TITLE: Hellhole, Idaho 
AUTHOR: Jess M.
EMAIL ADDRESS: snarkypup@mindspring.com
DISCLAIMER: Yes, they're mine, and so are the Tooth Fairy and the Easter
Bunny and Santa... Yeah, 'specially Santa...
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Anywhere, just let me know.
SPOILER WARNING: None, unless spoiling your own work counts.
RATING: Strong, strong R. Maybe NC-17, though is it really smut if there's
no actual intercourse? Discuss amongst yourselves.
CONTENT WARNING: It's a 'bation nation!
CLASSIFICATION: UST, in a big, big way, MT with Mucus, MSR.
SUMMARY: Mulder has a... heh heh... *head* cold.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is the sequel to my latest entry into the literary
canon: "Butt, Montana." (right behind _A Man in Full_, I think, or maybe
_Memoires of a Geisha_).You can read it at my site.

Thanks to my tag-team betas: Punk! Alicia! You're in!

You wouldn't think it was a real place, would you?  Not like Toad Suck,
Arkansas or Latex, Louisiana; Dildo Kay, Florida or Blue Balls, Pennsylvania
or even Hornytown, North Carolina. And don't get me started on Hard Up,
Utah; Big Bogue Homo, Mississippi; Virgin, Utah or Climax, Michigan. Thanks
to Darla for town name research. "You da man!" says Bob Costas in his best
ghetto.

Email me, Mulder's using them to keep Jack warm on this cold, cold day. You
wouldn't want Jack to catch a chill, would you? I didn't think so.

Visit my site for all my fiction, lovingly archived by Galia:
http://galias.arjika.com/Jess/jess.htm
Then visit Galia's site for more great fiction!
http://galias.arjika.com/visions.html


Hellhole, Idaho

It was broken. No one else I've ever met has actually had a series of
hairline fractures to the cartilage in their nose, but I like to think I'm
astonishingly original in all I do.

It's been two weeks since I told Scully that as soon as my nose healed up, I
was going to take her to bed, and in that two weeks my nose has, in fact,
not healed up. No. It's gotten, as if this were possible, bigger. And
purple. And it throbs, and leaks gooey liquid at inconvenient moments.

Much like Jack. Jack and I, that is: the Love Monkey, the Sultan of Shwing,
the Pole in Control... are in a sort of holding pattern, if you get my
drift. Jack knows how close we are to getting some for the first time in
years, and he's constantly trying to divert my attention to his perceived
needs at the most inopportune times. Budget meetings. Lunches with my
mother. Car rides with my partner. Case meetings with Skinner. More Budget
meetings. Jack loathes budget meetings.

Which is how I find myself standing at a urinal in the third floor bathroom
of the Hoover Building, contemplating shooting my load right here, right
now, right onto that little blue cake. I'm not actually going to do this,
you understand, but it's tempting. This last budget meeting has been
absolute torture, since Scully was sitting next to me wearing a skirt short
enough to display a significant amount of pale, juicy thigh. Jack perked up
the minute we sat down and Pearson from Accounting started talking about
"Readjusting Expenditures." Yeah, I know what expenditures I'd like to
readjust right about now. Jack's worse than Roger Daltry on a bad day.
"Touch me... Feel me..." And no amount of frantic sausage slappin' has done
the job.

Damn my nose. I look like a proboscis monkey. I feel like Gerard Depardieu.
And Scully is definitely Roxanne. Beautiful, smart, and seriously not
attracted to me right now. Who would be, when I seem to be percolating a
delightful mixture of snot and blood that likes to worm its way down through
my nose hairs, very slowly so that I don't feel it, until I look up to find
her doing a sympathy pat to her own upper lip?

This morning I received a new case from Skinner. Something about a man in
Idaho who claims to be channeling Jesus and what d'you know, the Big Guy is
telling him to buy guns! Lots and lots of guns! Jesus being such a bad mofo
and all that. The man also happens to be the nephew of a prominent Idaho
congressman.

"I'd appreciate you two checking him out before we send in the ATF," Skinner
growled. "You know how well that went last time."

Ah, thinking of Janet Reno always does the trick. Jack shrinks back from the
bright light of day, grumbling into retreat. I'm trying not to think about
what it will be like to spend three days alone with Scully in the middle of
nowhere. I'm trying to think only of dead puppies and nuns and Skinner in
his skivvies.

Scully is waiting for me outside the bathroom door, her face sympathetic and
sweet. She'd probably break my very blue balls if she knew what I was
thinking about in there.

"Mulder," she says gently. "Is it your nose?"

"Yeah," I say. Bastard. Is it ever my fucking nose. "Yeah, it's still
running."

She probes the sides with a careful finger. "It still feels swollen. It
should really have healed up by now... maybe you're brooding an infection.
Have you been taking your antibiotics?"

"Yes, I have, Doctor. I finished them three days ago, right on schedule."

She sighs. "You get so crabby when you're sick, Mulder."

No, Scully, I get crabby when my beautiful and now possibly do-able partner
is withheld from me for over two weeks because my fucking nose refuses to
heal. If I ran through the halls of the Hoover Building screaming and
launching well-sharpened pencils at people, it wouldn't make me feel any
better. Only one thing is going to make me marginally less crabby right now,
and seeing as how I'm definitely not getting any, I anticipate general
crabbiness ahead for days.

"Let's go catch our flight," she says. "The last one to Boise is in less
than three hours."

xxxxxx

I've just discovered something the friendly flight attendants at Delta
airlines don't cover in the pre-flight safety briefing. Make sure, they
should say, pointing to a giant plastic schnoz, that your nasal cavities are
completely cleared of all foreign goo, or it's going to hurt like a
sonofabitch the whole damn flight. Now, who here doesn't know how to fasten
their seatbelt?

By the time we finally, finally stop circling the fucking Boise airport, my
nose is pulsing like John Travolta in a snow-white polyester tuxedo. Some
sort of unidentifiable lubricant is pouring out of my nostrils non-stop so
that as soon as I've destroyed an entire box of Puffs With Lotion (which are
not any damn softer than any other tissue, thanks very much, when you've
abraded all the skin off your upper lip), Scully's shooting me more piteous
looks, handing over another box and saying: "This isn't normal, Mulder. I
think you've got a serious sinus infection or something."

Oh thanks, Dr. Scully, for that astute observation. I know her specialty is
pathology and I can't really expect her to stay up-to-date on the workings
of the human olfactory system, but damnit, even I can tell this isn't
supposed to be happening. Particularly when she's sitting there next to me
in a little white silk blouse that keeps unbuttoning itself whenever she
shifts. Unbuttoning itself, damnit. Come on, body, work with me here!

Is it hot in here, or just me? Apparently, as Scully's nipples have just
come into focus beneath that soft little blouse, it's just me.

By the time we actually taxi to a stop and the flight attendant finally
gives us all permission to stand up and leave, Scully's talking about
driving me straight to the hospital. I argue with her all the way into the
terminal, whining pathetically and generally acting like an ass. "I'm not
going to a hospital in Hellhole, Idaho," I say.

"We're actually in Boise," she points out.

"Whatever."

That's until I retreat into the bathroom and get a look at myself in the
mirror. My nose is one swollen purple bruise, my upper lip looks like I
tried to hot-wax it myself and the area under my eyes is puffy and pink.
Sweat is making my forehead look larger and more greasy than normal and my
eyes are both glittering and bloodshot. There is no way I can question a
suspect looking like I've been out behind Murphy's Tavern alternately
brawling and barfing for the last three days. Even my hair looks like shit,
all spiky and sticking up in weird tufts. This is what happens when water
touching your face makes you scream, but you've still got to wash your hair.

"Fine," I tell her, pressing an entire roll of stolen toilet paper to the
underside of my nose. "Led's go to da hosbidal."

"Thank God," she sighs and slings both our carry-ons over her capable
shoulders. God, I love this woman. And as soon as I sound like myself
instead of Buckwheat, I'm going to tell her so. Somehow, "I lub you, Scully"
doesn't have the same romantic ring to it.

At the hospital, she checks me in as I settle into a cushy pastel chair
across from the woman with the sick toddler and the kid who's clearly broken
his arm while playing soccer, since he's still wearing socks with shin
guards. They glare at me, eyeing my nose and obviously concluding that I'm
not going to be much competition. Ha! Little do they know. I've got a
secret, get-into-hospitals-quick pass. Scully sits down beside me and starts
filling out my vitals.

"Mulder, when I shot you, did they give you a tetanus shot?"

The woman with the toddler gets up and retreats to another part of the
waiting room. The kid's looking at me with a grudging interest.

"Yeah, Scully, I dink so. I dond rebember."

She's trying not to giggle, I can tell. The kid stares at me until I stare
back, fixing him with my best Fibbie glare. He pretends to be really
interested in the Woman's Day on his lap. Yeah, kid, you're just a budding
Betty Crocker.

"Agent Fox Mulder?" a nurse asks and I stand.

That's all I remember, actually, until I wake up in a hospital bed with a
bunch of concerned women staring at me.

"Scully?" I ask and one of the women, the one with pink hair, nods.

"I'm here, Mulder. How do you feel?"

I'm not sure. Scully's face stretches and contorts and I grimace as her
mouth becomes a huge red gash beneath two piggy little eyes.

"Nod so hod," I answer.

"I'm not surprised," one of the other women says. "You have a serious
infection, a fever of 102 and what looks to me like a terrible case of the
flu to top it off. You shouldn't be out of bed, much less on an airplane.
I've given you something to help control the dizziness and started you on
antibiotics, but we're going to keep you here overnight to make sure you're
ok."

I nod. The speaker, who I assume is the doctor, is quite attractive, all
dark hair and huge blue eyes. Maybe I'm mistaken, though, because her head
suddenly swells and then contracts to the size of a grape. I think I scream.
I'm sure I pass out because when I open my eyes, things have returned to
normal and Scully is looking at me with her patented "what the fuck was that
about, Mulder?" face.

The doctor, whose head no longer looks like she had a bad run-in with the
natives of Papua New Guinea, smiles at me. "You need to rest, but you're
going to be fine. Some hallucinations are normal with the fever and the
medication." She pats my hand and I can feel it in my whole body. Ah, the
good drugs.

Scully leans over to kiss my cheek and gives me a quick peepshow. I can see
every pore on the goosebumpy flesh of her upper breasts. Her lips feel like
a silk scarf being dragged over my skin. Ladies, let's just stop the talking
and start the touching, ok? Jack groans and rouses himself wearily. I can
practically read his mind: Are we actually getting any this time? No? Then
I'm outta here.

"Sleep, Mulder," Scully whispers in what sounds to me like her best Barry
White impression. "Sleep and in the morning you'll feel better."

"I lub you," I tell her with great sincerity. "More dan anyding."

xxxxxx

She's not wrong. I wake early, and the first thing I notice is that my nose
has stopped aching. The room is bright with cold winter light and the quiet
of six a.m. There's an empty bed next to mine, and on the pull-over bed
tray, Scully's left my cell phone. I try a cautious toe onto the cold tile
floor and find that I can make it to the bathroom, IV in hand, and relieve
myself. Jack is already wide awake, of course, and I have to wait for him to
calm down and stop his grumbling before I can do anything. When I finally
snuggle back into my bed, a nurse appears. She's very pretty, with long
blond hair and rosy-apple cheeks. She looks like she's about sixteen, but
even Mr. Porn here know that's improbable.

"Well, hello," she says, smiling brightly. "Fox, right? I'm glad to see you
up. How are you feeling?"

"Much better," I tell her honestly.

And for the first time in over two weeks, I realize I'm breathing through my
nose. I take a few delicate sniffs and my God, the world! It smells! Like
things!

"That's great. You're all set to be released this morning, once your partner
gets here. Would you like to take a shower?"

"Yeah," I say, "That'd be great."

"Your clothes are hanging on the back of the bathroom door," she informs me.
"And if you need anything while you're in there, just press the call button
and I'll be right in."

Oh God. Jack chuckles mirthlessly. He knows how much of a gentleman I
actually am.

She cheerfully removes my IV, pressing two curved, pink-tinted nails into my
aching skin. I give a little moan. Why, why does my life involve so many
needles? She pushes my arm down into the bed and grins.

"The pressure feels good after being poked, doesn't it?" she says and I bite
my tongue so hard I taste blood.

In the shower, I find my mind wandering to cute little nurses in those short
little uniforms they don't actually wear. Cute little red-headed nurses. I'm
feeling much, much better this morning and Jack is braying for action. A
little soap, images of... ehem... nameless nurses who look a lot like
Scully, and I'm off and running. Harder than hell and for once, something's
throbbing in a good way. I picture her small hands running over the skin of
my belly as she watches me slipping my soapy fingers up and down my most
manly muscle. My whole body is shaking by the time I imagine her hot mouth
surrounding me and it feels like I haven't come in weeks, though it's been
days, really. She runs her tongue up my shivering shaft and I moan.

"Mr. Mulder?"

Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. The door opens and as I peek cautiously around the
shower curtain I see the cute little nurse poke her head into the
steam-filled bathroom.

"Are you ok?" she asks, and so help me God, she's chewing bubblegum.

"Fine," I choke out, hand pumping frantically.

"Do you need my help with anything?" she asks and innocently blinks at my
tortured expression.

"No!" I shout violently, and with a slight widening of her eyes, she leaves
at last, shutting the door behind her. I come, hard, spurting all over the
shower wall as I collapse against it, gasping.

God, Scully, why do we do this to each other? I should have fucked her two
weeks ago, when we were alone in the hotel room with all those...
possibilities and nothing to stand in our way but my injured face. I mean, I
like kissing, but I don't have to kiss someone to get something out of my
coital experiences. Lust like this, given the free reign mine has recently
acquired, is crippling. Third leg indeed.

By the time I'm dressed and brushed and ready to go, Scully arrives bearing
two bagels and a briefcase full of notes. On the completed case.

Seems the Jesus Freak of Hellhole, Idaho found more than religion when he
opened his door yesterday. Two federal marshals later, Scully photocopied
the file and spent the rest of the day watching pay-per-view movies on the
Bureau's dime.

"'In and Out' wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be," she tells me
as she leads me to the car. Jack giggles.

I'm just glad she wasn't sitting in her room wracked with worry, or
anything.

"We'll be flying out in two days," she says. "The doctor won't let you near
another airplane till then." She stops at the car door and turns to place
one small hand against my no-longer aching cheek. "I'm so sorry, Mulder. I
should have realized how sick you were."

Jack's in hysterics. I just smile and, leaning down, kiss her gently on the
lips. The tip of my nose brushes her cheek and gives me a sharp shock of
pain, but it's nothing compared to the last few days.

"It's all right, Scully," I tell her. "You've done more for me in the last
few hours than you'll ever know."

xxxxxx

Two huge plates of flapjacks later - I'm not going for any wimp-ass bagels,
thanks very much, not when I've been expending all this extra energy -
Scully and I are back in our hotel rooms. She's lying on her bed, flipping
through a Boise guide, looking for something to do. Her work clothes have
been relegated to the suitcase for now and she's wearing a tight blue
sweater and jeans. I'm just lying next to her, staring, thinking about
everything I'd like to do today. And none of it is listed in the Boise
Chamber of Congress City Guide, I'll bet.

"Well," she says, small pink tongue peeking out from between her lips. Jack
shifts and I know if I don't get out of here, I'm going to do something
stupid. This has never stopped me before, and Scully is looking so very,
very cute with her casual hair and her shoes off. So I settle one arm on a
pillow and continue to gaze. "There's a gay and lesbian film festival, but I
don't think you'd be into that. We can go to the pioneer museum... what?"

I shake my head, looking at her sweet face. It's nothing like the face I
pictured this morning. There's something so much more beautiful about the
real thing. Guilt shreds through me.

"Scully, there's something I should confess." Stupidity rears it's ugly
head, right next to that other ugly head. Scully raises an eyebrow and sighs
when I smooth it back into place. "Ever since Butte, I've been thinking
about you."

Her eyes narrow and she whispers: "Thinking about me how?"

"Sexually," I whisper back. "All the time. This morning, in the shower,
I..."

"You what?" she asks, rolling onto her side and staring at me. "You
fantasized about me?"

"Yeah," I reply, blushing like a schoolgirl. "It was amazing, Scully. Just
amazing... but..."

"But?" she whispers, eyes languidly running over my body.

"But... I want more."

She stops me with a finger to my lips. "You're supposed to be resting,
getting your strength back."

"It's back," I assure her. "Boy is it ever."

"Really?" she asks and to my enormous surprise, I feel her hand brush my
cock, which has been waving frantically, trying to get our attention. It
butts against her hand like a pathetic lap dog, looking for strokes.

"Really," I gasp, flopping over onto my back and laying there like a dead
fish. She stares down at me, amused, as her fingers explore my contours
through my slacks.

"I'm finding that a bit... hard... to believe," she purrs. "I think I need
to investigate further this miraculous recovery of yours, Mulder."

She unzips my fly and pulls Jack, gasping, out into the light. He smiles at
her for a minute, then lays down and eyes me suspiciously.

Seeing Scully's flushed cheeks and bright eyes, it occurs to me suddenly
that maybe I'm not the only one who's been suffering the last couple weeks.
Scully's staring at my exposed dick with a look that can only be described
as lascivious. I've never seen anything like it, and if possible, I get even
harder. My heart is pounding in my nose and I don't care. Scully licks her
lips as I reach out one languid hand to brush against her breast. "Mmm,
Mulder, I've been wanting to do this for years," she growls and then lowers
her head and pulls me into her mouth.

"Fuck," I say, loudly, clutching one of her breasts like a lifeline. "Fuck."

"I'm trying," is the muffled reply.

Her mouth is hot and wet and remarkably like what I've always imagined other
parts of her would feel like, which is the point, naturally. The Little Love
God is pulsing like a distant star now and I'm thrusting frantically as she
applies more than a little suction. This is going to give the words "Hoover
Building" a whole new meaning someday, I can just tell.

"Do you want to come, Mulder?" she asks, raising her head.

No, Scully, but I would like to discuss Middle East politics and the
economic implications of a future oil embargo.

"Yes!" I bellow.

"In my mouth?" Ever the scientist, she's looking for a precise answer.

"Any fucking place you want, Scully," I say as she pulls the skin at the
base of my penis up over the head and then slides it back down.

"I can think of somewhere good," she notes, and lowers her mouth to me
again. A few delicious passes of her tongue later and I'm coming in a
massive explosion of star-bursts and chirping blue birds and Madeline Khan
singing in "Young Frankenstein." It's that good. And the thought that
Scully's wet little mouth is lapping me up isn't hurting either.

"Aaaaggh," I say, trying to express my infinite love.

"Is that better?" she asks, batting her eyelashes and looking very pleased
with herself.

"Fan-fucking-tastic," I note, regretting that I can't roll her over and kiss
her till she's blue in the face. Not because of my poor nose, you
understand, but because I can't actually move.

"I'm glad," she says, eyeing me seriously. "I was getting worried about you
the last couple weeks. You looked so peaked."

Oh, ok, kettle. I summon a bit of energy and roll over to face her. I trail
one finger over the front of her sweater and start circling her nipple
through the thin knit.

"I can think of something else that looks peaked."

She grins and plucks my hand from her breast to suck three fingers into her
mouth. Jack moans and flops around against my pelvis like a disgruntled porn
star. Don't ask me to do any more, he demands. I've given all I've got, you
sick perverts!

Scully releases my fingers and whips her shirt up over her head, then lies
back among the pillows and cocks an eyebrow in my direction. C'mon, she
seems to be saying. Do me. She's not wearing a bra. Something in me snaps
and I press my mouth over one pink tip, only to feel the aftershocks
ricochet up into my sinuses.

Right. No problem. I can't kiss her breasts, so I stick to fondling. Scully
has very smooth, pliable breasts. They aren't large, but they're pleasingly
perky. I run the tip of my tongue over them, poking it as far from my face
as I can. Scully giggles at my tongue contortions and mutters something
about me being oral.

"At least I'm not anal," I point out and she actually laughs.

"I'm so sick of waiting," she moans as I slide my hand down into her jeans
to discover that she's already soaking. My heart constricts for a moment and
I feel like I'm floating. "But I'm not making love to you if I can't kiss
you," she says. "No way. I've waited seven years to kiss you, I can wait
another three days."

"You don't want me to make love to you?" I ask, slipping two fingers into
her and practically dancing inside as she clamps around me.

"No... not... yes," she says. "Just like that."

I grin and she meets my delighted gaze with one of her own. I don't think
either of us can really believe what's happening between us.

"You feel wonderful," I whisper. "And you're unbelievably beautiful."

"Normally," she rasps as I slide my hand up to unzip her jeans, "I would say
the same, but right now I feel more like I'm getting felt up by W.C.
Fields."

"Whatever you say, my little chickadee," I tell her and start circling her
clit. She grasps my wrist and slows me down until I'm barely touching her.
Soft, feather touches and she's writhing beside me, her face contorted.

"Do you want to come, Scully?" I ask, sliding my hand out of her waistband.

"Oh, Mulder, you asshole," she groans. "Yes, yes, damnit."

"Now?" I ask.

"Yeah, yeah, now. Now!"

With a laugh, I slip my hand back down into her heat. She wriggles me into
the right position and starts thrusting against my hand. I slip my thumb
into her body and keep tickling her clit with my index finger. With a long,
shuddering gasp, she squeezes me tight and holds me there with her thighs,
her hand, her inner muscles.

"Wow," we whisper in unison. Scully brings my hand to her lips and gently
licks me clean. I'm already half-hard again, though I think it would take
about two and a half hours of foreplay to actually get me to come.

"Mulder," she says, "if that was a taste of what's to come, I can't wait for
your nose to finally heal."

"No kidding," I tell her tenderly. She snuggles up against me and we both
lie still for a moment, trying to stop breathing like long-distance runners.

"So what's next?" I ask, meaning all sorts of things, none of them literal.

"We have a new case," she whispers, and then starts giggling.

"What?" I ask, sitting up and looking into her sex-soaked eyes. "What's so
funny?"

"It's a demon possession," she gasps, practically choking.

"Ok..." I say slowly. "And?"

"And it's in Wisconsin."

I shake my head. She rolls over on her back, gasping and sputtering like
she's running out of gas.

"So? What's so funny about Wisconsin?"

Her face is priceless: mirthful and genuinely happy.

"Oh Mulder," she says and pats my cheek. "Spread Eagle, Wisconsin."

End 2 of 2

Email me and Jack will send you big, smoochie kisses. Or is that just too
gross to contemplate? Your call...