From: "Dasha K." <dashak@aol.com>

Date: 12 Dec 1999 18:13:02 GMT

Subject: NEW: After Eight by Dasha K. and Plausible Deniability (1/3)

After Eight by Dasha K. and Plausible Deniability

Please archive at Gossamer. Okay for Spookys, too. Anywhere

else, just

ask us and we'll probably say yes.

Summary: Is it the magic of the Eight Ball, the Christmas spirit,

or something that's been a long time in coming?

Rating: NC-17 for sex, Skinner's green punch and lots of songs

from the

80s.

Classification: SRH

Keywords: Mulder/Scully romance

Spoilers: None

Disclaimer: Yeah, we wish . . .

Feedback: We'd both love to hear from you -- dashak@aol.com and

pdeniability@hotmail.com

We don't really say what year this is set in, although it could be

seventh season, ignoring the New Year's events of "Millennium."

Nothing but Christmas cheer, schmoop and smut here. We don't know

nothin' bout no angst. <g>

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"So that's all you can tell us?" Mulder asked, sitting across from

the old Gypsy woman. "You can't remember anything else about the

man who visited you?"

The cluttered trailer was dark and smelled of incense and cat

food. A gray Persian, the apparent reason for the latter smell,

purred noisily and wrapped itself around Mulder's ankles.

Madame Sujka frowned, and her dark eyes narrowed haughtily. "Of

course that's not all I can tell you," she said in her heavily-

accented English. "I see many things -- my future, your future.

But the identity of the man you seek...that I cannot say."

"Really? You can see my future?"

"Come on, Mulder," Scully said behind him. "We're wasting our

time here."

The Gypsy woman drew herself up proudly. "Of course I see your

future. I am Madame Sujka!"

Mulder looked around with interest. "So what do you do, gaze into

a crystal ball?"

"Mulder -- " Scully said, crossing her arms over her chest

impatiently.

"Crystal balls are for amateurs," sneered Madame Sujka. "I read

the palm, and the soul!"

"And you could read my palm?"

"Mulder!" Scully exclaimed.

"Give me your hand," ordered Madame Sujka, grabbing Mulder's

wrist. She yanked his arm across the table and bent over it,

peering intently. With one long, bony index finger, she traced

the lines that criss-crossed his palm. Her lips moved wordlessly

as she read the mysteries written before her.

She sat back finally with a look of satisfaction. "Your lucky

number is eight," she pronounced, releasing his hand.

Mulder sat, waiting, while Scully tapped her foot.

"That's it?" he asked after a moment. "That's my whole fortune --

'your lucky number is eight'?"

Scully looked amused. "Whatever happened to 'I see a tall, dark

man in your future'?"

"That is your fortune," Madame Sujka snapped. "His fortune I have

already determined. His lucky number is eight."

"That's really my whole fortune?" Mulder asked incredulously.

"That's the part that matters. That will be fifty dollars,

please."

"Fifty dollars for that?" Mulder asked in disbelief.

The Persian jumped up on the table, purring loudly. Madame Sujka

scooped the cat into her lap, and stroked its luxuriant fur. "You

want a more romantic future," she answered, "you need to lead a

more romantic life. Fifty dollars."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Could you let me through here -- " Mulder shouted, trying to push

his way between a group from the mailroom and two female agents

whose names he couldn't remember. The throbbing beat of Frankie

Goes to Hollywood's "Relax" all but drowned him out. He lifted

his glass aloft and sucked

in his chest in an effort to squeeze through the crowd.

"Hey!" said one of the women, turning around with a glare.

"Sorry," he said quickly. "Accident." There was not much else

you could say to a woman when you'd just slid your groin against

her ass.

The room was packed. It was warm, too; the combined heat of so

many bodies had pushed the temperature up. There were flushed

faces everywhere he looked. Of course, some of the glow around

him was probably due to alcohol. Skinner served strong drinks.

In fact, he thought, maybe he ought to slow down a little. A cup

of eggnog and four Sloe Drivers -- he rarely had that much to

drink in a whole year, and here he'd downed it all in under ninety

minutes. He had an impressive buzz going. The music seemed to be

pounding right through him, making him want to grab the closest

woman and dance.

Speaking of which, where was Scully? He looked around the crowd

hopefully. He hadn't seen her all evening. If she didn't show up

in ten minutes, he was out of here. He'd put in an appearance,

made friendly conversation, had some drinks. He'd done his Office

Christmas Party duty.

Skinner stood off to the side, near the glass windows, deep in

conversation with a pretty blonde thing's cleavage. Mulder wiped

his face and wondered what arcane secrets Skinner held, since his

Assistant Director, despite the fierce body heat of federal

employees, didn't seem to be sweating at all. And, on another

note, how strange was it that Skinner was a Frankie Goes to

Hollywood fan?

The music faded to the unmistakable synthesizer beat of "Sweet

Dreams" and Mulder took another slug of his drink, watching the

dancers writhe to the seductive purr of the singer's voice. Annie

Lennox, with her aura of mystery, always gave him some rather

interesting thoughts. But no, he was not going to go there.

Tonight he was going to be on his best behavior. This was a work

party and his pants were a bit tight.

Mulder's virtuous thoughts decided to pack it off for a three-day

package trip to Vegas as he spotted a small red head making its

way through the crowd. Pathetic, he thought, all I can see is the

top three inches of her head and I'm already entertaining some

dangerous ideas.

Those ideas sprung into three-dimensional, Technicolor fantasies

as Scully finally made her way to him. She was holding a glass of

florescent green punch and breathing hard at her efforts through

the crowd. Already her cheeks were pink and her lips wet from

either her drink or from licking them. Mulder hoped it was the

second choice and that she'd do it again in front of him.

She must have gone home and changed. During the day she'd worn

one of her ubiquitous black suits, but now she had on a silver-

blue blouse that clung to her skin and was unbuttoned one button

too far for modesty.

Holy shit. He'd never truly realized Scully had that many curves.

He shook his head to dispel the idea. Now he remembered why he

didn't drink more often. It was dangerous being drunk -- thoughts

were harder to govern. Besides, he had a feeling he was wearing

that smile, the goofy one that appeared in some of his old photos

from Oxford, when the camera had always seemed to catch him

disheveled, glassy-eyed, and grinning among a group of equally-

inebriated friends.

"Merry Christmas, Mulder," said Scully, arriving at his side. She

had to raise her voice to make herself heard. "What's so funny?"

Yep, he thought; he was definitely wearing the goofy smile.

"Private joke," he answered, to avoid incriminating himself. "Did

you just get here, Scully?"

Her lips quirked at the corners. "Half an hour and three cups of

punch ago."

Well, well, well, he thought; three cups of punch, and an actual

smirk. Apparently he wasn't the only one who'd been partaking of

a little holiday cheer. "You look nice tonight," he said, leaning

in toward her so he wouldn't have to shout.

She tilted her head and her eyes flickered over him with a hint of

tipsiness. "Thanks, Mulder. So do you."

She not only looked great, but she smelled great, too. It wasn't

her usual perfume, but something stronger and decidedly sexier.

Almost against his will, his gaze drifted to the neck of her

blouse, and to the shadow of her cleavage.

"What?" she said, glancing down. "Did I spill something on

myself?"

He flushed and looked away. Lust one, subtlety zero, he thought.

Scully touched his face and he stifled a shiver at the sensation

of her fingers on his cheek. "Your face is red," she said over

the thump thump thump of the music.

"It's hot in here," he said, stating the obvious.

She looked around at the horde of drunken agents with a wry grin.

"If I had known that Skinner threw such a festive party, I would

have accepted his annual invitation years ago,"

And if I had known that I would get to watch a bead of sweat slide

between your cleavage, Scully, I would have, too.

He could be such a pig after a few drinks.

"Coming through," shouted Allan Diamond, carrying three bottles of

beer in each of his meaty hands. As he walked behind Scully he

tripped a bit and shoved her right into Mulder, who had to reach

out with both arms to keep her from falling flat on her face.

Oh God, now he could really smell her, the bewitching aroma of her

perfume, the green tea shampoo he knew she used and underneath

those commercial scents was the faintest hint of the real Scully.

It was the scent she left on her pillows after a night's sleep.

Just as quickly as he had clasped Scully in his arms, Mulder

allowed her to straighten up and back away from him. Dimly, he

wondered if she had felt his growing erection.

He felt like he was in junior high again, getting hard at the

Sweetheart Dance as he and Mindy Sebastian stumbled over each

other's feet.

Nice, he thought, I'm pushing forty and regressing back to the

days when the most action I got was popping my own zits.

Scully glanced at him a little self-consciously and smoothed her

blouse over her hips, a move that only proved more distracting,

since it caused her breasts to strain against the fabric.

"Sorry," she said. "It's crowded in here."

"Yeah..." he said. "It is really crowded. I don't know if I'm

going to stick around much longer." It seemed safer, under the

circumstances, to make his exit.

She looked a little disappointed, but she nodded and said, "Yeah,

me neither."

The song changed -- Duran Duran was singing "Hungry Like the

Wolf." He wished Skinner would stop playing songs that reminded

him of the days when he'd been having regular sex. In a minute

the backup singer was going to start making that moaning sound,

and then he would really be screwed. "Uh, before you go,

Scully..."

She looked up at him hopefully. "Yes?"

"I, uh...I wanted to give you your Christmas present."

She brightened, even as she was jostled by someone from the Sci

Crime Lab pushing past her on his way to the punchbowl. "You got

me a Christmas present?"

"Well, don't get too excited," he said, reaching out to steady

her. "It's just...you know, something small. It's the thought

that counts." And if that didn't make him sound cheap, he thought

with an inner urge to smack himself, nothing would.

She smiled. "I got you something, too, Mulder."

He must have been drunk, because he found himself with a small,

fleeting hope that it was a can of Redi-Whip and a pair of silk

scarves.

Kimberly, Skinner's assistant, snaked between the two of them,

holly in her auburn hair and her gums green from the punch. "The

mistletoe's over in the corner, Agents," she slurred as she

passed.

Scully looked at her feet and Mulder cleared his throat.

"So, what did you get me?" he asked.

"I left it at home, Mulder. I was afraid I might break it."

Damn, cans of Redi-Whip didn't break, now did they?

Simon Le Bon sang, "Strut on a line, it's discord and rhyme, I'm

on the hunt, I'm after you. Mouth is alive with juices like wine,

and I'm hungry like the wolf," which reminded Mulder far too much

of drunken nights peeling off Phoebe's panties in his little room

at Oxford.

She moved closer and he smelled fruity and alcoholic punch on her

breath. "Do you have my present?"

He would *not* discuss the special gift he had for her in his

pants. He really wasn't in the mood to be slapped by his

erstwhile partner.

"It's with my coat," he said. "And the coats are in Skinner's

room. But if you were serious about leaving anyway..."

She nodded, and he turned to make his way through the crowd.

"Excuse me...excuse me..." he could barely hear himself repeating,

though the press of people around them had been drinking enough,

and the dancing had grown wild enough, that he doubted anyone even

noticed him squeezing his way past.

He looked over his shoulder to see if he'd lost Scully. She was

smaller than he was, after all, and he had a feeling that it would

be easy for her to get swallowed up in the crush of bodies all

around them. To his surprise, she was right behind him. She

flashed him a smile and reached out to hook her finger in one of

his belt loops. "I've got your back," she said, with a slightly

drunken intonation.

When they reached the edge of Skinner's living room, the crowd

thinned. Scully let go of him -- he was a little sorry to lose

the tug of her hand on the back of his waistband -- as they made

their way down the hallway. They passed a line of partygoers

waiting for a turn in Skinner's bathroom. Further on, a few less

sociable agents, and several couples who had retreated to the

hallway in order to carry on conversations, hugged the walls.

At last they reached the door to the bedroom, and Mulder pushed it

open to reveal Skinner's bed, buried under a sea of coats and

jackets. He crossed to the bed and started sorting through the

piles, hunting for his black trenchcoat.

Finally he found it. "Eureka," he said, glancing up to find

Scully looking around her at Skinner's bedroom with frank

curiosity. "And here's your present." He reached under his coat,

and pulled out a package wrapped in red and gold foil.

She smiled nervously, and came to take it from his outstretched

hand.

"Hmmm. It's heavy for its size," she said, hefting the package.

"Open it."

Frowning a little with concentration, she untied the thin gold

ribbon. Then she began to carefully separate the cellophane tape

from the folded paper.

Mulder watched with impatience. "Come on, Scully, just tear it."

She glanced up at him, smiled, and then tore the wrapping open

with a satisfying rip. She pushed the paper aside and stared down

at the gift in her hand. "It's . . .an Eight Ball."

He couldn't tell whether her voice held disappointment, or just

surprise. "A Magic Eight Ball," he corrected. "The 'Magic' part

is very important."

"That's nice, Mulder."

He couldn't help but notice that she seemed less than impressed.

Damn, he should have gotten her jewelry. Women liked jewelry. Or

perfume. He felt his heart sink.

From down the hall, he could hear the sound of another eighties

tune -- Romeo Void's "Never Say Never." Debora Iyall, her voice

dripping with attitude, taunted "I might like you better if we

slept together..."

He really wished Skinner would get some new tunes.

He gestured at the Eight Ball. "Give it a try," he said, just to

break the awkwardness of the moment.

She smiled fleetingly, a smile that told him he was being humored,

and shook the black globe. "Is Mulder too drunk to drive himself

home?" she asked in a clear voice.

She flipped the Eight Ball upside down. He peered over her

shoulder to watch as the answer came floating up out of the inky

blackness: AS I SEE IT YES.

"That does it," Scully said in a definitive voice. "I'm calling

you a taxi."

End of (1/3)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After Eight by Dasha K. and Plausible Deniability (2/3)

Notes and stuff in the first part.

He clutched at her arm as she went for the phone on the bedside

table. "You'd better not be driving, either."

Her smile was almost taunting. "I was smarter than you, Mulder.

I took a taxi over here."

A light bulb went off in his drink-sodden brain. "Great, then we

can share a cab."

She looked at him as if he had sustained a major brain injury.

"We live in opposite directions . . ."

Damn her for being so logical.

And then her face softened and he watched the color rise in her

cheeks. "Well," she said in a voice that was barely audible over

the music, "I do have to give you your present."

"And I can sober up with a cup of coffee," he pointed out.

"Coffee won't sober you up, it'll just make you an alert drunk."

"Gee, Scully, you're a ton of fun with a few drinks under your

belt."

She actually grinned at that and picked up the phone to call the

taxi.

The crowd was now singing along to Prince's 1999 and hopping up

and down like coked-up frat boys, instead of the responsible

agents of the law they truly were. Mulder smiled at the idea of

the cops coming to bust this party and finding that the majority

of the guests were Feds.

Skinner caught them as they were about to head out the door to

wait downstairs for the cab. "Leaving so soon, Agents?" he

boomed.

Oh great, they were being seen leaving a party together. That

would fuel the rumor mill until Easter.

Scully made matters worse by turning a deep shade of red. "It was

a great party, sir," she said, "But I leave for San Diego in the

morning and Agent Mulder has been kind enough to offer to see me

home."

Mulder found himself nodding his head in agreement, in a truly

idiotic fashion. "Thanks for the party," he said.

Their boss adjusted his glasses and smiled. Or was that a smirk?

Mulder couldn't be sure.

"Drive safely," was all Skinner said as they walked through the

door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was cold outside Skinner's building, but the cold felt good

after the overheated atmosphere of the party. It seemed awfully

quiet outside, too; Mulder had grown so used to the throbbing beat

of the music that the hush seemed to echo in his ears. Stars

twinkled in the sky overhead, their brightness vying with the

lights of the city.

Scully stood beside him, cradling the Eight Ball against her coat.

Between the sweltering air of Skinner's apartment and the breeze

here outside, her hair had turned wavy. It was a look Mulder

liked; it gave her an unaccustomed air of wantonness. With her

hair this way, he could imagine her wearing nothing but a lace bra

and a string of pearls . . .

Oh, no, he could not imagine her that way. That was definitely

crossing the line, especially since they were both tipsy and he

was heading to her apartment. He pushed the thought from his mind

and reached for the Eight Ball.

She looked at him questioningly as he took it from her. "Will the

cab get here in the next minute?" he intoned, shaking the Eight

Ball. He turned it over and held the window toward the

streetlight to read the answer. "OUTLOOK GOOD."

"That shows how 'Magic' those things are," Scully said with a

sniff. "There's no way the cab will get here that quickly on a

Saturday night."

She had no sooner spoken the words, however, than a yellow cab

rounded the corner and pulled up to the curb. She stared at it in

surprise. Mulder shot her a self-satisfied look and bent down to

open the taxi door for her.

He settled in the backseat beside her as she gave the driver the

address, and the cab started on its way. After a moment he looked

down at his lap and realized he was still holding the Eight Ball.

He lifted it and gave it another shake.

"Is Scully a real redhead?" he asked loudly, causing the cabbie to

glance back over his shoulder at them.

"Mulder!" she exclaimed, and made a grab for the Eight Ball.

He held it out of her reach. "IT IS DECIDEDLY SO," he read. "I'm

so relieved."

She snatched it from his hand and shook it firmly. "Is it true

what they say about men with big noses?" she asked, glancing at

him. She turned it over and read, "DON'T COUNT ON IT."

"Ha-ha," he said. "I'm wounded."

But in truth, he wondered if the Ball was right. He had never

done much comparing with other men before, since checking out

another guy's package in the gym shower was a great way to get

one's lights punched out, but everything down there seemed to be

in proper proportion.

And besides, it wasn't like Scully was going to get a look at it.

Not in a million years . . .

He leaned back in the seat and realized he didn't remember where

they'd told the cabbie to go. It would seem they were on the way

to Scully's place.

The thought made him shiver.

"Are you cold?" she whispered.

"A little," he said.

"I have hot chocolate at home. It won't sober either of us up,

but it'll taste good."

The cabbie, a small, chubby man in a green parka, flipped on the

radio and began scanning channels. He settled on Kajagoogoo's

"Too Shy."

Weird, Mulder thought, we're being followed around by eighties

songs tonight. He wouldn't admit it even under the pain of

torture, but he'd gone to a Kajagoogoo concert in London with

Fiona, his first English girlfriend. And even if hot bamboo

shards were shoved under his fingernails, he'd never confess to

the puffy-sleeved New Romantic shirt he'd worn to the show.

Scully must have seen something in his expression, for she picked

up the Ball and asked, "Is Mulder a Kajagoogoo fan?"

OUTLOOK GOOD, the ball revealed.

"Ha, I knew it," she said.

He snorted and snatched the Magic Eight Ball from her hands. "Has

Scully ever had sex to this song?"

"Mulder!" she said in an outraged tone, but the Ball said, IT IS

DECIDEDLY SO.

He laughed. "I knew it."

She shut her eyes and smiled almost dreamily, the city lights

flashing on her white face as the cab sped down the street.

"Spring Break," she said. "I went to Jamaica with my boyfriend,

Chris. We drank too many daiquiris at a place called Rasta Mike's

and went down to the beach afterward and . . .

Mulder fought the urge to leave his mouth hanging open. Was this

the Scully he'd known for years, recounting a sexual experience?

If he'd known this might happen, he would have suggested they go

to Skinner's party years ago.

Her eyes opened again, as if she were again aware of where she was

and what she was doing. "I'm sorry," she said.

"For telling me that story? It was sweet."

She said nothing, but took the ball from Mulder, shaking it.

"Does Mulder know his hand is on my thigh?" she asked it.

Mulder yanked his hand away. "Sorry -- "

Unperturbed, Scully read off the answer from the Eight Ball:

"VERY DOUBTFUL."

"Well, at least it's right about that," he said, his face turned

to the window.

He must have looked as embarrassed as he felt, because Scully

reached out and squeezed his hand in hers. "It's okay, Mulder,"

she said, before letting go.

He glanced over at her, wondering what that meant -- 'it's okay.'

Did it mean she wasn't angry, or did it mean she wanted him to do

it again? He had never really been that good at reading women,

even when he wasn't so out of practice.

They were entering Scully's neighborhood. She leaned forward to

point out her building to the cabbie. Mulder watched her face,

intelligent and composed, as she spoke to their driver. It made

him wonder guiltily how he could have such lustful thoughts about

his partner when she carried herself with such an air of dignity.

The cab slowed and Mulder pulled out his wallet to pay the

cabdriver. "Thanks," he said, handing the man a couple of bills.

Then he got out, and helped Scully exit the cab with a hand to her

elbow. She was holding the Eight Ball against her, the gift

pressed to her breast.

As they walked together to the door of her building, she reached

in her coat pocket and pulled out her keys. "The holidays seem to

come earlier every year. I can't believe I'm leaving for San

Diego tomorrow."

"I won't stay long," he promised. He felt suddenly nervous, now

that they were going to be alone together in her apartment.

Ridiculous, he knew; it wasn't like they hadn't already spent

countless hours alone together. Yet something about the cool

night air, the alcohol in his blood, and the half-smile on

Scully's face made his heart quicken.

"I didn't mean that, Mulder," she said, fitting her key in the

lock.

Inside, her apartment was bright and cozy. She had put up a

Christmas tree, decorated in rose and cream, and the air smelled

like evergreen. He shed his coat and Scully took it from him,

passing him the Eight Ball so she could hang their coats in the

closet.

"You said something about hot chocolate?" he asked.

She smiled at him. "Sure, Mulder."

He followed her into the kitchen. He set the Eight Ball on the

counter to watch her as she took coffee cups and cocoa from the

cabinets. He hoped there was nothing sexist about the way he

enjoyed watching Scully acting domestic.

"It's quiet in here," she said. "The party was so noisy."

"You want me to put some music on?"

She smiled at him. "Would you? It will only take me a minute to

get this hot chocolate ready."

He went back out to the living room and turned on the stereo. He

expected her to have the receiver tuned to something classical, or

perhaps a station that played holiday music, but instead he heard

Foreigner singing "I Want To Know What Love Is."

Creepy, he thought -- more eighties music. He fiddled with the

tuner until he found a Christmas tune.

He went back in the kitchen to discover Scully holding the Eight

Ball with a pensive look on her face. He stopped in his tracks,

struck by how soft and pretty she looked, with her hair in soft

waves and her eyes dreamy.

She glanced up at him, and then looked back down at the Eight

Ball. "Mulder, if this really were magic," she said, turning the

glass ball over slowly in her hands, "what would you most want to

ask it?"

Looking at her, at how heart-rendingly lovely she looked, a

question sprang immediately to mind, but it wasn't the kind of

question he could admit to her. Instead he said, "I suppose I

would ask it about Samantha."

"If she were still alive?"

He nodded.

She looked a little sad. "That's what I thought you'd ask it,

Mulder."

"What about you, Scully? What would you ask it?"

A mixture of emotions crossed her face in the space of seconds--

sadness, curiosity and amusement. She thought for a moment,

biting her lipstick-red lip and finally said, "I know it isn't

really magic,

Mulder. You can't get the answers to life's important questions

from a toy."

He groaned. "Scully, you're supposed to be playing along here."

She shot him an indignant look. "Are you saying I'm a kill-joy?"

Her brows knit together.

"Maybe," he hedged.

"I'm a kill-joy who needs a drink," she said, heading for the

living room.

"I don't think we should have another drink," he called after her.

"Shut up, Mulder." She returned with a gold tissue-paper wrapped

gift. "Merry Christmas."

"What is it?" he said, turning the rectangular package this way

and that.

Scully smirked. "How about opening it to see?"

He ripped off the paper like a little boy hoping to find GI Joe

with the Kung-Fu Grip. Mulder saw a plain cardboard box. Opening

it, he drew out a bottle of clear liquid. The letters on the

label were Cyrillic, so he had no idea what the bottle held.

"What is this stuff?"

"It's vodka, from Russia, a very rare brand called Vosmaya Roza.

It means 'The Eighth Rose.' Bill got it for me when he was on

shore leave in Murmansk."

He grinned. "Are you sure you're not mixing up my present with

Alex Krycek's?"

"All he gets is coal in his stocking this year."

"How perverse is it that I'm really glad that Bill's vodka made it

to me?"

Scully had the good grace to laugh at that. She took two shot

glasses from the cupboard. "Let's drink this on the couch. These

heels are killing me." She kicked off her black high heels with

an audible sigh and immediately shrank three inches.

They settled on the couch. Mulder uncapped the bottle and poured

them each a shot. "What should we toast to?"

She blinked rapidly. "To us, Mulder."

To us? What the hell was that supposed to mean?

He put on his most casual face and clinked glasses with her. "To

us," they said in unison and drank.

Woooo, it was strong and Mulder made a face at the vodka kick. To

his shame, Scully knocked back the shot with unruffled aplomb.

He decided he had to salvage some pride. "So, you still need to

ask the Magic Eight Ball what you would most like to know."

"Fine." She grabbed for the Ball and gave it a fierce shake.

"I've got a good question..."

The look in her eyes was challenging and Mulder found himself

holding his breath.

"Will Mulder get the guts to kiss me tonight?" she asked the Ball.

Mulder's eyebrows shot higher. "'The guts'?" he echoed.

Scully turned the Eight Ball over wordlessly. Heads together,

they read the answer: SIGNS POINT TO YES.

She looked surprised, making him wonder if it was the answer she'd

been hoping for.

"You said it wasn't really magic," Mulder reminded her.

"And you said it was," she countered, looking him in the eye.

End of (2/3)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After Eight by Dasha K. and Plausible Deniability (3/3)

Info and all that in the first part.

He swallowed. His heart had begun to pound unnaturally. Gravely

he took the Eight Ball from her, and reached over to set it down

with care on the glass coffee table. Then he put his hands on her

shoulders, bent his head, and kissed her softly on the lips.

The vodka, he realized in the same moment, must have some kind of

delayed aftereffect; suddenly he felt about ten degrees warmer,

heat sweeping through him in an alarming way. He'd always thought

that when he kissed Scully, he would focus on her taste, her

softness, her scent, their closeness; but all he could think about

was how his pulse was racing out of control and how the vodka was

so strong he must be having a heart attack.

He pulled away and fell against the back of the sofa, breathing

hard.

Scully's face looked impressively pink. The vodka must be

affecting her too, he thought vaguely.

"That was -- " she began. "That is, Mulder -- I thought -- "

He reached up to tug at his tie. "I know what you mean."

After a moment the feeling began to fade. He heaved a sigh of

relief; for a minute there, he'd been afraid he was going to have

to spend the rest of the evening in an emergency room.

"Wow," she said.

He sat up straighter. "I don't think I should have any more of

that vodka tonight, Scully."

"Really?" She sounded breathless. "I was just thinking I should

have given it to you a long time ago."

He laughed nervously, and picked up the Eight Ball. Scully had

been drinking, and things were in danger of getting out of hand.

"Should I be going home now?" he asked, shaking the Eight Ball.

He turned it over and read the answer.

"What does it say?" Scully asked, leaning closer.

He passed it to her without comment.

"CONCENTRATE AND ASK AGAIN," she read aloud.

He shut his eyes and concentrated with all his might. "Should I

be going now?" He took a deep breath and shook. "MY REPLY IS

NO."

Scully looked up at him and smiled. "I guess we have to do what

the Ball says."

His breath came out in a whoosh. "Are you saying you believe in

magic?"

"I wouldn't go that far, Mulder." She grabbed the ball and shook

it, saying, "Will Mulder give me a *real* kiss this time?"

The ball said, OUTLOOK NOT SO GOOD.

Her lips turned down in a frown.

"You just have to know how to ask it the right questions, Scully,"

he said and gave the ball a fierce shaking. "Will *Scully* give

*me* a real kiss this time?"

This time they both took deep breaths.

The ball told them, AS I SEE IT YES.

Her eyelashes fluttered a bit and he wondered if she were

embarrassed. "I guess it's up to you," he said, smiling.

"Sleighbells ring, are you listening? In the lane, snow is

glistening," sang Bing Crosby on the stereo and the lights on the

tree twinkled.

She rose and touched his face with her warm hands. "I suppose

it's only fair," she whispered.

He met her halfway and their lips met again, gently at first.

Scully opened her mouth slightly and he felt her tongue slide

between his lips. Mulder had to stifle a gasp as he tasted her

chocolate and liquor-flavored mouth.

Their kiss went on for what felt like hours, their bodies pressed

so tightly together a piece of typing paper couldn't have been

slid between them. He felt his cock harden and he knew she could

feel it against her stomach. This is so surreal, he thought.

After all this time, all we've gone through, we're kissing.

He couldn't believe how happy such a simple act made him.

Scully was the first to pull away and he made a disappointed sound

until he caught the unprecedented look of mischief in her eyes.

He made a grab for the Magic Eight Ball and asked the question

that scared him more than just about any question in the world.

"Does Scully want me?"

She laughed and covered the answer window with her hand. "What do

you think it's going to say, Mulder?"

He closed his eyes. "I'm hoping for 'signs point to yes.'"

She uncovered the Eight Ball. They both leaned in and, together,

they read the answer: IT IS DECIDEDLY SO.

"Maybe it is magic," Scully said, looking up at him.

Magic or not, Mulder showed it a total lack of respect as he

tossed the Eight Ball down on the sofa beside him. He pulled her

against him and kissed her, hard.

Scully straddled his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck as his

tongue slid into her mouth. He felt her body heat through their

clothes, smelled her perfume, tasted the sweetness of her. If his

cock had been hard before, it was positively ready to burst

through his clothes now.

She reached down between them and ran her palm up his erection.

He took this as an invitation to touch her, too, and moved both

his hands to her breasts. She felt so good, so soft and sexy and

female, that he sighed into her mouth.

He began to unbutton her blouse. Not one to be outdone, she

started tugging at his belt. When she seemed to be having

trouble, he broke off their kiss just long enough to unbuckle it

for her and unfasten his fly.

He couldn't quite believe it. They were going to make love. She

could still say no, he supposed, but he didn't really need the

Eight Ball to tell him that that wasn't going to happen.

On the stereo, Bruce Springsteen's version of "Santa Claus is

Comin' To Town" was playing. "You'd better be good, for goodness'

sake . . ." the radio chided.

He peeled her blouse open. He would have guessed that Scully

would be shy, a little slow to respond; but she did not seem shy

at all. Instead she smiled at him as he gazed in open admiration

at her breasts, at the way her pale skin swelled above the satiny

cups of her bra.

"You're so beautiful..." he breathed.

"I want to see you." She pulled his tie off and her fingers moved

quickly down the buttons of his shirt. "I want to look at you,

too, Mulder."

He shrugged out of his shirt while she helped. Then he pushed her

blouse off her shoulders. As it dropped to the floor she pressed

herself against him, skin to skin.

He wondered if she was as amazed as he was by the feeling. Had

she imagined this before, as he had? Had she constructed a

scenario very much like this one in her head, only to find the

reality even better than the fantasy version?

He reached around to unhook her bra, and encountered nothing but

uninterrupted satin. She drew back from their kiss, smiling. "It

unfastens in the front," she said, and her hands moved to the

clasp.

If he lived to see a thousand Christmases, he thought, he would

never forget the sight of Scully at that moment.

He was cupping her breasts when she reached over and retrieved the

Eight Ball from where he had tossed it on the sofa. "Is Mulder

happy right now?" she asked, shaking the ball and flipping it

upside down. She checked the answer and grinned at him. "YOU MAY

RELY ON IT."

"I told you it was magic."

She shook it again, the movement resulting in a jiggle that Mulder

found riveting. "Are Mulder's pants feeling tight?" she asked,

with a sly glance.

He took the Eight Ball from her hands and tossed it aside again.

"I can answer that one."

The grin on her face spread slowly. "Maybe I can help you out,"

she said.

When was he going to wake up from this insanely great dream,

anyhow?

But the more he blinked, the more he realized this night was no

dream. It had been a long time in coming.

She lifted off his body for a moment and with one hand began to

tug off his pants. Mulder helped her out by lifting his hips. To

his endless delight, his boxers came along with the pants to rest

somewhere in the neighborhood of his ankles.

Scully settled herself back on his lap and her eyes traveled to

where he was now exposed to the warm air of her living room.

Would she like what she saw?

The mischievous eyes returned, as did the smile. Apparently she

did like what she was seeing, for she ran her fingertips up and

down his shaft with aching slowness.

Mulder shut his eyes for a moment so she wouldn't have to see the

way his eyeballs were beginning to bug out like a cartoon

character's.

He paused to kiss her lush mouth again, to feel his tongue moving

alongside hers. She made a soft cry when he turned the attention

of his mouth to the soft underside of her chin and the smooth skin

of her neck.

"What do you want for Christmas, little girl?" he said in a

labored voice, since her fingers were still working their holiday

cheer on his cock.

"Are you Santa, then?"

"Have you been a good girl?" he asked, grinning.

"Unfortunately, yes."

"I see," he said, kissing her throat. "Nice instead of naughty."

She squeezed his cock. "You could remedy that."

He chuckled. "I'm sure I could."

He dipped his head and took her nipple in his mouth, sucking

gently on it, rubbing it with his tongue. She squirmed in his

lap, and her hand tightened on him.

"Mmmm, that feels good, Scully."

"I was about to say the same thing to you."

He gazed into her eyes for a moment, then slipped an arm around

her shoulders and lowered her onto the sofa, covering her with his

body. They both closed their eyes and he kissed her, long and

slow. His hand trailed down, over her smooth skin, the firm curve

of her breast, the hollow of her waist. When he found the button

on her waistband, deftly he unfastened it.

He lifted off her just far enough for her to wiggle out of her

slacks, kicking his own pants off his ankles at the same time.

Then he covered her mouth with his again, and moved his hand

between them to explore her with his fingers. She felt hot and

slick, and his fingers slid easily over her and then a little way

inside.

Good god, he thought. Amazing. It had been a long time since

he'd been with a woman this way -- a long time since he'd felt

that warm, tight softness, a long time since his pulse had

quickened to the scent of pheromones and arousal, a long time

since he'd heard a woman sighing under him. It felt like he was a

kid again, and it was Christmas morning.

He set his forehead against hers. "Women smell good," he blurted

out.

Scully laughed. "What?"

"Women smell good. You smell good. Oh, Scully, I'm so happy

right now."

She lifted her lips to his ear. "I'm happy, too," she whispered.

On the radio, a choir was singing "The Twelve Days of Christmas."

"On the eighth day of Christmas," caroled a strong tenor voice,

"my true love gave to me...eight maids a-milking..."

Closing his eyes, Mulder pushed inside her with a sigh.

"Oh," Scully said.

He wondered what "oh" meant. It did not sound like a complaint.

A thrill of pleasure passed through him. Leisurely he began to

move, slowly out and then slowly, leisurely, deeply in again.

She moved, too, lifting her hips to meet him. Her smooth legs

rose and locked around his back and her arms circled his neck.

"Are we dreaming this, Mulder?" she half-whispered, half-groaned.

It took him a while to find the power of words. Who could form

sentences, when his cock was pushing in and out of her soft

wetness, when her muscles seemed to be squeezing him with every

one of his thrusts? Speech was of secondary importance and

besides, the vast majority of the blood meant for his brain had

chosen to go south for the holidays.

Finally, he was able to say, "I don't think it's a dream, Scully."

Her laughter was clear and bright as New England winter mornings

he remembered from his childhood.

Her hands slipped down to grab his buttocks and push him harder

into her. "Oh God, I'm gonna pass out," he gasped.

"Don't you dare...don't you dare pass out, Mulder." Her voice was

strained and he noticed that her eyes were clamped shut. Oh

Scully, he thought, I always wondered how you would look at this

moment.

He frantically wondered what he could do to keep his orgasm at

bay. Mulder was right on the verge, so close he imagined it

tickling the back of his neck. Just a little longer, he thought,

making bargains with God, Yahweh, Allah, Krishna and all other

known deities in whom he normally didn't believe. I know it's

been a long time, but just a little more. Just a few more

minutes. I've been waiting for almost seven years to see this

beautiful woman come.

He tried to concentrate on something else, tried counting the

number of stripes on her couch. Then she moaned, and he realized

that only an idiot would count the stripes on a couch when he

could be looking at Scully's flushed face instead.

Besides, he could sense that she was getting close. There was a

tightening in her muscles, a stillness where before she had been

moving right along with him. He reached down between them and

stroked her along with his thrusts. If only she would -- if he

could just --

It was no use. He couldn't wait any more. He could feel it

welling up, knew there was nothing more he could do. "Oh, god.

I'm going to come," he groaned.

In that same instant Scully arched her neck and wailed -- there

was no other word for it -- she actually wailed his name. He felt

the contractions of her orgasm squeezing his cock as she shuddered

powerfully under him. Oh my God, he thought. The feeling

literally took his breath away.

Her shout was still echoing in his ears as he pushed as deeply

into her as he could, and gushed into her over and over.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He was still lying atop Scully, groggy and dazed, when he felt her

hand groping for something in the vicinity of his thigh.

"What are you looking for?" he mumbled.

"This," she said, and showed him the Eight Ball.

He realized he was probably squashing her, and propped himself up

on one elbow. "What are you going to ask it?"

She shook the Eight Ball and gave him a playful look. "Was that

the best sex I've ever had?"

"If it says 'My sources say no,' I'm throwing it out the window."

She laughed and showed him the answer: IT IS CERTAIN.

"Well," he said, feeling ridiculously pleased with himself, "once

a millennium or so, I get lucky."

She gave his shoulder a little squeeze and laughed. "It had

better not be another millennium before you get lucky."

He wondered how many times he'd heard Scully laugh. Far too few,

he thought, and made an early New Year's resolution to make her

laugh at least once a day.

That wasn't the only thing he resolved to do once a day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After a quick shower, they raided her fridge and ended up making

large, messy sandwiches from nearly everything that was inside.

Mulder had never known that turkey bacon, pickled cabbage,

tortilla chips and mustard could make such a compellingly

delicious sandwich. Or maybe it was the afterglow of sex and the

fact that Scully was sitting across the kitchen table from him

wearing only a navy blue silk robe that wasn't sashed well enough

and kept gaping open to reveal her small, beautiful breasts.

He put down the crusts of his sandwich, took a swallow of orange

juice and yawned.

"Tired?" she asked, brushing her hair off her forehead.

"A little." Was she going to ask him to go home?

"Do you...do you want to stay over tonight?" The expression on

her face was surprisingly shy.

Everything's changed, he thought, but instead of that realization

scaring him, it felt entirely natural. They were finally doing

what they were meant to do.

"If you want me to..." he said, hedging his bets.

"Of course I do." She rose and put their plates in the sink. "My

flight isn't until one in the afternoon tomorrow. We can sleep

in."

Amazing, he and Scully would be sleeping in together.

They slid into her comfortable, big bed together and he sighed in

pleasure as she moved against him and kissed him in the dark.

This time, they took their leisurely time in kissing and touching

one another, discovering each other's spots of pleasure. He tried

to memorize every spot he touched that made her moan or gasp, so

that he could do it again. She straddled his face and cried out

steadily as he tasted her with his tongue, running it all over her

slick folds and around her ruby-read clit until she shuddered

above him. Who needed Christmas gifts when he could make Scully

come?

And it was truly a Christmas miracle when she lowered herself onto

his cock and moved on him with the grace of a dancer. He looked

into her eyes, shining in the glow from the streetlights outside

her window, and realized that he had everything in the world.

They were just about asleep, her back tucked neatly against his

chest, when something occurred to him.

"Hey, Scully, are you asleep?" he whispered.

She stirred a little and her head rose. "Not quite."

"Remember the gypsy, Madame Sujka?"

"Yeah?"

Mulder leaned in and sniffed her hair. The shampoo scent was now

overlaid with the heady musk of sex.

"She said that eight was my lucky number..."

She chuckled. "How is this significant?"

"I got you a Magic Eight Ball for Christmas and the bottle of

vodka is called 'The Eighth Rose.' And all night we heard

eighties music."

Scully's chuckle turned to a full-blown laugh. "We'll open an X-

file on it after the holidays, okay?"

He kissed the nape of her neck and settled down to sleep,

listening to her breathing slow.

Mulder had just about dropped off when he opened his eyes and saw

the Magic Eight Ball sitting on the bedside table. He switched

the lamp on to the dimmest setting and started to shake the ball.

"Does Scully love me?" he asked it.

Before he could see the answer, she stirred. "Put down the ball,

Mulder," she said. "I think you already know the answer to that

question."

All in all, it was a very good Christmas.

END

"I regret to say that we of the FBI are powerless to act in cases of

oral-genital intimacy, unless it has in some way obstructed interstate

commerce."

-- J. Edgar Hoover

This is a special holiday treat for all our dear friends hanging

out in the root cellar. You know who you are and we love you.

Dasha would like to send special wreaths of holly to Shari and

Jill for all the Scullyfic joy.

Happy Holidays to everyone. We hope you have a wonderful new year

full of love, laughter and lots of cookies.

Feedback would be as delightful as walking in a winter wonderland...

pdeniability@hotmail.com and dashak@aol.com

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dasha K.

I wouldn't kick him outta bed for eatin' cookies, especially espresso chocolate

chip shortbread. And if he brought me an iced latte, he could stay all day...

http://dasha.simplenet.com