From: "Amber Botts" Date: Fri, 30 Oct 1998 13:53:23 PST Subject: MSR "The Hunter's Moon" 1/4 Title: The Hunter's Moon: Part I: Girls' Night Out (1/4) Author: Amber Rating: PG? More fantasy and innuendo than action for part one. Classification: UST Keywords: MSR Spoilers: "Syzygy," "Never Again." Allusions to "Pilot," "E.B.E.," "Pusher," and "Unusual Suspects." Summary: Scully's Girls' Night Out disturbs Mulder. Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and the Gunmen belong to Chris Carter, 1013, David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, James Wong, Glen Morgan, and Fox. Ronnie and the girls are mine. Please feel free to send feedback, but be gentle; this is my first time :) E-mail: amber_mb@hotmail.com Note: I wasn't crazy about my title, but much like many an episode, the more I thought about it, the more I came to like it. Dana, as Jose Chung pointed out (thank you, Darrin Morgan), is a variation of Diana, the goddess of the hunt and the moon. You can add whatever connotations to "hunting" that you like. Federal Bureau of Investigations Washington, D.C. September 2 3:13 p.m. "So we're on for this evening?" The lovely brunette smiled. "A girls' night out, no partners, no cases, just wild women on the town, right Dana?" Her brown eyes sparkled as Dana Scully gave a look that was two parts wry amusement and one part skepticism. Veronica "Ronnie" Greene was one of the few single FBI agents who managed to balance a social life with her career. Too many of the agents, especially the female ones, dedicated their lives to doing whatever it took to get ahead. Ronnie firmly believed that playtime was necessary, and she was determined to help her fellow female agents loosen up and enjoy themselves. She had been organizing social events for a small circle of agents, but this was her first time to invite Dana. They'd met while working on an S & M serial killer case, and Ronnie had decided that Dana needed her help more than anyone she'd met in a long while. "7:30 at the Hunter's Moon." She waved as she strode away. Dana turned with a smile and slipped into the basement office that she shared with her partner. Fox Mulder was seated at the desk, reading a case file, with his feet propped up. As always, the sight of him sent a small shiver down her spine, which she hid beneath a professional demeanor. "Mulder, do we have anything we need to look into this evening?" The tone of her voice was casual, too casual. Mulder was a bit worried; he'd had a thing for his deceptively delicate, red-haired partner since the moment she'd knocked on his door and he'd announced that was no one was there but the FBI's least wanted. He forced his voice to sound as casual as hers, "Hot date?" To his ears, his voice sounded too casual, too. She straightened the already-neat files on her desk. "No. One of the other agents asked me to come to a girls' night out at the Hunter's Moon, but if we have work, I won't go." Mulder grinned and fought to keep the satisfaction out of his voice. No guy, other than him, would be lusting after her, at least for tonight. "Go. Have fun. We don't have anything that won't keep." He felt a little guilty for his pleasure that she didn't have a date and that because of his quest, she didn't have much contact with people other than him. Besides, he had plans to hang out with the Gunmen tonight; they had some new technotoys they wanted to show off. Scully's eyes finally met his. "You're sure? You won't investigate any leads without me?" Mulder experienced a stronger stab of guilt. She shouldn't have to ask if he would run out on her, but he'd done it so often in the past that he couldn't blame her. "I promise. I'll hang out with the Gunmen," his lips curved into his charmingly quirky smile, "and I'll stay out of trouble." Scully nodded and decided, what the hell, she'd go. Lone Gunman Headquarters 7:15 p.m. That evening Mulder knocked at the entrance to the Gunmen's headquarters. Frohike let him in. "I thought you might bring your luscious partner tonight. I've got some goggles, stolen from a secret Russian lab, that work like X-ray vision. I was hoping to try them out tonight." His eyebrows wagged suggestively. "Down boy," Mulder grinned. He'd have to borrow those goggles and use them while they were away on their next case. He'd bet that seeing through the cute flannel pajamas Scully favored wouldn't be that difficult. "Scully is at a girls' night out with some other agents." Byers straightened his tie. "Mulder, do you think it was a good idea to let her do that?" Mulder's eyebrows rose. "I encouraged her to go out." He shrugged, "She should have friends besides me and you guys." Langly tossed long blonde locks over his shoulder. "Mulder, Mulder, do you know what women do on those girls' night outs?" Mulder's mouth compressed. He'd never thought to ask what his lovely partner would be up to. "Strip clubs," whispered Frohike with a lascivious look. "I'd love to watch Agent Scully hungrily eying some strapping hunk." He shook his head, "Although I'd much rather she eye me." Mulder interrupted him with an evil look. "Sorry, man. But," he shrugged, "girls' night out is code for a bunch of women going out to troll for men." Byers leaned against the desk. "We did an expose` on the origins of the 'girls' night out' concept a few years ago. We discovered that the idea was spread by a secret government paramilitary group whose purpose is to keep women from taking over the world." "Yeah," Langly continued, "see, the group knew that women have cooler heads and are more likely to seek a compromise than a battle. So, to protect the military-industrial complex, the group knew that they had to keep the majority of women out of power. The group was the impetus behind the sexual revolution, and they created the Chippendales as a commercial means of diverting women, while raising money to subsidize further campaigns." Byers picked up the theory, "They manipulated the media, promoting the idea that women should view men as sex objects; hence, the whole 'cute butt' movement, as well as the establishment of a market for magazines like "Playgirl." 'Girls' night out' became the media-supported catch-phrase for encouraging women to obsess on sex rather than power." Frohike added, "Those strip clubs are hot beds for one night stands. The clubs don't allow men in until after the strippers have worked the women into a slobbering frenzy." He nodded at Mulder with a leer. Mulder felt ill. "You're kidding. You're messing with me, right?" He'd encouraged his sweet, innocent Scully into going to one of those evenings of iniquity. Byers shook his head, "Sorry, Mulder." He handed Mulder a copy of the issue that contained the expose`. Mulder skimmed the article, which seemed to be filled with story after lurid story about women's escapades, all of which began as a night with the girls and ended up as a tryst with a sexy stranger. As he dropped the paper, he pulled out his cell phone. This was going to stop, and right now. He called information and got the address of the Hunter's Moon. Frohike called to his back as he headed out the door, "They don't let men into the strip club until AFTER the performance, but by then, you may be too late." To Mulder's sensitive ears, Frohike's laughter was pure malevolent evil. As Mulder drove, he considered calling Scully's cell phone, but he decided, in case the Gunmen were wrong, a covert operation was called for. . . unless she was at a strip club, in which case he was getting her the hell out of there before some dumb pretty boy with the body of a Baywatch lifeguard could put his dirty paws, or anything else, on her. Mulder accelerated as images of Scully flashed through his mind. Scully surrounded by drunken sailors, being propositioned by burly leather-clad bikers, being titillated by yuppy scientists giving her encyclopedic recitations of facts, or even being seduced by horny literature professors quoting seventeenth century erotic love poems. He ran a stop light; if a cop happens to stop me, I'll tell him that it is a life-and-death emergency. The Hunter's Moon 7:31 p.m. At the Hunter's Moon, Scully sighed appreciatively. She'd heard talk of some wild nights out, but the Hunter's Moon was an elegant jazz club rather than some sleazy meat market. The club was busy, filled with attractive professionals out for an evening of relaxation without the elaborate games of seduction common to many clubs. She was relieved she wouldn't have to spend the evening fighting off or freezing out a series of lounge lizards. Ronnie caught her eye with an enthusiastic wave and Scully went to the table and pulled out one of the empty chairs. "Dana, welcome to the best jazz club in D. C." She licked her lips seductively, then winked, "The guy who plays sax tonight has lips that will inspire your wildest dreams and naughtiest fantasies for weeks." After Dana ordered a glass of wine from the waiter, she studied her companions, four women plus Ronnie and herself, all under forty, all familiar from the Bureau. She forced herself to tune into the conversation. Ronnie introduced everyone to Dana then went over the agenda, "First, we order food, then we top it off with something decadent for dessert, along with this week's installment of those fabulous stories; finally, the show starts at 9:30. After, we can make plans for next week." "You forgot this week's partner poll," a blonde named Jenna whispered. The Hunter's Moon 7:49 p.m. Mulder finally convinced the waitress to place him in a partitioned booth behind the women by using a twenty and pleading puppy dog eyes. He had been immeasurably relieved that the Hunter's Moon wasn't a strip club, so, he decided, that he would only spy...stay, he corrected himself, long enough to make certain that the women weren't going to corrupt his partner. He liked her exactly the way she was, proper, reserved, and maybe a little bit repressed. A pouty voice caught his attention, "I don't think we should let Dana in. It's not fair, she'll win every time." Scully's back stiffened as she prepared to defend her partner. Ronnie grinned, "Not necessarily, just because he's gorgeous...and all. . . Byronic, doesn't mean that he'd win." Scully's voice was cautious, "What is this poll exactly?" Mulder leaned back toward the partition, his ears straining.....Byronic? him? "Whose partner is the sexiest...we each tell an example of the sexist thing our partner has done. So far, Lorna has won four times." A woman with a brownish-blond bun tipped her head with a shrug. "Show Dana the picture," Ronnie gestured with a playful smile. Lorna removed a picture from her wallet of herself with her partner. Scully gasped, "He looks like Keanu Reeves in 'Point Break.' Where have they been hiding him?" Mulder scowled. Damn movie was the most far-fetched depiction of the FBI ever, and damn Keanu Reeves spent most of the damn movie running around either half naked or in a skin-tight wet suit. "Undercover. We've went into a couple busts as a married couple." "And what kinds of things has he done to win the poll?" Mulder thought sourly that Scully sounded a little too interested. Lorna resembled a cat with a whisker full of cream. "Um...." her eyes closed as she seemed to savor the image, "answering his hotel door in red bikini briefs." To Mulder's disgust, the women ah'ed over that. "For one assignment, he had a specially made temporary tattoo with my name. He put it on his back, the left shoulder blade, and during the last assignment, he tipped me back into this low dip and kissed me." Mulder rolled his eyes, what drivel, the guy was probably gay, but the women were sighing....loudly, and he had a sneaking suspicion that it was his lovely partner who had whispered, "Lucky." Mulder was completely disgusted. At the very least, he could count on the fact that his reserved Scully would never participate in such low-brow nonsense, she wouldn't ever stoop to... "I'm in." Mulder's jaw dropped. How could she? How could she use him like that? Sharing their private moments? Describing bits of their lives in order to win a sexy partner...Mulder's train of thought derailed...why am I upset about this? His mouth quirked as he recognized the implications, after all he was a pretty bright guy, he congratulated himself. By participating, Dana Katherine Scully was tacitly admitting that she found him, Fox William Mulder, sexy. Well, well, well. The quirk broadened into a full-fledged grin. This little excursion was turning out to be well worth the time and effort. The poll began right after the women ordered. Ronnie explained the rules. The story had to be something that had happened during that week, and it had to be something that was melt-your-knees sexy. Other than that, anything goes. One of the other women at the table, Christen, Scully thought was her name, asked to see a picture of Scully's partner. Scully was surprised; she thought that everyone knew Mulder. Gorgeous, rebellious, and insistent on flaunting his non-traditional beliefs, Mulder wasn't exactly low profile, but then Christen had only been at the Bureau for a couple weeks. She searched her wallet and finally found a picture her mother had taken of them standing together at Maggie's Christmas Eve dinner. She smiled fondly at the shot; they were gazing into each other's eyes, in earnest conversation. Her mother, who was constantly asking when she was going to make an honest man of her partner, liked Fox and had insisted that he spend Christmas Eve with them since he only visited his own mother on Christmas Day. Mulder wondered what the picture looked like that the women were murmuring over appreciatively. Also, he wondered how he could manage to search Scully's wallet on Monday at the office in order to find out. The other women went first, so they could give Dana time to prepare her tale. The forerunner was Lorna again, who had described in excruciatingly minute detail how her partner introduced her to their new case by arriving at her door wearing tight, black leather pants, a black leather vest, and carrying a red rose; he was going to be a drug-smuggling musician working as a courier for a major mob boss and she was going to be his band manager, the one he was controlling with sex. Mulder had nearly gagged, especially when the women applauded. While the other women shared their "entries" in the contest, Scully sorted through a seemingly endless catalog of possibilities. Mulder did a million small things that were sexy. Faint color flushed her cheeks; any of Mulder's titanic passions, all of them, were equally appealing. She thought that he was as sexy when he was vehemently defending his beliefs as he was when he was teasing her. Some of the incidents she found most arousing were too small to adequately describe, like his boyish smile before he hit her with one of his more outlandish theories, the sheepish expression he always wore when he would convince her to go chasing an outrageous story, the light glinting off his little professor glasses when he was reading a case file, his enthusiasm for slide shows, or the flash of his tongue as he munched sunflower seeds....any of those never failed to turn her on. Then it was her turn, and suddenly, she knew the incident she had to describe: It was Wednesday, and I had walked over to the reflecting pool where Mulder and I frequently meet to relax, breathe some fresh air, and absorb some sunshine during our lunch hour. He was already there, sitting in a shaft of sunlight, which gilded his light brown hair gold. One heavy lock fell across his forehead as he glanced up at me, welcoming me with a little smile. He'd already finished his sandwich and was just ready to eat his dessert, a ripe, red-gold peach. I sat down next to him and just watched him. He held the peach firmly, sideways, his fingers unyielding, but careful not to bruise the tender fruit; then he bit into it the way most people do an apple. His first bite was a healthy one. His eyes closed as his teeth sunk delicately into the ripe fruit. He moaned then, low and appreciative, as the juice wet his lips, making them slick. He licked away the juice, then, turning the peach, bit into it again, gently, carefully. A drop of juice hovered at the corner of his mouth and started to slide toward his jaw when he wiped it away with his thumb, which he then slid into his mouth and sucked. His eyes closed again with the third bite, which made a sweet, wet crunch as he consumed it; then, he sucked at the raw, golden flesh, licking delicately the rough pit at the peach's core. When his eyes opened, he smiled and offered me a bite. By the time she finished, Scully's normally pale blue eyes had turned ocean dark; she smiled. There was a long moment of silence, then a great deal of throat-clearing. Mulder shifted restlessly; his arousal was pressing uncomfortably into the zipper of his jeans. He remembered offering Scully a bite of his peach, and while he'd wanted badly for her to lean over and place her mouth where his had been and to take a bite, he'd had no idea that she'd seen him eating in quite that light. Her face hadn't reflected a bit of sensuality or even a glimmer of vague interest. He wondered if she truly thought that him eating was sexy, in which case the peach industry was about to see a boom, or if this was just an example of her competitive spirit. Mulder heard ice clinking against glasses; then Ronnie said, "We'll take a minute then vote. Afterwards, I have our literary dessert to go with our Death by Chocolate Cake. The latest piece of work by our anonymous writer is called 'The Stake Out.' " She turned to Scully to explain the origin of the stories, "Jill and I found these fabulous stories on the Internet. 'Steele-Eyes' Skinner..." The pouty-voiced Jill interrupted, "I prefer 'Bald and Beautiful' Skinner..." Mulder rolled his eyes. Ronnie raised an eyebrow, "Regardless, he assigned us to act as watchdogs for anti-government groups after the last bomb threat against the FBI. He wanted us to look for any group that might be publishing threats to the FBI over the Net. But as we were going through the listings, we found these sexy stories about an FBI agent and the partner he lusts for." Mulder froze; it couldn't be the same story; it couldn't be his most recent story, but he was all too afraid that his worlds were about to collide and his little secret was about to be exposed. Well, at the very least, he could duck and run, so he wouldn't overhear Scully dissecting his fantasies. He threw down some bills and dashed for the door before he even found out whether or not Scully's story won the partner poll. Moments later, the votes had been cast and counted. Scully won 5-1; only Scully voted for Lorna. It wasn't that she didn't think her partner was the sexist or that she felt obligated to vote for someone else; she voted for Lorna because she figured that she would give just about anything to see Mulder in tight, black leather pants. After the waiter brought their desserts, Scully took her copy of "The Stake Out" with some trepidation. She didn't know what to expect. . . a mini-romance novel? a semi-literate short story? She smiled, maybe something Mulder would enjoy like soft core porn? She began reading: "The Stake Out" Her hair shone gold in the moonlight instead of its usual, lovely burnished red. He caught his breath as his partner settled more comfortably into the passenger seat of the car, snuggling her cheek into the butter-soft leather. He fought the urge to lean over and to taste her softly parted lips and instead settled for gently brushing a silky ribbon of hair away from her cheek. He froze as she smiled and nuzzled the seat, but didn't waken. He wondered if she was dreaming, what she was dreaming, if she was dreaming about a caressing phantom lover, or if she could possibly be dreaming about him. He sighed, if only she was dreaming about him. He leaned back into his seat; his head flopped back against the seat rest. He considered moaning out his frustration, but was afraid of waking his delectable partner. He sighed. He'd loved her for so long; since the first moment he'd saw her, he supposed, although he hadn't recognized it until one night on a stake out much like this one. He was waiting for her, and when she appeared, flushed and wind-tossed like Diana fresh from the hunt, she carried a bag. He'd joked that if it held a ham and cheese on wheat, he'd be in love. She'd replied that he was in luck, it was turkey on white. At that moment, he'd realized that he'd both meant his declaration of love and that he had wanted her to return his feelings. Scully paused for a moment. . . the incident seemed familiar. Then she shrugged. Any set of male/female partners in the FBI would have had similar experiences of spending time watching a place alone in a car at night, and no doubt countless of those partners had also brought food or, she smiled as her particular experience came back to her, drinks. He turned his head to look at her. . . beautiful, she was so beautiful, and in sleep, she seemed even more deceptively delicate, angelic. Her powerful intelligence, strength, and courage were in her face, but muted without her lovely piercing ice blue gaze. He tore his eyes from her face, checked the dark and quiet house again, then gave into the temptation to fantasize. Just for a moment, he promised himself, after all, he didn't want to miss his suspect or to embarrass himself. He shifted his hips uncomfortably; it was all to easy to do and had happened much too often; she'd just never noticed. He imagined: he would lean over and place his lips softly, gently against hers, a bare whisper. Her eyelids would flutter open and she'd give him the warm, inviting, sleepy smile that haunted his dreams. He'd lean over and kiss her again, this time to taste, to capture, to preserve, to treasure that smile. His mouth would move smoothly over hers. Her lips would part on a gasp of surprised pleasure; her tongue would flick out to taste the sensation of his mouth on hers and would accidentally brush his lips. With that delicate provocation, he'd deepen the kiss, begging entrance to her mouth with his own tongue. She'd open for him, and he'd explore her heavenly flavors, thoroughly and deeply. His fingers would thread gently through the silken length of her hair then would slide down to cup the back of her neck. He'd fill his hand with her hair, and tug, easing her head back, tilting her face up so he could taste her even more completely, could savor her more fully. He would. . . A sudden noise from the house shifted his attention. Damn. He had to relinquish his fantasy at one of his favorite spots. He gently reached over and brushed his index finger down her cheek to wake her, one of his favorite methods. He supposed he could've touched her shoulder or spoken her name, but this way he had an excuse to touch her, to satisfy his longing for her, even if it was just for the barest second. She came alert quickly, too quickly, as the stake out turned from private contemplation to serious work. Scully set the story aside and savored the last bite of her supremely decadent dessert. The chocolate melted in her mouth, rich, luscious, and creamy, what she frequently imagined her partner's mouth would taste like. Her body began a low, insistent throb that only grew worse during the jazz musician's performance. The sax player was incredibly skillful, and the music built the throb in her with insidious eroticism. Scully tried to focus purely on the music, and she tried valiantly to lust and sigh over the handsome saxophonist, but her partner's face superimposed itself over the sax player's, along with a tantalizing image of herself appearing at Mulder's door in a slinky dress and carrying a bottle of champagne and a bag of chocolate-covered strawberries. By the end of the first set, Scully was determined to leave before the music, her fantasies, and the mysterious writer's lingeringly seductive influence convinced her that strawberry and champagne seduction was both her style and the right thing to do. As she rose from the table and made her excuses, Ronnie stopped her with a smile and wink, "I'll let you know about the plans for next week. You'll have to give Lorna a chance to reclaim the sexiest partner title." Alexandria, VA Apartment 42 10:31 p.m. Mulder hadn't needed to stay to listen to the women, especially Scully, discuss "dessert." He already knew how "The Stake Out" went; after all, he'd written it. He grimaced. This, like so much of the entire evening, was also the Gunmen's fault. Several weeks ago, Frohike had claimed that Mulder absolutely had to read these stories they'd found while surfing the Net. "Cyber-porn?" Mulder figured that was about the only thing that would bring that particular leer to Frohike's face. It was the one he usually reserved for Scully. "No, dude." Frohike's glasses reflected a tiny image of his hands holding a sheaf of papers. "Internet erotica. . .I saved you all the ones featuring lovely redheads." Mulder skimmed the first one. "Trite." Then he read the second, "Sadly, most porno films have better dialogue than this." After the third one, his voice moved a note past dry to extremely sarcastic, "My god. . . I have a photographic memory, do you realize this drivel is now stored forever in my brain?" After tossing the fourth story aside in disgust, Mulder said, "I could write better than this, and I haven't done any creative writing since my angst poetry period in college and a bad reincarnation fanfic episode of my favorite science fiction program, which by the way, was almost universally reviled." Langly's dimples flashed as he draped his arms over his chair. "Okay, Agent Mulder. Put your money where your PC is. Write a better story. Byers can judge. If the story isn't better, the loser buys cheese steaks." Mulder scowled and picked up the basketball out of the corner of his living room. It was late, but he began bouncing it anyway. His ego had accepted the challenge, and he'd written his first story about an FBI agent and the sexy red-haired partner that he longs for. His first story was, Mulder's forehead furrowed, pure fantasy fulfillment. It began with a tense scene in which the partner catches the agent with an assisting officer in a compromising situation that he had done absolutely nothing (that part was stressed in great detail) to encourage. The partners argue and she ends up shoving him against the wall and they make love in great and graphic detail. He considered his second story a great deal better since he'd decided to leave his hero hanging. He could desire the partner, fantasize about her, contemplate his love for her, but he wouldn't actually make love with her. Although he liked to believe that the decision was made for literary reasons, in actuality, it was more a decision that if he wasn't getting any, his literary counterpart shouldn't be either. Thus, his hero was left fantasizing about and longing for the partner he privately loves. This second story had the female partner pulling away from the agent, rejecting the emotional intimacy of their relationship. She meets another man who convinces her to get a tattoo to mark her rebellion and the rejection of her and her partner's relationship. The other man turns into a dangerous psychopath, and her partner has to rescue her after spending long hours alone, lonely and longing for any excuse to go to her. Mulder had been careful that the partner hadn't had sex, or even any real desire, for this other man--there were things Mulder didn't even want to contemplate--instead the agent only makes love to her partner in a fantasized dream sequence that allows him to claim her, to erase any minor attraction she might've experienced for this other man. He imagines worshiping her body, devoting time to kissing and licking her tattoo, claiming it and transforming it from a symbol of rejection to one marking her as his possession, the circle a symbol not of the end of a cycle, but a representation of the completion they find in each other. The story ends after the fantasy with an uncomfortable scene between the partners, in which neither can adequately express their emotions. When Frohike had finished the first story, all he'd said was, "That was hot!" After the second story, he shifted uncomfortably in his chair and whispered, "Your kung fu is the best!" Byers had agreed, and without Mulder's permission, Langly created a website, www.fbi.erotic.com, and posted both of Mulder's stories. Although at first he'd been angry and afraid that Scully would unwittingly uncover his fantasies, his feelings about her, once he saw the flatteringly increasing number of hits on the site, Mulder had accepted the site's existence and rationalized leaving it up and running since he figured that Scully wasn't very likely to see it. She tended to use the Net only to search for medical knowledge, so it would be a one in a million link that would expose her to his literary fantasies. He'd gone on and wrote two more stories, one about his fear of losing her to a life-threatening illness (unnamed just in case), and then just earlier this week, he'd posted, "The Stake Out." Fortunately, in this story, he hadn't included any X-filesque details, as he had in the others. A dull throb pulsed his temples. He thought that of the ones he'd written, that one at least was probably general enough to be safe. He tried to reassure himself; there was no reason for Scully to connect him with the author of that story. . . he hoped. Had he known that because of his story, all night long, Scully twisted and turned in her bed, tormented by erotic dreams about making love with her partner in the front seat of a rental car, Mulder would've panicked. End Part I.