TITLE: Closet Doors

AUTHOR: Narida Law

E-MAIL: narida_law@hotmail.com

RATING: NC-17

CATEGORY: MSR, Smut

SPOILERS: None.

KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully Romance, voyeurism

ARCHIVE: Anywhere. Telling me is sweet and would be much

appreciated, but not obligatory.

DISCLAIMER: Well, Mulder and Scully have sex in this story,

so it can't be the doing of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions,

or Fox. No infringement is intended, even if the

characters tell me that they have more fun with me than

with CC.

NOTES: This piece has no redeeming social value whatsoever.

Mom and Dad would be so proud.

ADDITIONAL NOTES: Yes, it gave me hives to call Scully

"Dana" all the time. But alas, the narrator doesn't know

Scully.

SUMMARY: A third party finds himself observing some pretty

personal happenings between his best friend's little sister

and her partner.

Closet Doors

by Narida Law

~~~~~~~~

This is unarguably one of the most surreal moments of my

life. I never thought the day would come when I'd be

standing in Dana Scully's bedroom watching her have sex

with another man. And not just any other man; this is her

partner, Fucking Fox Mulder.

That's how I think of him. I can't help it; that's how

Bill refers to him, and since Bill is about the only person

I ever hear talk about the man, that's the way I always

hear his name.

Dammit. I certainly didn't ask to be here, and if given

the opportunity I would have turned it down, no matter how

much the thought might have excited me. I'm not such a

sick bastard that I would deliberately choose to intrude on

an intimate moment between two people.

At least, not without their consent.

So that begs the obvious question of why I =am= here, if

I'm not just some sick fucking voyeur in search of a cheap

thrill. All I have to say is - this is all Bill Scully's

fault.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Bill's been a good friend of mine for - let's see - hell,

it's so long ago, I don't really remember, but a good

number of years. In fact, he's probably one of the best

friends I've ever had. I first met the Scullys all those

years ago when Captain Scully was stationed in my hometown

for a little while, and Bill and I got to be real good

friends, real fast. We were a lot alike. We were always

getting into trouble, though I have to say that it was

mostly Bill's doing. I never really paid much attention to

his sisters; at that age, I still thought of girls as

pests.

After a couple of years, they moved away. Bill and I

stayed in touch, and when Dana, Bill's younger sister,

started attending the University of Maryland, he asked me

to look her up, make sure she was OK. Typical big brother

stuff.

Of course, when I met up with Dana Scully again she looked

nothing like I remembered and instead looked like the stuff

dreams are made of. I confess I had a little crush on her.

But she never really seemed to reciprocate my feelings, and

I'm not one to pursue a dead end, so we met up a couple of

times, I did my duty by Bill, and that was it for a while.

The next time I had cause to see her was after she joined

the FBI and started teaching at Quantico. I had a steady

girlfriend at the time, but seeing Dana again aroused all

those feelings of lust that just paled what I had with

Jessica. When I returned from lunch with Dana that day I

found myself breaking up with my girlfriend, knowing I had

to search elsewhere for the kind of feelings that Dana

Scully inspired in me. I knew by then that she would

probably never look at me in that way, and she was dating

someone, in any case.

I lost touch with both Bill and Dana for a while. Then I

got a job in DC, and when I was cleaning out my apartment

for the move I turned up old Bill's number. I gave him a

call and we fell back into our old camaraderie. He

mentioned that Dana was a field agent with the Bureau now,

based at Headquarters. Well, of course, when I found this

out, I had to give her a call. She seemed genuinely glad

to hear from me, and we agreed to meet for lunch at TGI

Friday's near the Naval memorial.

We did the usual chitchat, what we each had been up to in

the years since we'd seen each other last, that kind of

thing. She was vague about her work, saying only that she

worked cases other agents couldn't solve or explain, and

that she had a partner. She didn't really seem to want to

discuss either topic, and instead asked me about what I

did.

Being your typical guy, I was only too happy to launch into

the details of my life. I told her that I'd just broken up

with my latest girlfriend, kind of hoping that she'd take

the hint and maybe let me know she was interested in taking

up with me, but she either didn't get the hint or she was

letting me down gently. In any case, she got a little

distracted at that point.

I was going on and on about - hell, I don't remember, maybe

my job - when she caught sight of something over my

shoulder and visibly softened. I halted in the middle of a

sentence, mesmerized by her liquid eyes and the way a tiny

smile played at the corner of her mouth. By the time I

turned to see what had put that expression on her face, HE

had already shown up at the table.

"Hey Scully," he said, sliding nonchalantly into the booth

next to her, as if he made a habit of interrupting dates in

exactly such a manner. Well, OK, so this wasn't a date,

but she was an old friend whom I hadn't seen in a long

time, and seeing her again had resurrected all those

feelings that I had for her. They were just beneath the

surface, clamoring for release. I was disappointed about

losing my one-on-one time with her, which might explain

some of the annoyance I felt. I remember trying to smile,

trying not to be irritated, and losing both battles.

I was about to say something when he casually stretched his

arm across the back of the booth (and thus her - don't

think I wasn't aware of =exactly= what he was doing). OK.

He was staking his claim. He knew I knew what he was

doing. I don't know if Dana read or even noticed our

silent manly conversation, but if she did, she didn't let

on. His action opened up his trenchcoat a little, and

that's when I saw his gun and holster.

I shut my mouth. You don't mess with a man who's packing

heat and does it for a living. And having lunch with a

woman he obviously considers his is probably number one in

the "mess with" category. Whether or not she really was

his didn't matter. I was not about to make things worse

for myself.

The first thing I noticed about them was that they called

each other by their last names. It was =supposed= to

convey professionalism, I'm sure, and distance. The way

they said the names, however, conveyed something entirely

different: intimacy. The second thing I noticed was that

they looked at each other like there was no one else

around, and they sure touched far more than any platonic

friends =I= knew.

He then proceeded to eat half of her lunch, and she

proceeded to let him. The looks that she threw him were

equal parts exasperation and indulgence. But not once did

she ask him to leave, or indicate that he was not wanted.

When they left, they left together. To this day, I still

have no idea whether she asked him to be there, whether he

had followed her, or whether it had just been a hell of a

coincidence. I'll probably never know.

I accounted to Bill all that had happened, just because he

happened to call that night, and when he heard me mention

Dana's partner he practically shouted, "Fucking Fox Mulder!

God, I hate that guy! He's always sticking his nose into

other peoples' business, ruining other peoples' lives."

I then got to hear the entire story of what an asshole Fox

Mulder was, and I was only all too eager to listen. After

all, the man had just ruined the closest thing I'd had to a

date with the woman of my dreams, the woman I'd been

wanting since her days at the University of Maryland. I

wanted to believe Bill, that this Fucking Fox Mulder was

ruining Dana's life. I liked to imagine myself "rescuing

her."

Of course, part of me knew that Bill was a little off base,

and biased besides, being her older brother, but I ignored

that voice of reason for the time being. I was too busy

imagining Dana's gratitude when I saved her from that evil

partner of hers. Sure, she packed heat, too, and could

probably take care of Mulder - if he needed taking care of

- better than I could. But that was the point – she wasn't

aware of her own peril. He had put a spell on her; he had

warped her mind. She was like one of those abused wives

who defend their husbands to the very last.

That night I had some pretty delicious me-saving-Dana

dreams. But by the next week, I'd forgotten all about the

incident.

As time passed I kept in touch with Bill, though I didn't

seek out Dana's company again. The reasonable part of me

knew that she didn't want or need my presence in her life -

not in that way - and besides, I had no doubt that her

partner was liable to kick my ass if there was a next time.

Bill would regale me with Evil Fucking Fox Mulder stories,

and I would listen with half an ear.

I started seeing a little redhead of my own, Yolanda. We

weren't really dating, per se; we just met up once in a

while and fucked. Neither of us pretended it was anything

more than that.

Anyway, last Sunday I was with Yolanda at a small cafe in

Georgetown when I saw her. Or rather, she saw me. I felt

a little tap on my shoulder, and there stood Dana Scully,

looking absolutely edible in little running shorts and a

tank top. Her hair was pulled away from her face, little

tendrils of fire escaping here and there. She was the most

beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

I realized I had been staring too long when she gave me a

quizzical look and said my name. I introduced her to

Yolanda, they smiled and made nice, and Dana left soon

after. "You can wipe that drool off your mouth now,"

Yolanda told me. She shook her own mane of auburn hair,

and I spirited her back to her apartment and didn't make it

back out until the next morning.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A week later, I got a call from Bill. He was in town, so

we agreed to meet at a bar near where I lived. We rehashed

old times, talked about our current lives - he was married

now, to a woman he obviously loved - and it was just great

in general to be with my old friend again.

Of course, eventually we got around to discussing Dana. How

the subject came up was rather abrupt. We were just

sitting there gulping beer when all of a sudden Bill turned

to me and blurted, "You've always liked Dana, right?"

Well, I knew the answer to that right away. But you don't

go answering questions like that about a guy's little

sister unless you know exactly what it is he's asking, and

in some cases, how he wants you to answer. So I took my

time, trying to read him. Finally I just took the safe

out. "Yeah, sure Bill. She's great." He could take that

to mean whatever he wanted it to mean.

He didn't say anything for a long time, and I had an

insatiable curiosity to know why he'd asked it. I was

willing to let the subject drop, though, since it seemed

like he'd forgotten about it. Six beers will do that to

you.

Actually, the amount of alcohol in my system is what I

attribute to agreeing with his highly questionable request,

and I also blame the alcohol for him making the request in

the first place.

Essentially, he told me that his sister was lonely. Her

partner dragged her all over the country, chasing UFOs and

aliens (at least, I =think= that's what he said, but again,

I never underestimate the influence of alcohol on a

person's perceptions), and at this rate she'd never get to

settle down and lead a normal life – which was what she

really wanted. She was a loyal person, Dana was, which was

why she was sticking with Fucking Fox Mulder even though he

was ruining her life. Of course, I heard what I wanted to

hear. I wanted to believe that Dana was lonely, that she

needed a man in her life. I wanted to be that man. But...

"Isn't she doing her partner?" The beer made me so

tactless, I swear. I would never have said such a thing to

her brother's face sober. At least, not in those exact

words.

Bill turned absolutely purple with what I assumed was

disgust and rage. "No!" he practically shouted. He was so

loud that people turned to stare, and in a bar teeming with

other loud people, that's saying something. Then, more

quietly, he added, "No, no they're not involved. Thank

God."

Hope blossomed in my chest. OK, so Dana needed a man. I'd

be there for her. I'd take her away from the evils of her

work, from her selfish partner who used her so ruthlessly

and wouldn't even see to her sexual needs.

"I have a plan," Bill said, downing his seventh of the

night. "She's coming back from a case tonight. Mom gave

me the key to her apartment and a casserole that I'm

supposed to stick in the fridge. Instead, I'll give =you

the key and the casserole - don't forget to put it in the

fridge - and we'll get a bottle of wine and some flowers

and candles and stuff that women like, and you can decorate

the place all nice for her when she gets back from a hard

case." Of course, he had no idea if the case she was on

was hard or not, but those were insignificant details.

Sober, it would have been a crazy idea. Totally insane.

He would never have suggested it, and I would never have

gone along. We both would have realized that not only

would it give Dana a complete fright to find me in her

apartment, but it'd make her mad as hell besides. But in

my fuzzy alcohol-induced haze, I could only imagine her

weeping with gratitude at my chivalrous gesture.

So I agreed.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

That's how I found myself in Dana's neat little apartment,

holding a paper bag full of stuff that Bill and I bought at

some random supermarket, as well as the casserole her

mother had made for her. I was debating where to begin

(and that is a generous description of my thought

processes, slow and fuzzy as they were), when the decision

was taken out of my hands.

I heard the key in the door, and a stifled female laugh.

Suddenly I became aware that the situation was very wrong.

I stood there, wondering why the hell I was there, and what

the =fuck= did I think I was doing standing there in her

living room?

Then I heard the other voice. Oh, =shit=. He was with

her. Fucking Fox Mulder. Now I understood why Bill called

him that.

I panicked. I ran, right into her bedroom. And just in

time, because I heard the door open. In retrospect, I

probably should have just remained where I was, scaring all

three of us for a moment, then explained about the

casserole and Bill and that I'd be on my way now, thank

you.

But I wasn't thinking clearly. It wasn't just the beers

I'd had. Fear shuts down my thinking processes like

nothing else. I get paralyzed; I can't think properly.

It's amazing I even had the presence of mind to run.

I was really panicking when I heard their voices get a

little louder, as if they were coming closer. Shit. I

couldn't confront them now, not when I was in her bedroom,

for godsakes. Even if I'd been in the bathroom I could

have made a believable if lame excuse. But in her

=bedroom=? What would I be doing here unless I was some

sick freak who was making myself comfortable in her most

intimate of rooms? She'd shoot me. If her partner didn't

beat her to it. I'd come into his woman's apartment with

intent to seduce. I'd deserve it, I told myself

fatalistically, if only for being stupid enough to listen

to Bill Scully. Hadn't I learned =anything= from those

scrapes we got ourselves into all those years ago?

So I looked for a place to hide. Under the bed? No, I

couldn't do that to myself. I'd never be able to know when

it was safe. Then I saw her closet. It was rather large

(it took up practically the whole side of the wall), and it

was the kind that had the little blinds on the doors, so

you could actually see out between them. Wrap that to go;

I'll take it.

I ran in there, closing the door, clutching the paper bag

to me. If anyone could have seen me then, it would have

been a sorry sight. I quickly put the bag down in a way

that it couldn't give any more - the last thing I needed

was to tire from holding the bag or have it make noises and

alert them to my presence.

I really don't know how I thought I was going to get away

with it. Did I fondly imagine that Dana wouldn't open her

closet door? Judging from the neatness of her apartment,

she was probably the type to hang up her clothes as she

removed them. In spite of myself, my mouth went dry at the

thought of Dana taking off her clothes.

But God was on my side. He looked down at this pitiful,

stupid man, and He took pity on me. Thank you, Lord.

It seemed that Dana was in =no= condition to care whether

her clothes were neatly rehung or not. She sounded like

she was...drunk.

They entered the bedroom noisily, turning on the lights.

That about gave me another heart attack, but I realized

that the last thing they were looking for was an intruder

in the closet. That helped to slow my heartbeat.

I could see into the room a little, my view only partially

blocked by the louvered doors. Dana came into sight first,

still dressed in a business suit, though her coat was off.

The skirt was kind of short, and I found myself admiring

Fucking Fox Mulder's fortitude at being able to work

alongside her day after day and not touch her. Or maybe he

was gay. He was certainly good-looking enough to be gay,

my alcohol-soaked brain offered as he stepped into my line

of sight. I didn't remember him being this attractive the

first and only other time I'd seen him. Of course, I'd

probably been stewing too much about his date-crashing

excursion to notice or care.

"Mulder..." Dana began. "I don't think I should have had

that last shot."

His response was wry. "You probably shouldn't have had

those last =three= shots, Scully."

She let out a sound that was somewhere between a giggle and

a snort. "But they were niiiiice," she drawled out. "We

deserved it after what those bastards put us through this

week."

He made noises of agreement.

She started to strip her clothes off left and right. Her

partner was picking up each piece, carefully avoiding

looking at her, and placing them on a chair by the bed.

"You should get some rest," he said. Hello, what's this?

Was it me, or was his voice a little raspy? I guess he

wasn't immune, after all.

"I'm not tired," she countered. "You should be nice to me.

I hurt my foot." I couldn't see the expression on her face,

but she sounded like a pouting little girl. Of course,

when she pouted as a little girl it probably wasn't half as

effective as it was now.

He swallowed, the sound audible from even several yards

away. "I know, Scully. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have let

you run in those shoes..."

"Oh, shut up, Mulder! I wanted to run. You couldn't have

stopped me." She sounded extremely annoyed now. "And now

I can't take any medicine 'cause I've been drinking."

"You're right," he said, a grin in his voice. "It's your

own fault."

I imagined she must have pouted again at that point.

She moved back where I could see her, and she was clad in

only her underwear and a bra. One of her hands reached

back to unclasp her bra. "It's hot, Mulder," she said

seductively. Or at least, I thought it was seductive. But

maybe I was wrong, too driven by my hormones, because when

I spared him a glance, he hadn't even batted an eyelash,

barely seeming affected at all.

"I've...uh...gotta use the restroom, Scully. You get into

your pajamas and I'll be right back." And Fucking Fox

Mulder fled.

Here was his beautiful partner stripping in front of him,

speaking to him in a seductive voice, and he runs? OK, he

was definitely gay. But I also grudgingly realized that

Dana was not herself, that the drugs in her system were

making her act a little unpredictably. I'm sorry to say

that I don't have first hand knowledge of this, but judging

from his reactions so far, I'd even venture to say that it

was making her act =very= unpredictably, and probably very

much unlike her usual self. And it was the gentlemanly

thing to do to spare her a little dignity for when she woke

up in the morning.

I watched as she removed the rest of her clothing – yeah

that's right, I did, so sue me, I'm not the gentleman her

partner is (nor am I gay). She was pretty dexterous for a

woman who was five foot three and had downed probably well

more than three shots of hard liquor.

But instead of getting into the pajamas he had set out for

her, she simply laid down on the bed and waited for him.

Naked. She even spread her legs a little. Jesus. I

should have known better than to listen to Bill. Not doing

it, my ass. As if she would tell Bill if she were fucking

Fucking Fox Mulder. At this point, I was enormously happy

that I would be able to pay Bill back by informing him that

his worst nightmare was true.