Alex snorted. Yeah, sure. Dana Scully was many things--tough, dedicated, loyal to a fault, amazingly intelligent--and 'peachy' was not one of them. Unless you counted the dewy soft skin of her throat . . .
Shit. He glanced away quickly when she caught his appraising gaze. No need for a repeat of the episode in the upstairs hallway. He was suddenly all too aware that not more than fifteen minutes ago she had those slender fingers wrapped around his cock. What a grip.
He shifted from foot to foot, suddenly restless. He had to think about something else. Ignore the fact that she'd felt him up. Ignore the fact that she was standing there in his underwear. Ignore the fact that her hair was still wet and curling around her face in thick strands. Ignore the fact that he was half hard just thinking about it. He needed something else to focus on. A glint from the floor caught his eye, and he looked down.
"What's that?"
Scully glanced down curiously, then wiggled the toes on her right foot. "Oh. That's a ring."
"I know it's a ring. What's it doing on your toe?" Yeah, it sounded stupid as soon as it came out of his mouth. But there was a silver ring on her second toe. With a red sparkly jewel. How could such a tiny thing throw him?
She looked at him like he'd grown another head. He was pretty sure he hadn't, unless you counted the one gently nudging against the soft fabric of his sweats. Christ. She wasn't looking anywhere except his face, but he clasped his hands in front of his crotch anyway.
Finally she rolled her eyes. "It's my birthstone. Ruby."
Ruby. Hmmm. He did some quick calculations in his head. "When's your birthday?"
"This Friday."
"Really? Got anything planned?"
"Why? Going to crash the party and kidnap some of the guests?"
Of course she'd think that. He was the spawn of the devil after all. "Jesus, I'm just trying to make conversation. You know, 'how's the weather' 'how about those Cubs'?"
She avoided his gaze, looking faintly guilty. Somebody should really write a rulebook about situations like this. Miss Edith's Guide to Etiquette: what to do when trapped in a house with your enemy. Rule number one: don't traipse about half naked. Rule number two: do not physically threaten your enemy with sex toys. Rule number three: try to hide the fact that you're afraid of the dark. Rule number four: don't find yourself increasingly attracted to your enemy.
He wondered how things would be if she wasn't Mulder's partner. What would happen if they'd just met at the gym, or in a bar. Then again, maybe the fact that she *was* Mulder's partner was what appealed to him so much. He spared a glance at her, noting the subtle rise of her chest beneath his t-shirt. And the corresponding rise of his dick. Nope. He'd be interested regardless.
All this tension was giving him a headache. He was about to go and get another drink when she broke the silence, voice barely above a whisper.
"I didn't have anything planned. I usually don't have time, with work and everything."
Mulder was that much of a slavedriver that he wouldn't even let her off the hook for her birthday? Shouldn't the guy at least take her out for dinner? Or did he have his head so far up his ass that he didn't even *know* it was her birthday? For some reason, he pictured Scully sitting in the basement of the Hoover Building by herself, a cupcake with a candle in one hand, a stack of unfinished reports at her elbow. It was a little sad. A crooked party hat completed the picture. Now it was *really* sad. Then inspiration struck.
"You're not allergic to chocolate, are you?"
Her eyes followed him suspiciously as he made his way to the kitchen. "No. Why?"
He ignored her question to root around in the freezer. He could have swore Rachelle had one of those cakes in there. Sara Lee or something. "Ah ha!" he grinned triumphantly, holding up the box. He opened it on the table and reached for a candle. When he jabbed it down into the cake, she finally came over.
"What are you doing?"
"Aren't you supposed to be the FBI Agent?"
"Don't remind me," she muttered, absently sitting down at the table.
He found two wine glasses and pulled the drinks out of the fridge. What went best with chocolate? He poured two strawberry daiquiris and held Scully's drink out to her. Denial and amazement warred in her eyes.
"Happy Birthday, Scully."
He clinked the glass that was held loosely in her hand. She eyed the drink warily, so he took a large sip of his own to reassure her.
"See? No poison. Now make a wish and blow out the candle. I'm damn hungry."
She looked at her drink, the cake, and back to him. Then she did it all over again. Without warning, she tipped back her glass and downed the whole thing. Holy shit.
"I'm writing a memoir some day, and this is going in the first chapter. It was a dark and stormy night, and Alex Krycek was throwing me a birthday party."
"Write it as fiction under a pseudonym," he cautioned, refilling her glass before she could object. "And take it to a small publisher. Change the names, dates, and locations of everything. They'd kill you if they found out." No need to explain who 'they' were.
She chuckled, then narrowed her eyes when his face remained calm. "You're serious, aren't you?"
He nodded and inched the cake toward her. Pausing a second to think, she blew out the candle and stared across the table at him.
"Happy?"
"What did you wish for?" He hoped it wasn't a SWAT team or Mulder.
"Uh-uh. If I tell you it won't come true."
