From: "Amber Botts" Date: Fri, 30 Oct 1998 13:57:50 PST Subject: MSR "The Hunter's Moon" 3/4 Title: "The Hunter's Moon: Part III: 'The Capture' " (3/4) Author: Amber Rating: R for sexual situations . Also, sappy, so beware, if you don't like it mushy, don't read any further. Keywords: MSR Spoilers: "Folie a Deux," "Little Green Men," "Beyond the Sea," "Anasazi," "Emily," "War of the Coprophages," "Syzygy." Allusions to "Irresistible," "Paper Hearts," "Tooms (Squeeze 2)." Summary: Scully discovers the identity of her mystery writer and confronts him; much pleasure ensues. Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and the Gunmen belong to Chris Carter, 1013, et. al. Part III: Alexandria, VA Apartment 42 September 20 1:14 am Mulder had regretted posting the story only seconds after he had done it. Posting it had been reckless, dangerous, and he'd sweated for a week, hoping he could keep it out of Scully's hands. It was too soon, too recognizable. At least he and Scully had been out of town on the Friday in which "The Fantasy" would have been used for "dessert" at Ronnie's regular Girls' Night Out. In order to keep it from her, he'd fabricated an excuse to stay an additional day in San Antonio. Just to be safe, he would make sure that he posted another story before this Friday, insuring that this week's "dessert" would be innocuous. His mouth quirked; it would have to be a doozy, "The Fantasy" was worth a second week as dessert, if he did say so himself. But now it was time to make magic. He turned on his computer, cranked up some mood music, and began typing. Annapolis, MD September 20 7:14 p.m. Scully accessed the Net and typed in www.fbi.erotic.com. All for a fix of her fantasy writer, she had suffered untold embarrassment both at the "stripperfest" and in that tense scene when Mulder caught her with the photographic evidence of her illicit activities. After all that, she wasn't about to miss her mystery writer's new story. Ronnie had gladly, even eagerly, passed on the Internet address when she'd asked for it. The page came up; she decided to save and savor the three older titles that she hadn't read yet. She found "The Fantasy," opened it, and began to read. The connecting door on her side was closed, but he knew that it would be unlocked. He rested his forehead against the door for a moment breathing deeply and fighting the urge to reach for the knob. His body begged him to open it, and a voice in his mind whispered, "What would be the harm? You could go in and see if she's asleep. You could just sit in the chair and watch her breathe. You could forget your fear of losing her, your torment, your guilt; you could just absorb her flawless beauty, wallow in your desire, indulge in your fantasies. You wouldn't even be taking a risk; she couldn't reject you, not asleep. You wouldn't be risking your heart." The other, more careful part of his mind asked, "What if she's not asleep?" That insidious, tempting voice chuckled, "Well, that could be even more interesting." He rubbed his forehead against the door and barely restrained from banging it against the doorframe in an attempt to knock some sense into that whispering part of his mind. He was thinking of his own selfish needs, not hers. He felt the sigh begin in the depths of his soul. It poured out in a well-deep rush. He watched, almost dispassionately, as his hand reached for the knob and turned it. The temptation was too strong tonight. His will, he chastised himself, was weak, but god, he'd almost lost her. The maniac they were pursuing had been pursuing her. He'd captured her and was preparing to kill her. The remembered fear caused his gut to clench; if he'd been only moments later, he would have been too late. Providence, luck, a supreme being, fate, he didn't know which one to thank that he hadn't been too late. An image of her frightened face still swam in front of his eyes. He would just peek in on her, he promised himself. He just wanted to reassure himself by watching her breathe. It wasn't sexual, or at least, for the most part it wasn't. His mouth twisted and he was honest, at least with himself. He wanted her; he always wanted her, anytime, anywhere, under any circumstances, but the desire was tempered by his love, which was every bit as strong as his lust. In the next room, the bed creaked as if a body were tossing to and fro. The creaking was followed by a loud whimper. Concern closely chased by relief crashed through him. Finally, he had an excuse to go to her. He pushed open the door and crossed to the bed, refusing to acknowledge the part of him that was eagerly devouring the sight of her lying on her side with the jade silk man's-style pajama top slipping off her shoulder, her skin alabaster in the faint light. The sheets were twisted around her, a testament to her nightmares. She whimpered again. He hurried to her bedside, knelt over, and gently brushed the silken red strands from her forehead. "Wake up, baby," his voice was gentle, hushed. His fingers slid down to the curve of her cheek. "C'mon, open those gorgeous blue eyes." His thumb rubbed her cheekbone then trailed down and across her full bottom lip; like rose petals, he thought. Her eyes flickered open as his hand slid away as if it had never caressed her. "It's you. I was dreaming of the attacker, and then," her smile was warm and sleepy, "my dream changed; I woke up." He smiled at her gently. She was always so open to him in the middle of the night. "Do you want to tell me about the dream?" He grinned playfully. "Banish the bogeyman?" She rolled slightly onto her back. "No. It's gone, and I don't want to think about it again." Her voice was hesitant, "But, would you stay? Just until I fall back to sleep?" Her eyes were already starting to drift shut. Her voice was husky, "Sometimes, I think you are my personal dream catcher. I never have nightmares when I know you are close by." As he nodded solemnly, his heart ached. He'd lie on a bed of nails if she asked. Staying in a chair next to her bedside was no hardship; he'd done it before and without her even having to ask. He found great comfort and satisfaction just in being near her. His grin this time was self-mocking; sadly, it was only when he contorted himself into a chair next to her bedside that he was able sleep well, soundly, deeply, peacefully. He pulled the chair close to the bed and made himself as comfortable as possible. He drifted off to the sound of her breathing and the sweet, faint scent of her perfume. The dream came quickly that night and began as it always did. He stood next to her bed; she gazed up at him. "Hurry, please hurry. I need you, darling." His fingers began slipping the buttons of his shirt out of the holes quickly until he noticed her pleasure. She enjoyed watching him undress for her. Her eyes were midnight dark, hot and hungry, flashing with desire. Deliberately, he slowed down. He toyed with the next button, running his fingertip around the button several times before sliding it from the hole. His hips did a slow hard grind as the last button slipped free and he shrugged out of his shirt. Her light, musical laugh delighted him. "That's it, G-man, give me a little one-on-one strip tease; do it just for me." He rolled his shoulders and let the roll ripple down to his hips, rocking them up and back. He unbuckled his belt then pulled it free, slowly, slowly. Dropping the belt to the floor, he toyed with the button on his pants; his eyes locked on hers, daring her to look away. She didn't as he flicked the button free then inch by inch moved the zipper down. His breath lodged in his throat; the anticipation was killing him. His body was burning, hot and ready just from the anticipation, from the sensation of her eyes first locked on his and then from the blaze of midnight blue fire down his body. She was staring as his pants slipped down his hips; he knew that his arousal was completely obvious to her, and he couldn't hold out any longer. He had to finish his strip tease seriously, quickly. He grasped the elastic waistband of his briefs and pushed them down....A thump in the room next to hers brought him to groggy wakefulness just as his dream partner was reaching out to touch him. Scully set the story aside with a sigh. Luscious. Her body felt warm, hungry; the mystery writer had done it again. Familiar, too, like the others. Scully's mind skimmed back; the lover-man agent did a striptease. A striptease. It was strange that only a few days after she'd discussed stripteases with Mulder that her erotic mystery writer would choose to include one in his story. A vague kernel of suspicion took root in her mind. Even though she'd wanted to save and savor the other stories, she opened the first one on the list, "The Fight." As she read, her suspicions grew and solidified. There was no way that the sexy mystery writer could've created the details that he did, all the way down to the red-haired partner shouting, "Sure, Fine, Whatever," right before she shoved him up against the wall and began ravaging him, without having been in Comity himself. Anger came close on the heels of suspicion. She had actually felt guilty about lusting for this mystery writer; she should've known. This whole escapade was just another chapter in her on-going saga of desire for her partner. She printed out copies of "The Fantasy" and "The Fight." Then, despite the late hour, she stormed out of her apartment and headed for her car. Alexandra, VA Apartment 42 1:45 am Mulder shuffled groggily to the door. He'd dozed off after finishing another one of his odes of lust and love to Scully. This one had the agent faking an injury so that his partner would hover over and take care of him. The story hadn't been hard to write since he'd pulled that particular scam a few times himself and he'd enjoyed her fussing to no end. He idly wondered if it made him masochistic for the way a part of him thrilled when he was cut or bruised. Of course, when the payoff was the lovely Dana Scully leaning in close with that sweetly sympathetic, empathetic expression, and the soft way she always said "Oh, Mulder," he didn't think too many men would think he was crazy for appreciating the value of a little pain. The banging continued, insistently, but he didn't need to wonder who it was for long. "Mulder, it's me. Open up." She sounded pissed. "Okay. Okay." He tugged on a loose grey t-shirt, checked his boxers to make certain he was decent, opened the door cautiously, only about six inches, and peeked out. He knew that Scully had to be pretty angry to be out this late. "Wha'z the matter?" Scully's eyes narrowed. She refused to be softened by his sleepy hazel eyes or his pouty bottom lip or the bulging bicep of his left arm, which was charmingly flexed over his head against the doorframe. Her mind went a bit fuzzy; she wanted to smooth his sleep-mussed hair, to brush the boyish fall back off of his forehead. To run her fingers through it to the thick hair at the back of his skull, to grip the silky strands and yank his mouth down to hers. Then she'd. . . she stopped, she was fantasizing his little Comity tale, damn him. Her hand smacked him in the middle of the chest. Mulder stumbled back and Scully strode into his living room. The stack of papers she held slapped against him. He caught most of them, but stumbled back again when she advanced on him with a dangerous gleam in her eye. His butt hit the couch with a thump. He glanced down at the papers. He gulped. The jig was up, and he was apparently in quite a bit of hot water. He closed his eyes for a moment. She had him so crazy that he was thinking in cliches. "Are they yours?" He wondered if he could distract her with some of the tried-and-true ploys: he fixed her with the sad, puppy eyes, the expression that had convinced her to investigate a giant bug masquerading as a person. Scully could feel herself melting; that look always persuaded her to do things she knew she shouldn't. Her eyes narrowed and she deliberately stiffened her spine. Clearly, he knew what effect that expression would have on her. He was doing it on purpose. As Mulder recognized the steely expression, the one that kicked butt and took names--one of which tonight would be his,-- he played his trump card. He deliberately dragged his index finger along the edge of one of the pages; he sucked in a breath as blood welled out of the cut. Painful, but effective. "Oh, Mulder." He smiled smugly as she headed for the bathroom and retrieved the first aid kit. He wondered if he should grumble the way he usually did when she patched him up, but decided that the least said, the better. He affected an expression that he hoped reflected noble suffering as she took his hand in hers and gently cradled it so that she could better see the cut. "This is deep; I'm sorry, Mulder, but this will probably hurt." At times like this, Mulder understood why her father was so disappointed that she joined the FBI instead of practicing medicine. Scully would've been a damn fine doctor. His breath hissed in as the antiseptic trickled over the deep cut. Her soft sympathetic hum soothed him as much as the gentle way she blew on the cut soothed the sting. This is what made the pain worthwhile, he sighed. His sacrificed finger was well worth the sweet reward. Scully carefully wrapped the band-aid around his injured finger then continued to cradle his hand in hers. "Now, are they yours or not?" Her voice was softer, but no less determined than before. So much for diversionary tactics. Mulder didn't know what to do. He didn't want to lie, didn't want untruths of any kind between him and his best friend, his partner, the woman he loved. He couldn't lie. He couldn't meet her eyes, but he silently nodded. "Why? Why write the stories? Why put them on the Internet?" Mulder slipped his hand out of hers. He didn't know how to tell her, how to give her an explanation. Why he wrote them was simple, but a risk to explain. Why he posted them was more complicated. Maybe he posted the stories and left them available even after he knew that she'd read two of them because some part of him subconsciously wanted her to know that he desired her, that he was longing for her, that he loved her. If he hadn't wanted her to know, why would he have played with fire? He'd posted a story that quoted reality, and let it join two other stories that she would recognize as herself and him. Hell, he'd included some of their conversation verbatim, as if he were daring her to catch him, or daring fate to expose the feelings that he'd hidden for so long. He'd given Scully the clues to lead her to the exact conclusion he must have wanted her to reach. He could feel Scully's eyes on him, yet he still didn't speak. He didn't know what to say. Dana sighed then rose to her feet. He was refusing to even meet her eyes and he was refusing to talk to her, again. She glanced at him. He was slumped over, hands clasped between his bare knees, head down almost touching them. He looked so defeated she almost relented, but then she remembered all the times she spoke first, confessing her loyalty to him, confessing her trust, her friendship, the way she'd clung to their relationship even after the FBI had separated them. Then, there were all the other times he'd refused to speak to her. He hadn't told her where he was going, or had told her that it was safer for her not to know, even though that had been much, much worse, knowing that he was in danger and that she wasn't there to protect him, to add her strengths to his. To be fair, he'd been strong for her when she'd needed him to be; he'd supported her during her cancer and when she'd lost her father, her sister, and Emily. But, this time she needed him to tell her what motivated him, to say the words. Were the stories a lark? a joke? Or was he declaring long-hidden, long-denied feelings? Not likely, she shook her head and started for the door. "Wait." Mulder's voice was rusty, as if from lack of use. Scully stopped three steps from the door; her hand was reaching out for the knob. "I wrote them for me, and I. . .I wrote them for you, so you'd know. . .how I feel." She slowly turned to face him, stunned; it was more than she'd wanted, more than she'd hoped. It was hard to process--the fantasies, the desire were real and they were for her. "When were you going to tell me?" Mulder sighed. "I don't know, tomorrow, next week, never." His chin was tipped down, but his eyes met hers. Vague, but she understood. "Why the Internet? Why the stories?" Mulder returned his hazel gaze to his linked fingers. "How could I tell you in person? When I wrote the first story, I never thought you'd see it. I'd written it for me to experience with you something I thought I never would, and I wrote them to prove that I could write something well, something passionate and moving and real. Then, I just couldn't stop, even when I knew you'd read one of them. I think that I wanted you to know, but I couldn't tell you." Her voice was soft as she walked back toward him and sat gingerly at the other end of his couch. "Why not?" His mouth twisted, "You're my best friend and the best partner I can imagine, a better person than I deserved and certainly a better partner than the men who assigned you to me thought I'd be getting. Hell, they gave me a priceless gift when they gave you to me." His head dropped into his hands as he laughed, short and bitter, "It was you who were short-changed; you got stuck with Spooky Mulder, Monsterboy, the bureau embarrassment." He paused, "I couldn't ask you for anything else; I can't ask you for anything else, you've already given me more than I deserve." His hazel eyes locked with hers, "That's true, but it's not the whole truth." The left corner of his mouth kicked up, "I was also afraid. I didn't want to disrupt the balance of our partnership; I didn't want to risk losing you," his voice was uncharacteristically hesitant, "and I didn't want to risk myself. I never saw a clear signal that you might want me. You were never jealous, or threatened," his mouth quirked again, "even when I deliberately tried to make you feel that way." "Dr. Bambi?" He nodded. She scooted marginally closer to him. "What about Detective White? I was pretty clearly jealous then." Mulder shrugged, "I thought you were just really, really angry since you thought I was screwing around on the job." He winced, "Pardon the expression," then hurried to add, "which I wasn't, screwing around, I mean. I wouldn't." Scully nodded slowly; she knew. It was all in his story, even the rather damning admission that for a second, he'd felt a flash of male triumph that she'd seen clear evidence that another woman desired him. Mulder's voice was reflective, "And then there are your ethics." Scully's eyebrows rose. Mulder smiled at her obvious surprise. "I respect your ethics. Your principles are rock-solid, and if the FBI discourages dating among its agents, you would abide by those rules, regardless of your own wishes. You are so by-the-book." "It drives you crazy." She added almost absently. He smiled again, "It drives me crazy, but I respect that about you. You keep me from slipping when I would. You make the system work for you and for me when I would just walk away, or," he added wryly, "even more likely, would spit in the face of authority. Without you, the powers that be would've gotten rid of me long ago." He shrugged, "And then there is the partnership dynamic. I was afraid that if we. . . took our relationship to the next level that I might become too protective. I might try to stop you from taking risks, from doing your job." He added silently, and I'd rather be celibate for the rest of my life than steal that from you. Scully shook her head. That wasn't an issue. "A romantic relationship between us wouldn't change our working relationship." She was certain about that. "You never stopped me from doing my job, even when you had legitimate reason. You supported me when I wanted to go back into the field after my abduction. You were very sweetly concerned for me when I had cancer, and you could've went to Skinner and told him about my nose bleeds. You could've easily convinced him that I was too sick to work, and I wouldn't have blamed you, but you stood by me instead." She added silently, screw the rules. If she had to choose between the employee handbook and her partner, there was no choice. "I just didn't want to have to break in a new partner." Scully recognized the ploy to use humor to distance himself. She also knew that after giving her this much truth, they could probably put their relationship back on its previous just-friends footing. He could treat her with affectionate professionalism interspersed with moments of intense emotion and playful teasing. Maybe the innuendo would feel more meaningful, but she would be able to go back to dealing with him with quelling looks and the occasional witty rejoinder. Alone in bed at night, each could hug the knowledge of the other's attraction; they could pull out the memories to examine from all angles, to dream, to fantasize, to treasure, while pretending during the day that this confrontation never happened. Then, the next day while together at the Bureau, all those feelings would be set aside. It wouldn't be perfect, but it would work. They could still be just friends and partners. Scully paused; for once she didn't want to back off, to shove her emotions into a tiny corner of her mind so they could be ignored. For once, Dana Katherine Scully wanted to take a risk, a big one. It was time, time for her to take action. She couldn't wait for Mulder to take the lead in this; god, it could be another five years before he decided to do something, and she was tired of sitting back, waiting for Mulder to make a move. Her eyes closed for a moment. She drew a deep breath, held it for a moment, then slid next to him on the couch. His bare knee burned hers through the heavy denim of her jeans. She laid her hand over his. "Mulder, I want you." The words were simple and they came more easily than she would've thought. "I want to make love with you tonight." Mulder thought that his heart stopped. He rubbed a hand absently over the middle of his chest; there it goes. Now it was nearly pounding its way out. "Are you positive?" His voice was again hesitant, unsure. "I don't think that I'd be able to stop once I start touching you. It's been too long; I've," he sighed deeply, "I've wanted you too long to let you go, and I don't think that I could deal with your regrets. . . it would . . . kill me, I think." End 3/4 There are two versions of part 4/4--an R version and an NC-17 version. The dialogue is identical in both, but the sex scene in the NC-17 version is more explicit.