TITLE: Fire From Ice

AUTHOR: Anne Hedonia

RATING: As NC-17 as I wanna be.

SUMMARY: Fun with cliches! Snowed-in mountain cabin, wounded
agent, nursing back to health, realizations of loyalties,
bathtub.

SPOILERS: Your basic season 8.

CLASSIFICATION: DSR, totally requited and without an ounce
of guilt. Yes, I saw the season finale, and I don't care. To
quote James Stewart in "Harvey": "I've wrestled with reality
for 35 years, doctor, and I'm happy to state I finally won
out over it."

KEYWORDS: S/D, DSR, Smut, Scully POV, slightly AU

DISTRIBUTION/ARCHIVE - No to Gossamer and Ephemeral - I'll
do that. Anybody else who wants it can have it - just please
tell me where to go visit.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'em. My bank account reflects this.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: First off, if this were part of a series, I
would call it the Conveniently Ignoring the Pregnancy
Series. Scully's never been preggers in this universe.
Otherwise, Mulder was abducted, Doggett was assigned, Mulder
came back, that's where we are. Secondly, since I started
this fic *way* too long ago, major elements in this have
shown up in at least one fic and, most notably, "Existence",
dammit. So, others have gone here before, but I'm both too
lazy and too stubborn to change it. Finally, I don't think
my representation of the condition of hypothermia is
terribly strict - more like playing fast and loose. It's
more fun my way, though.

MY USUAL FAIR WARNING: . Here we go again. 'Shippers
or rabid Mulder defenders SHOULD NOT READ THIS. Those who
do, even after reading my warning, are without question
making themselves mad on purpose, and thus they confuse me.
Those people who read my warning, *don't* read the story and
THEN SEND FLAMES ANYWAY (bizarre but true) ought to have
their tongues tied to the back of a soon-to-be-runaway
stagecoach. Just my $.02.

Beta thanks to FirePhile, my main go-to gal, who does such a
bitchin' job of keeping me honest. And to Horatio, for
braving "S/D sex!" to give this a looking over. :-P Glad I
could help corrupt you.

If you like this story and/or want to discuss it, send lots
and lots of e-mails to ahedonia@yahoo.com. If you hate this
story and everything associated with it, send virulent
flames to georgewbush@whitehouse.gov.

-------------

She is sitting in front of the fire, watching the flames
leap and dance when she hears the *WHUMP* against the door.
Before that, she was thinking warm and cozy thoughts. Or
rather, what a warm and cozy situation most people would
take this to be. A roaring fire in a secluded cabin deep in
the woods, snow falling in blankets, the room toasty and
quiet. Most people would think this was heaven, and would
puzzle at her ramrod posture, and the iron clench of every
muscle in her body. But then she, Dana Scully, is not most
people, and her situation is rarely what it seems.

When she hears the *WHUMP*, she runs to the door and the
small, frosty window set into it, stands on tiptoes and
looks down. She sees the top of Agent Doggett's head, spiky
with wet, short hair. He's evidently slumped against the
thick wood.

She keeps her cool. "Hello?" she calls. "Who are you looking
for?"

She's supposed to wait until he asks for Martha Blankenship,
her old college roommate and their pre-arranged signal that
he is who he appears to be. But after a short pause without
an answer, she unlocks the door anyway, guarantees or no.
He's been gone for so much longer than he was supposed
to be. She is no longer inclined to wait.

She tries to open the door while simultaneously getting in
place to catch him, tries to anticipate his weight falling
into her, but when the door swings open he doesn't fall,
rather lurches into the room unsteadily, like a man on board
a ship that only he knows about.

"Agent Doggett, what happened? Are you all right?" Scully
stares at him. His outer coat, the one he left with, is
missing, and the other layers of his clothing are
alternately ripped or carrying enough twigs and leaves to
build a bonfire.

Doggett blows out air, cheeks puffed out, like he's had too
many beers. He's still weaving on his feet. "I, uh." He
fights to remember what to say. He seems to fight to
remember *how* to say anything at all. "I, uh, got lost."

Scully's brow contracts painfully. Confusion, drunken
behavior, and an ominous lack of shivering...hypothermia.
Serious.

He continues talking as Scully moves to his side. "Wait! I
'member. I saw'm out there. Comin' t'get you. Shot'm." He
mimes a gun with his finger, and makes a *poosh!* sound.
"Backa the neck. Like I saw sumbuddy do once." He grins
then, very disarmingly. Scully feels warmed and chilled at
the exact same time. Christ, she hopes he's going to be
okay. She has so little in the cabin to work with.

She doesn't really need to check his temperature to be sure
of her diagnosis. Can't check it properly, actually. But
like any good med student, she fights her way under his many
layers of soggy wet shirts and lays a hand flat against the
skin of his chest. Jesus - he's ice. Her eyes fall shut in
fear. He feels like a frozen wax dummy. She leads him into
the bathroom, slowly, like guiding a toddler. Once there,
she flips on the space heater in the wall.

"Aghen Scully, wuddya doin'?" He chuckles faintly. "If
y'don' like my shirt jus' say so."

"We need to get you dry." Scully strips off two layers of
icy, sopping shirts, down to his equally drenched thermal.
Her fingers are going numb just from handling the stuff. How
did all of it get so soaked? A quick glance up shows some
abrasions on his forehead, just above his absently open
mouth and his glassy blue eyes. It suddenly alarms her that
the fire that normally blazes in those eyes isn't there -
the intense look she associates with them has been
extinguished somehow. Temporarily, she hopes. She gets back
to work as she puts the pieces together. Obviously there was
some sort of struggle. He may have fallen, perhaps down an
incline - maybe spent some time unconscious, lying down.

She gets him shirtless and hands him a towel from the rack:
"Dry yourself off." He dutifully attempts to follow her
orders, rubbing the soft cotton imprecisely over one arm. He
blows out air again. Scully looks up from where she's
untying his boots to find his eyes drifting closed. She
suddenly realizes how exhausted he is, on top of everything
else. She stands and takes the towel from him, applying it
as gently as she can to his cold and easily-damaged skin.
"Agent Doggett? Do you remember anything about what
happened?"

"Uh...yeah."

"What?"

"I gottim."

Scully smiles despite herself. "Yes, I heard that. Thank
you."

He got him. The threat is over. But then, that's what Scully
had thought the first time she'd killed him. It. Whatever.

A week and a half ago, the alien bounty hunter had
reappeared and gone after Scully, evidently gunning for the
chip in her neck, for reasons known only to alien bounty
hunters. Mulder's first response was to run off to talk to
some unnamed informant, who promised to explain the bounty
hunter's quest and give him the big picture about a larger
pattern of attacks. As usual, he neglected certain
formalities, like telling tell anyone where he was going.

In Mulder's absence, the bounty hunter did not relent, and
close calls and nearly-deadly ambushes had ensued. The
attempts on her safety came too fast and too strong for her,
Doggett and Skinner to completely deflect. After a few days,
Mulder had left Scully a message on her voicemail, talking
excitedly about how close he was to a really big answer.
Scully had wearily scratched at a bandage over her eye, and
hit the button to delete it.

Doggett, meanwhile, could no longer abide leaving Scully
vulnerable and out in the open. He said he knew of a very
remote cabin where she could hide out, under his protection.
To leave fewer trails to trace, he determined that he
wouldn't tell anyone its location, not even Skinner or
the Gunmen.

Now normally, when Mulder decided to take Scully out of an
equation "for her own good," he had quite an argument on his
hands. Scully could never take his "protection" lying down;
no matter how high his degree of concern, there was still
something chauvinistic about his approach to shielding her,
about the way he just assumed he could make the choice for
her.

Doggett was entirely different. Whenever Scully found
herself in harm's way, his unabashed worry for her just
radiated off of him in waves. A haunted puppy-dog look would
take up residence in his eyes, and he would suddenly make it
his life's mission to keep himself constantly, silently near
her. On the evening after the third and worst close-call
with the Bounty Hunter, he'd arrived at her apartment,
handed her his biggest suitcase and told her to fill it -
they were going on a trip. She had taken one look at his
face, nodded and gone to her bedroom to do so, strangely
grateful for the gesture.

Scully sometimes thinks that she responds to Doggett's
protective ways because they are no-nonsense and military -
not too far from the way Ahab might have shown concern.

In the back of her mind, she also finds herself riveted by
one fact: she's never seen him suffer that way over
anybody's safety but hers.

"You look li' Katie. I never notiss that before."

"Really?" Katie - or Katherine - Scully knows, is Doggett's
ex-wife. Though she's read the name in his FBI files, she's
never seen a picture, so she has to take Doggett's word
about the resemblance.

She continues drying his top half, carefully touching each
part of Doggett's lean torso - his muscular arms, his broad
shoulders, his flat belly. The coldness of his skin is still
alarming to her, but the sight of him is creating much
different feelings, resulting in a little storm of confusion
in her mind and body. She's surprised to find it difficult
to keep her doctor's facade in place. She's also surprised
at how little guilt these feelings cause her.

Time to lose the pants. She tries to compartmentalize her
feelings as she reaches for their top button. Doggett isn't
helping.

He starts to laugh. "You sure you aren' Katie? Tha'ss
sumthin' Katie use' to do..." His laughter dwindles as a
wave of exhaustion hits him.

"Relax, Agent Doggett, I'll have you dry in just a minute."
She unfastens his jeans, thinking about how she and Doggett
have never crossed a line like this in their partnership
before. She wishes he were a little more present, able to
take part in it - it sort of feels like she's crossing it
without his permission. Then again, she thinks as she peels
down the wet denim, maybe it's better that he's out for
this.

She helps him fight free of the jeans, taking in the sight
of his strong thighs as dispassionately as she can manage,
though she wavers when faced with the prominent bulge under
the fly of his wet, clinging boxers. She shivers slightly,
and not from cold. She decides to move around back of him,
where at least if she stares he can't see. She hooks her
thumbs under the elastic of his shorts and pulls them off.
She grabs a towel and quickly dries his lower half.

"Katie..." he slurs, turning around. Oh well. So much for
discretion. She lets her eyes drift to what's right in front
of her, thinking briefly that for a man who's just endured
vicious cold, he's not making a bad impression.

Doggett leans down to put his hands on her shoulders and
speaks apologetically. "Katie...I did'n get what I wen' out
for."

Her heart tugs. "I know, Agent Doggett. It's okay."

"No iss not. Wer screwed."

"It's o-*kay*." She says gently. "You got hurt. You need
help."

"Yeah, do." He stands and sways, wincing. "Hurt all over."

She rises, glances around, considering what to do. She helps
him sit on the closed toilet seat, half leaned against the
bathroom counter. "Stay here. I'm going to run into the next
room for some blankets. I won't even be gone a second." He
nods gravely. She races to the hall closet and back as fast
as she can, but still returns to find Doggett slumping
forward, ready to topple. She grabs him and rights him
carefully, her heart clenching in fear.

She wraps him firmly in the woolen blanket and leads him
into the living room. She moves the couch nearer the fire
and guides him onto it, laying him on his back, his head and
feet propped along the arms.

"Katie." he slurs cheerfully, "Katie, you gonna join me?"

Scully pauses, looking down at his half-lidded eyes, at the
strong, chiseled planes of his face, gold-toned in the
firelight. Two bodies' worth of heat *is* better than
one...suddenly, she flashes on a conversation with
Mulder in a Florida everglade, years ago. First she
feels guilt, but soon after that, irritation. Still...no.
She presses a hand to his shoulder and heads to
gather more supplies.

When they came up here a little less than a week ago,
Doggett had prepared well. The cabin was well-appointed and
comfortable, and he'd packed enough supplies to keep them
there for at least two weeks. There was access to a public
Internet terminal at a general store nearby, and he'd
planned to check the Gunmen's website for coded updates on
the case, and when it was safe to return.

But on the fourth night, the plan changed. They'd been
awakened by noises - noises of forced entry, crashes of
careless movement through the rooms. They'd both vaulted up
into the dark, weapons drawn, hearts pounding at the
prospective life-or-death battle...and found a family of fat
raccoons feasting on their supplies. Doggett had been
momentarily irked to find Scully collapsing into laughter.
It had spilled out of her partly from relief, and partly at
the picture Doggett made - an alarmed, half-awake man in his
long underwear pointing a gun at completely unconcerned
raccoons. No matter how she'd tried at the time, Scully
couldn't hold the laughter back. Eventually, neither could
Doggett.

It hadn't been as funny a day or so later, when they'd
realized how much of their supplies were gone. They were
down to practically nothing. Further spoiling the joke was
the fact that, when Doggett had gone to his truck, he found
the freezing weather had killed the engine. After a long
fight with it, Doggett had determined to hike down to the
general store for help. It hadn't been snowing much when
he'd left. There had been practically no indication that a
snowstorm of that magnitude was coming.

It dumped a sky's worth of white on the ground in record
time. She'd been alarmed when he hadn't turned back soon
after it had started.

She'd been even more alarmed when she'd heard one far-off
gunshot.

Scully shakes the thought from her head as she uses the fire
to warm up the few canned items they have, wrapping the
heated metal in small towels, making impromptu heat packs.
As she works, he continues to call every so often, his voice
small, playful, slightly absent: "Kaaay-deeee..." It's
alternately charming her silly and worrying her senseless.

She checks the temperature of the apple juice she's had
heating in a small pan - good enough. She pours it into a
mug and takes the fruits of her labor over to him. She helps
him sip juice. She nestles the heat packs in amongst his
blankets, near his body's areas of high heat transfer and
loss - around his head, neck, underarms, sides of chest
wall. She covers the whole thing with another blanket,
sitting on the edge of the couch and tucking it in beneath
him.

He floats in and out as she works, and once when her face is
close, his blue eyes open and meander affectionately over
her. "Katie, honey..." Suddenly one of his hands is free,
and he's wrapping chilled fingers across the back of her
neck, pulling her in to kiss her drunkenly on the mouth.

She jumps at the icy contact of him, while at the same time
her body flushes with warmth. She starts to draw back, out
of reflex, then finds herself staying. His slowed motor
reflexes may have robbed him of a little technique, but she
can feel the enthusiasm poured into his ministrations, the
sheer enjoyment on his end. He's humming - actually
humming! - happily into her mouth, gently vibrating her
teeth. She suddenly finds it unbearably hard to think
clearly.

She feels his head start to fall away, as though of its own
weight. She looks down in surprise, her eyes drugged and
mouth agape. She sees that exhaustion is claiming him again,
that he's falling back into the pillow she's given him. She
catches his head, lowers it gently.

"No, no, no..." she says. "No falling asleep. C'mon."

"Wha?"

"You need to talk to me. Tell me a story."

"Kinda story?"

Scully seats herself on the floor next to the couch,
trembling, touches her lips with her fingers. Though her
body is rioting, she finds her mind strangely calm.
"Anything. Tell me about...a vacation. Your favorite
vacation when you were a kid."

She glances back at him. From under their heavy lids, she
sees a faint sparkle in his pale blue eyes as the pictures
come. "Went t' Florida once. Whole lot better'n Jersey."

"Good. That's perfect. Keep talking."

She listens. She hears about his father driving down the
coast, refusing to use the air conditioner, and Doggett and
his brother dropping ice cubes down each other's clothes.

She hears about the clear, warm Atlantic water, and the
first time he saw a Portuguese Man O' War. It was dead, and
he scooped it up on his paddleboard because, if he could
take home a dead jellyfish to show his friends, he'd be the
envy of every one of them. His mother was torn between
killing him and fainting.

Scully listens, relieved by every second the low rumble of
his voice continues. She reacts dutifully to every detail,
which isn't hard, because his sleepy storytelling is
charming. Occasionally, she makes him stop to sip juice.

She listens to every word, and yet none of them. Her mind
can't stop reliving the past day.

Doggett had gone missing for almost 12 hours. When she'd
heard the gunshot, she wondered if it was someone hunting
for deer, or Doggett guarding her from the alien hunting for
her. She wondered if his shot had missed, and if so, whether
the Bounty Hunter would be arriving soon. When he didn't,
she wondered if Doggett had hit his mark. When Doggett
didn't arrive either, she wondered in silent panic if he had
hit his *last* mark.

Scully had suited up as warmly as she could and charged out
to find him, searching till she realized she'd be
endangering herself if she went any further. She'd come up
empty.

When there had been a break in the onslaught of snow, she'd
gone out to search for him a second time, again
unsuccessfully. Falling darkness had forced her back in to
consider her other options. Her cell phone had no signal,
and there was no other communication device in the place.
There was no going out again until daybreak. She'd sat in
front of the fire, staring.

She'd realized that during this week, when Mulder hadn't
been there for her, she'd felt irritation, and had of course
fallen back on her own skills. Mulder's presence was
capricious at best. That his protection might be gone seemed
normal.

But with Doggett, she knew she hadn't been ditched. If Agent
Doggett wasn't there, it meant he *couldn't* be. The idea
made it seem like there was something terribly wrong in the
universe. It had gotten to be beyond his control. He needed
saving.

She had refused to believe the worst. It couldn't happen.
Not after she'd just begun to realize the kind of man he
really was.

Not after the thoughts that were just beginning to occur.

Her mind drifts briefly, skittishly to Mulder, though she
doesn't want to let it linger there. She remembers how, when
she and Mulder eventually became lovers, their relationship
was always fitful, its timbre completely subject to whatever
he was going through at the time. He was a lover the way he
was a partner - ditching her emotionally without any
warning, then coming back to her and making up for it
feverishly. As intensely good as it sometimes was, it still
never seemed to have anything to do with what *she* wanted.

Since his return, he's detached, ill-humored and
intractable, consumed with finding his place in this new
picture, nearly heedless of her.

And now she's...tired.

She's weary of her alliance to a beautiful dreamer who
wounds as often as he inspires. As far as she can tell, the
ghosts he chases are inexhaustible. It's not ever going to
end.

The man lying here before her can and will replenish what
she's let be drained. He's someone who has the strength to
fight outer space, but whose first priority is life on
Earth.

She can't believe her relief that he's back. She lets her
eyes wander over his face. His sheer goodness makes her
heart ache.

He keeps talking, sleepily unrolling his childhood for her.
She keeps an eye on his pulse, respiration, making sure
everything stays stable, and improves. It does. Once she
checks to see if his temperature has risen, slipping a hand
under the blankets and settling it on his chest again.
Warmer, good. As she does this, Doggett's story gets lost.
He mumbles and lays a large hand over hers, sighing
comfortably, growling softly.

Scully gets a feeling that she wants to feel again.

She decides that he's improved enough that a hot bath would
be safe. She realizes that there are other methods to get
him warm, perhaps she's choosing this one selfishly. All
things being equal, it won't do any harm.

She leaves him momentarily to turn on the taps. She returns
to the living room and prepares to move him again. She finds
him with his eyes closed. "Agent Doggett?" His eyes don't
open. "Agent Doggett?" He doesn't respond. She feels a brief
flash of panic, and then something occurs to her. "John?"

"Hmpf?"

Her heart pounds with relief. "I think a bath would help
warm you up, so we're gonna need to get you up now, move you
to the bathroom. Can you do that?"

"Mmmff...yeahokay." He yawns mightily.

She assists him in walking over to the steamy bathroom. She
holds his blankets away from the water and helps him step
into the tub. It takes him a while to get used to the
temperature - eyes still closed, he winces and inhales
sharply with every newly submerged inch. She knows it feels
too hot to him, because he's too cold. Little by little,
part by part his body adjusts, and finally he settles in,
closing his eyes and lying back with a sigh.

Scully kneels by the tub, sponging him with a washcloth. She
soaks the warm water into it and then squeezes it against
his chest, watching the rivulets run down over skin, compact
muscle and bone. Drops of water catch in tiny hairs and
glint there, sparkle as he breathes. Her eyes drift
surreptitiously down his body, taking in his hard planes.
Under the water, his penis sways slightly, the angle and the
water making it look strange.

She watches as he opens his eyes fully for the first time
since he entered the tub. She sees his nakedness, and her
proximity, register on his face.

Scully suddenly feels presumptuous. "Would you like some
privacy, Agent Doggett?"

He closes his eyes again, as though opening them took all
his energy. "No, s'okay. I'd like you to stay." He grins
sleepily. "Feels nice, what you're doin'."

Scully exhales quietly. She continues sponging him,
listening to the slosh of the warm water. They remain like
that for a few moments. "Agent Scully?"

"Yes?" Scully sighs in relief. She's not Katie anymore.
He's come back to earth. It's not clinical proof, but she's
now sure he's going to be fine.

His eyes haven't opened, but she can sense a change in his
demeanor, a nervousness. "I seem to remember an incident on
the couch, a little while ago."

"Agent Doggett, there's no need to..."

"Yeah, there is." His eyes open, and his face is full of
concern. "I got no idea what you must be thinkin'."

Scully takes the dripping washcloth and squeezes it slowly
along the length of his arm, hand to shoulder. "Agent
Doggett," she says softly. "It's okay."

His eyes meet hers, and take stock of what is in them. She
repeats the squeezing motion along his other arm, leaning
long and low across the bathtub to reach him, close enough
to feel his breath stirring the hair on her neck.

She pulls back to see his gaze darken, barely perceptibly,
as something makes its way up to his consciousness. "How
okay?" he asks quietly.

She is no longer able to meet his eye. "Completely okay,"
she says, almost whispering. She returns to her kneeling
position and rubs the cloth gently over the span of his
chest. The motion is an almost undisguised caress.

Her breathing is becoming shallower. She realizes that his
is, too. Her hand begins to move in broader circles, making
its way lower down his body, while her whole body trembles.
She submerges the washcloth to sweep it silently over his
solid belly. Her boldness alarms her, mightily. She is
frightened beyond belief by her actions. She does nothing to
stop them.

His eyes have closed again and his mouth is slightly open,
betraying his increasingly ragged breathing. His brow is
furrowing in confusion. She looks down and sees him
hardening, his cock starting to reach upward. She endures an
almost torturous flash of excitement through her belly, her
chest, spilling out between her legs.

Her hand moves even lower, brushing his hipbones and the
edges of his pubic hair. She hears him hiss in breath
through his teeth, hears the water slosh, and suddenly feels
his large hand around her wrist.

She looks to his face to see his eyes drugged and faraway,
and yet their fire is back, times ten. Their icy blue shoots
into her. His eyes don't know what's going on, but they're
desperate. They tell her of the line she's about to cross.

As if she needed telling.

With all the courage she can muster, she banishes all the
thoughts that currently torture her, leaving only what she
feels.

She meets his gaze evenly, deliberately removes her hand
from his grip, then slides it down his groin and up around
his erection, caressing firmly. His eyes slam shut, his
mouth drops open. "Aw, *God*..." His expletive is half
exhale, half moan.

Scully breathes out her own silent moan, wantonly, watching
his face contort. The sight of his pleasure sends her
spinning. She continues to caress, squeezing gently as her
hand comes up over the head. So smooth, so hard now. The hot
skin underneath her hand feels as though it's about to
burst. She feels much the same way.

She's unconsciously leaning forward at the same time he's
lunging up out of the water, grabbing her face with his
hands. The joining of their lips is hard, and fast, as his
wet fingers curl into her hair and mark her as his.

She feels warm trickles of water running down her cheeks and
into her soft sweater collar. She reels from his touch,
savors the pleasure dancing along every nerve in her body.
He runs his tongue lightly, teasingly over her lips, and the
feel of it threatens to make her cry. She breathes his
breath and tastes his strength. She shifts around to gain a
better angle. She can't find one, leaning over like she is.
She loses her balance and lands with one arm in the tub.

Doggett pulls back from the kiss as though just awakening.
He looks at Scully's new position, and the beginnings of a
grin form. He quickly wraps his strong arms around her and
pulls, dragging her the rest of the way in.

Scully shrieks in surprise and gets a mouthful of tub water
for her trouble. Her torso is now submerged up to her bottom
lip and her legs are tangled in the shower curtain. Above
his lopsided grin, Doggett's eyes dance with mischief. His
chest trembles with the laughter that's snorting out softly
through his nose. Scully tosses wet hair off her face, then
spits bath water at him.

"HA!" Doggett yelps in delight, grimacing happily at the
onslaught. He shakes water out of his eyes and watches with
avid amusement as Scully sloshes the rest of the way in to
straddle him on all fours. He marvels at her, grins and
wrinkles his nose at the drops falling off her into his
face. She is exhilarated, amused and annoyed, and she has
never seen a man so beautiful.

The playfulness in his eyes drifts back to desire as she
lets him touch her, lets him push her wet sweater up over
her head. She is braless, and her whole body tingles as she
watches his eyes drift over her, watches lust cloud his
gaze. He runs his fingers feather-light over her torso,
cupping her breasts, reaches up push away the wet tendrils
that still cling to her cheeks and forehead. The reverence
in his face is heartbreaking. "Aw, Scully..." he whispers.
"You got no idea..."

Scully closes her eyes. Yes, she does have some idea, but
not about why she waited for this. Her body is humming with
joy and pleasure. She has not felt this in such a long time.
She runs her small hands reverently over his face, and he
lets her. His face looks so chiseled and hard to the eye,
but to the touch it's soft, solid, and human.

She leans down slowly to kiss him again. He pulls her to get
her there faster.

They simultaneously kiss and cooperate in a sloppy, silly,
splashing display to remove her pants, and soon she is as
naked as he is. She feels suddenly vulnerable, excited and
brazen.

His hands are moving over her, touching her with abandon.
His urgency builds and he's growling and sighing and pulling
her down onto him. His fingers surge up her back, into her
hair, drifting back down to cup her ass, knead her breasts.
Their naked bodies press against each other, his mouth
devouring hers, his stiff cock caught between their bellies.
She opens her eyes while their mouths are joined, marvels at
him, dips her head to drink water from his neck with her
kisses.

She is surprised when he leans up and takes her by the
shoulders, gently negotiating her into his former position.
She wonders what he has in mind. "What are you--"

"Shh..." he says softly.

The water level is low by now, everything either drained or
splashed out by their movement. Now she is lying back and he
is hovering over her, his eyes dancing with excitement and
dark desire. She can almost see him cataloguing the things
he wants to do to her. Her stomach flips deliciously. She
reaches for his erection, and he lets her stroke him
momentarily, his eyes closing and squeezing tight with
enjoyment. Then he takes her hand away and laces his fingers
with hers.

"Just lay back..." he murmurs. "Plenty'a time..."

He descends on her, lying half atop her, kissing her neck,
her shoulders, her breasts, all part of a sweet, relentless
assault. She reaches for him, wanting to return his
caresses, but he merely catches her hands in his and kisses
her fingertips, places them back by her sides. His fingers
reach in between her legs, seeking out her clit. She arches
profoundly when he first grazes it, flails for the side of
the tub as he slides fingers inside her, pumping long, deep,
deliberate and slow. She hears the water splash in tiny
rhythmic waves against the porcelain as his arm moves and he
pushes in again and again, in no hurry, all the time in the
world.

Scully thinks foggily that she has never been a fan of hand
jobs - has never really found anyone who could give them
worth a damn. But Doggett's every touch has a purpose - each
stroke becomes better, surer, draws more aching pleasure
from her as he gathers information about her responses,
teases her mercilessly, attending to every second of her
climb. She sees his fierce eyes watching her every reaction
with an intensity that flutters her stomach, makes her moan
all on its own. She feels his breath in her face as he
kisses it softly, hears him murmuring her name, inhales his
warm, human smell. He is everywhere, but nowhere so much as
between her legs, where her whole world narrows to a single
coiling point of tension. It gathers power until it explodes
and she is coming, her thighs slamming tight around his
forearm, and her hips bucking desperately against his hand.
Her other arm clenches hard around his back as she rides out
the delirious pleasure, holding on as though he were a buoy
in a stormy sea.

"I wanted to thank you properly," he says softly, a moment
later. She opens her eyes to see him grinning affectionately
at her. "For savin' me."

Scully marvels at the very idea, such a long overdue
revelation. She pulls his mouth down to hers, eager to
return the favor.

It takes only a small shift to put him between her legs, to
put his cock at her entrance, rubbing against it. He gives a
little thrust of his hips and pushes into her. He feels
enormous, touching her everyplace she wants most. When she's
able to open her eyes, his face looks like he's at church,
giving thanks, taken by the rapture.

He moves once and she moans. He moves again, leaning down
close to her, his body heavy and warm and amazing. His face
is tense, concentrating, yet deeply distracted by pleasure.
He keeps thrusting, losing himself in her body. They are
blending together, arcing and groaning and throbbing as one
animal.

His mouth is falling open, an expression of wonder at what
his body is giving him. She feverishly adjusts to get more
of him, somehow. After a moment he unexpectedly jostles
their position to move her legs tight together, his somehow
on the outside of hers. He grins at her surprise and keeps
moving. Now Scully's mouth falls open. His body is now
pounding against her pubic bone in a way that sends
vibrations straight to her clit, and tingling repercussions
all through her. She can barely keep up with how fast the
sensation builds. This is crazy. She never comes this way.
She never comes from just sex alone, but...but...

She is startled to hear his soft grunts turning into more,
to hear his rough voice breaking and crying out, to see his
face suffering with ecstasy as he loses control. The sight
is so arousing that soon she is even more startled to find
herself following him, coming again, their cries commingling
and echoing off the tile. His thrusts are fevered and
graceless as he convulses against her, over and over,
pushing relentlessly as though refusing to accept that this
is as close to her as he can get.

"Aw, baby..." he gasps. He lays himself carefully on top of
her, stroking her neck, nuzzling her as his breath comes in
gradually slowing gusts. Though she is mightily sated, now
that the urgency is slowing she finds her mind beginning to
race. She tries to clamp down on it, to let the relaxation
in her body have the upper hand. She thinks dimly that her
damp skin is getting chilled. Before the thought is even
finished, he asks "Wanna move someplace dry?"

She sighs and smiles, her brain slowing for now. "Yes."

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

They're spooned on the couch in front of the fire, the
woolen blanket from before now protecting both their naked
bodies. "Looks like you joined me after all," he murmurs
against her hair.

She nods quietly. She is ashamed to find herself growing
silent, more distant. In her imagination, a certain
beautiful dreamer has learned of this encounter. And he is
not happy. And because he is not, neither is she.

"Agent Scully?" he asks softly.

"I think by now it's Dana," she answers wryly.

"Okay..." he says solemnly. "Agent Dana?"

She snorts loudly, starts to laugh. She rolls backward to
see his face and finds him smiling a shy, crooked,
lady-killer grin that sends her pulse racing again, already.
She suddenly realizes she's never seen that look before, and
hopes she'll have repeat viewings. It fades slightly as he
turns serious. "I gotta know something..."

Her eyebrow raises, waiting.

"Did you mean this?" he asks quietly.

Scully's heart breaks. His instincts, of course, miss
nothing. She feels remorse at having worried him. She
clasps her hand around one of his, at its place around her
waist. "I mean it if you mean it," she says softly.

His other hand cups her face immediately, caressing. "Oh, I
mean it..." he rumbles, so seriously and sweetly that
Scully's toes curl. So much honesty with him, like a reflex.

"And..." he continues, running a finger over her lips. His
face is all boyish vulnerability, innocent and open. She
marvels that he can look like that. "I wanna keep on meaning
it."

She nods, meets his eyes. She silently vows to be brave
enough to stick to what she's chosen. "I'm going to keep on
letting you, whatever happens."

He smiles slowly, his face warming. The joy is back in his
eyes, shyly letting itself be known. He kisses her
impulsively, softly - once, twice, again - then pulls back
to look at her. "Am I ever gonna know what I did to bring
this on?" he asks.

Scully takes in the sight of him. A warm, calm happiness is
spilling over in her. She smiles and snuggles back against
him.

"You just are."

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