat and moisture flows to my nether
regions. Damn it. Damn him. Damn it. He knows exactly what he's doing.

"Mulder, that's enough," I say sharply, flustered and frustrated at my
body's reaction. I'm not going to be some substitute for Det. Cullen,
damn it. I adjust my robe back up my shoulders and scoot forward away
from him. The magazine goes flying off the bed and onto the floor.
"It's almost 3:00 a.m. and I have to get some sleep."

I get up angrily and grab one of the flat, dingy pillows and tuck it
under my arm. With both hands, I take hold of the bedspread and start
yanking, forcing Mulder to roll off my bed so I can strip it off.

"Scully?" he asks cautiously. Before he can get another word in, I
hand him pillow and shove the bedspread into his arms. I don't want to
be sleeping under that nasty thing anyway. It is probably full of dust
mites.

"You can have the bedspread, Mulder," I say, turning down what's left
of bed for myself. He stands there like a dog that's been kicked out
for the night. All sad and confused with his hazel eyes staring back
at me pleading to be let back in.

"I don't want it," he protests, looking down at it. "It smells musty."

"Want me to throw some luminol on it so you can see what's really on
it?" I threaten, seeing him shake his head.

"You can spare me," Mulder mutters, heading for the couch. He drops
the bedspread and the pillow and starts to pull the cushions off. He
groans. "It's not a sleeper-sofa. Could this night get any worse?"

One-one thousand. Crash.

The light flicker quickly before the power goes off.

"You had to go and say that, Mulder," I say, narrowing my eyes at him.

*************

Continued in Part 2