Emeril Creme de Glace Homme
by Mish and Forte
Rating: R
Classification: SRH
Keywords: MSR.  A little angst.  General silliness.
Spoilers: If you know the last line of "Requiem," you're
covered.
Distribution: Sure, go ahead.  Just let us know where!
Disclaimer: Even *we* aren't delusional enough to think we own
these characters.
Feedback: Yes please. <g>
Summary: Superstars of the Superheroes. ;)  Sequel to "Mexican
Fried Ice Cream Man."

For friends who recently moved.  You know who you are. <g>



Emeril Creme de Glace Homme


"Mulder, who's going to cook dinner?"

Shifting Scully in my arms, I finally get the key to the house
into the lock.  "Me," I grunt.

"You could put me down, you know.  It would make things a whole
lot easier."

I don't dare look at her face; if I do, I'm lost.  But I can
just imagine the mirth in those baby blues.  That, and a healthy
dose of reprimand.  I told her I was fine all the way home. 
Even my voice is sort of back to normal; the heat in the car
helped tremendously.  As did the Sucrets that I chewed on like
hard candy.

For some reason, I can't seem to make myself put her down. 
Well, except for the ride home.  I couldn't very well drive with
her in my lap, now could I?  Oh, bad choice of thoughts.  My
dick twitches with unwanted lust.

Not now, dude.  'Mexican Fried Ice Cream Man' is trying to get
his wife inside... inside...

Damn.  Down, Ricardo, down!  Nice name for my sidekick, I think.
 All superheroes have a sidekick, don't they?

At last, the door knob turns and we're in.  Wheezing just a bit,
I carry Scully up the stairs and into the bedroom. *Our*
bedroom.  God, it feels so good to think of it that way.

"Mulder," she warns, "put me down.  This instant.  You're in no
shape -"

So I put her down.  On the bed. *Our* bed.  And shut her up by
kissing her.

We both smell of smoke and I really have no business starting
something I don't have the time to finish, but I can't resist
the challenge.  How to shut Scully up in two seconds or less. 
Liplock always works for me; used to be damned hard to quiet her
before I had this option.

All right, I'm a macho, sexist pig - seducing her into silence. 
But she seems to like it; a bit too much, I'd say.  Her hands
try to pull me down to the bed with her, wrapping around my
neck.

"Mulder," she whispers against my mouth.  I know an invitation
when I hear one.  It's so tempting, too, my inner voice whines.

But the dryer still isn't fixed.  We have loads to unpack in
this new den of Mulder-Scully domesticity, and her mother is
coming to dinner.  Shit!  Maggie is coming to dinner!

"Um, Scully," I reply, nuzzling my nose into her cheek.  It's so
damned hard... and I don't mean Ricardo, though he's doing a
fine job of his own... to let her go.  "Scully," I try again, "I
have a few things to do, you know."

Good thing Skinner let us go home.  But it's already 3:00 and
Maggie is due here at 7:30.  And I may be Mexican Fried Ice
Cream Man, but I'm not faster than the speed of sound.  Except
when Scully does that... *thing* with her tongue....

Stop it, stop it!

"Okay, Scully, enough," I say, pulling away to look into her
disappointed pout.  "You need to get some rest and I need to get
dinner started."

"I'm not sleepy," she purrs, lying back on the pillows with a
stretch and a seductive smile.  But the moment her body reaches
its full length - which isn't very long, by the way... her toes
don't reach the foot board - she lets out a broad yawn.

Aha!  "You're not sleepy, huh?" I answer with a grin.  "Take a
nap, Scully.  I'll start dinner."

I release those pretty little toes from the confines of her
shoes and she wiggles them under the covers of our unmade bed. 
She grumbles just a bit when I make her sit up so I can rid her
of her topclothes. Should I chance the underwear, too?  Ricardo
is yelling, "Si, si!"

No way, no how.  If the underwear goes, I'll never get out of
this bedroom.  Quickly, I put a nightgown and fuzzy socks on
her, trying like hell to avoid looking at her gorgeous body. 
When she lifts the patchwork quilt that was a gift from her
mother, I get a whiff of *us* - damn it!

Ricardo is doing a hat dance now.  Oh, no, buddy.  Time to cool
those jets with a shower.  Cold, preferably; which shouldn't be
a problem since it takes forever in this eighty-year-old house
for the hot water to reach our bathroom.

"Mmm... wake me up in an hour and I'll help you," she murmurs,
curling around my pillow with a contented grin.  She really
should take a shower, too, but I haven't the heart to make her
stay awake that long.  Good thing, too, because she's already
breathing heavily.

"Love you," I breathe against her cheek, giving my Sleeping
Beauty a nap-time kiss.

"Ruv you too."  The snoring begins.

So does my afternoon of making Scully's world safe from
post-moving stress and yet another take-out dinner.

The shower helps considerably.  Ricardo has decided to take a
nap, too, though most of my other, more sensible muscles are
beginning to feel the strain of the day's events.  I can do
this, I tell myself.  Just a few more hours and Mexican Fried
Ice Cream Man can sack out for the night with his beautiful
wife.  Things will go well, I just know it.  Making a mental
list of the feats I have yet to accomplish, I dry off and dress
in my bullet-proof sweats.

Okay, so they're not bullet-proof.  But they are ratty and
ridden with holes, so if I mess them up, no problemo.  I can
change into something decent before Maggie gets here.

Leaping down the stairs in several creaky bounds, I'm almost to
the kitchen when I hear the pounding on the front door.  The
three faces I see through the peephole are a picture of concave
paranoia, their eyes darting up and down the street as if our
block is home to the likes of Nixon, Stalin, and Mata Hari.

Shit - what now?

"Shh," I say as I fling open the door to be greeted by
DiaperMan, Teddy the Wonder Bear, and the Pacifier.

Better known as Frohike, Byers and Langly.

Frohike storms in first, carrying an armload of Pampers, which
he drops unceremoniously on the floor of the foyer.  "You guys
all right?" he asks.  "We heard the call come across the police
scanner and hightailed it to your office.  Skinner told us he'd
sent you home."  He shifts to look past me, concern on his face.
 "Scully okay?"

"Yes," I hiss.  "Be quiet.  She's sleeping."

Byers and Langly tiptoe over the threshold.  Byers peeks out
from behind a huge grey teddy bear.  "We salvaged what we could
from the shower.  Kind of smoky, but okay.  The rest is in the
van."

"Here," a disgusted, nervous voice says.  A huge plastic
pacifier is thrust into my face, its bulb filled with all sorts
of baby things.  Taking it from Langly, I can't help but smile.

"Pregnancy is not a time-bomb waiting to go off, Ringo."

He shoves his glasses up his nose and snorts, shifting on the
balls of his feet.  "They said the same thing about DDT fifty
years ago."

"Gimme a break, guys."  Nice as it is for them to bring Scully's
gifts home, I really don't have time for debating the history of
ancient conspiracies.

"Actually, that's what we're here for.  Gift delivery and other
assorted good deeds."  Frohike sends the other two back to the
van with a wave of his hand, then turns back to me.  "Anything
else we can do?"

Thank you, Jesus.  Even superheroes can delegate.

A light dusting of snow has started to fall as I hold the door
open for the rest of the gifts to make it on in.  "Actually,
yes.  You fellas know anything about appliances?"

Frohike's brow shoots up and he lowers his voice, looking from
side to side before leaning in to whisper,  "Household or...
recreational?"

Rolling my eyes, I bite out over the geek parade of gifts, "No,
dental."  When his brow disappears into his receding hairline, I
amend, "Household, DiaperMan.  Specifically, clothes dryers."

"DiaperMan?"

I'm not about to explain my flight into superhero fancy. 
Closing the door behind the last load, I snort, "Seriously,
Frohike.  Scully's mom is coming over for dinner and I have to
cook and the dryer is broken and we have tons of laundry...."

"Say no more, amigo," he replies, shoving the other two in the
direction of the washroom.  "We have it under control."

All right.  Smiling at the trio, I can't help but think that his
'amigo' was fate.  The Superfriends are on a roll.

Now, for dinner.

The Gunmen clatter around in the washroom while I poke around in
the kitchen.  We got married two weeks ago and just moved in
here a week ago.  Basically, we've been living out of boxes and
surviving on greasy take-out.  Thank goodness most of the
kitchen stuff has been put away already.  Scully was adamant
about unpacking the essentials first.  Every other room except
our bedroom is stuffed with boxes.

A pack of boneless chicken breasts sits in the fridge, staring
at me.  What was she planning for dinner, anyway?  Something
utterly white bread, I'm sure.  Baked chicken and peas.  Yech.

Hey - I'm on a roll, right?  Chicken fajitas and Mexican
cornbread.  Sounds easy enough.  A little salsa on the side,
maybe some guacamole....

"Watch it, asshole!"  Langly's sneer breaks into my fantasy
dinner.

"You watch it, dickwad," Frohike replies.

Gotta nip this in the bud.  The washroom is adjacent to the
kitchen, and I whip my head around the corner.  "Shut the hell
up!" I whisper.

The three of them straighten and face me, surprise making them
pale.  What are they doing, anyway?  I can't see the dryer
behind them.

"Sorry, Mulder," Byers stammers.  "We'll keep it down."

I purse my lips and give them a stare as if to say, "You'd
better," before going back to my impending feast.

Good thing Mexican Fried Ice Cream Man can transform himself. 
I'm picking up more and more superpowers as I go along.  Cool.

Rubbing my hands together, I think about just where to start. 
Cooking can't be that hard, can it?

With a smile, I become 'Emeril Creme de glace Homme'.

French vanilla ice cream, anyone?  Crepes suzette?  How do you
say 'guacamole' in French, anyway?

I occupy my mind with language theory - Mulder style - while my
hands go to work on dinner.

**********

Merde.

'Emeril Creme de glace Homme', my ass.

I stand at the sink and watch the snow come down, wishing I'd
ordered take-out.  It's a fucking blizzard now and no delivery
man is ever gonna brave this mess to save my sorry ass with
Chinese food.

"Damn it!"

Great, I forgot all about the guys in the washroom.

"Everything okay in there?"  I call out, then bite my lip,
remembering that Scully is still asleep.  I definitely don't
want her to see the mess we've made.

"Yep.  Just finishing up."

Byers' voice makes me feel just a bit better.  At least the
dryer will work now.  And I've saved us at least a couple
hundred bucks on a repairman; Scully can't help but be happy
about that.

But the tortillas are as hard as frisbees.  Guess I shouldn't
have packed anything that came out of *my* pantry.  God, I hope
salsa doesn't go bad.  Turning the jar over in my hands, I
search for an expiration date.  Whew.  I must have had one sane
moment in my bachelorhood.

The chicken strips are simmering on the stove.  At least I
haven't burned them.  And the cornbread is almost done.  So
we'll have salsa-covered chicken, guacamole, and cornbread.

But I've managed to dirty just about every pot and pan we own. 
Think, Homme-y.  Where to hide them?

Dishwasher, yeah.  In minutes, they're all stuffed into the
dishwasher and I've poured enough detergent in there to wipe
Massachusetts off the map.  Not only hidden, but clean.  Its hum
is soothing, bringing my ragged nerves under control again.

Six o'clock, my trusty magneto glow-in-the-dark timepiece tells
me.  I can have the guys out of here in fifteen minutes.  Then
I'll wake up Scully... wash her back in the shower... maybe a
little underwater fireworks... yeah.  Then it's dinner with the
mother and one last round of superhero nookie before cuddling up
for the night.

Sounds like a plan.

With a little smirk, I grab the jar of salsa again.  Might as
well dump this in with the chicken to heat it up -

"Here we go!" Frohike calls out.  At last.  Maybe they can be
gone in five instead of fifteen.

There is nothing more satisfying at this moment than hearing the
roar of the dryer.  Damn, I'm good.

Wait a minute.  It shouldn't sound like a freight train, should
it?

"Shit!"  Langly's panicked voice freezes me.  Smoke.  I smell
smoke.  No no no I've already done this once today -

"Fire extinguisher, doofus!"  Frohike's just as freaked out as
Langly.  Oh, this is not good.

The smoke alarm in the kitchen goes off just as I round the
table, spiking my heartbeat into double time.  There goes the
jar of salsa, slipping from my jello fingers.  Like a crushing
football tackle replayed in slow motion, it tips on its side,
then rolls across the kitchen table, narrowly missing the
crystal fruit bowl that was a gift from Maggie.  For a brief
second, I think it's going to stop before it reaches the
opposite edge.

But no.  Not only does it keep going, it manages to hit the open
container of guacamole on its path to oblivion.  They both crash
to the floor, splattering chunks of tomato and avocado like
Christmas ornaments all over the white tile.

"Shit."  The image of the now-colorful floor is overwhelmed by
visions of our house going up in flames.  911.  Gotta call 911.

The phone is by the hall door, beckoning.  Trying to avoid the
broken glass, I slip in the mess and just barely miss falling on
my ass by grabbing one of the kitchen chairs.  I can hear the
fire extinguisher spray over the alarm.

"We got it!" Byers calls out.  "It's okay, Mulder.  Fire's out!"

Yeah, but I can imagine what it looks like in there.  If it's as
bad as it looks in here, we're in for it.  "Shut up!" I bite at
the smoke alarm.  Why is it still going off?

Standing stock still, I sniff.  Oh shit, oh shit.

When I turn around, smoke is creeping through the cracks around
the oven doors.  Aww, hell.

I grab the nearest towel and, turning off the oven, I open the
door.  Fuck.  Mexican cornbread... yeah, right.  Mexican adobe,
more like it.

Spying another plume of smoke out of the corner of my eye, I
groan.  No, no, not the chicken.

Like the world's biggest moron, I reach for the pan on the stove
with my free hand.

"Fuck!"

I drop it as soon as I've touched it.  Shit, shit.  I poke it to
the back corner of the stove and turn off the heat.

What else can possibly go wrong?

"Mulder?"

Her soft voice drifts over the fog in the kitchen.  Aww, man.

Raising my eyes from the burned rock of a cornbread still in my
hand, I look at my beloved.  She is gonna be *so* mad....

But she's not.  On the contrary, I've never seen her look more
cuddly in her terrycloth robe, her hair all mussed and her
sleepy gaze filled with loving indulgence.

"You need some help?" she inquires, smiling at me from the
doorway.  She starts to move forward, still half-aware, and I
remember the salsa.

"Scully, no!  Broken glass -" I shout at her, just as I feel
something warm slither around my toes.

Thankfully she stops, and her wide eyes look down the same time
as mine.

"Oh, shi -"

That's all I get out before I feel my feet sail out from under
me in the overflow from the dishwasher.

**********

I hear the Gunmen say their goodbyes all the way up here,
followed by the slamming of the front door.

How embarrassing.

Burying my head as far under the quilt as I can go, I relive the
last hour as my flushed face warms the air under the covers.

I can hear my whine even now.

"Scully, I wanted to cook dinner... and... and... the guys were
gonna fix the dryer...."

Did I really bruise my foot with the pan of cornbread?

"And - ow! - *hic* - I wanted you to get some rest...."

Shit.  The hiccups.  Forgot all about that.  Too much excitement
used to do that to me.

When I was six years old.

"And - *hic* - I was gonna clean up - *hic* - clean up my stuff
- *hic* - in the baby's room... *hic*, *hic*, *hic*...."

God, how fucking embarrassing.

At least she'd calmed me somewhat by the time the guys helped me
upstairs.  But then she had to undress me and clean me up, like
a child.

And like a child, I'm huddling here in shame, scared to poke my
head out for fear of the 'New House Monster'.  He's out to get
me, I know he is.  Who needs kryptonite when 'Emeril Creme de
glace Homme' is vulnerable to dishwashing detergent?  As well as
salsa, guacamole, cornbread, chicken, clothes dryers... shit.

I should never have transformed.  Best to stick with the
superpowers I know.

God, my foot hurts.  So does my hand.  Scully assured me they
were fine, nothing broken, nothing worse than a minor burn.  She
patched me up, gave me Tylenol and went back downstairs to help
my compadres clean up.

Wonder if she has a salve that soothes a bruised ego?

"Mulder?  You awake?"

"No," I grumble, shifting further down in the bed.  Night has
fallen and last time I looked, I was in the dark.  Please don't
turn on the light, Scully.  I'm mortified enough without having
to face you again.

I can hear her shuffle about the room.  A faint scratching noise
tells me she's... lighting candles?  Shit, don't tell me a fuse
blew in delayed reaction.  What'd I do this time?  Plug the TV
into the same circuit as the microwave?  Sorry, Scully.  Guess
that means no more hot tea until I call an electrician.

"Mulder," she purrs as I feel her weight sit next to me.  "Look
at me."

"No." Transforming into 'WhineyDude' takes little or no effort. 
Especially when you've disgraced yourself in front of the love
of your life and the Superfriends.

"I made din-ner," she singsongs.

Scully wouldn't mock me, would she?  My eyes peek over the hem
of the quilt.  Damn, but she's so pretty in the candlelight it
almost hurts to look at her.

"Is that why we lost power?"  Please tell me it's nothing I did,
Scully.  "I blew up the microwave, didn't I."

She laughs, her smile bright in the dim room.  "You didn't blow
up the microwave, Mulder.  And we haven't lost power."

"We haven't?"

"No.  I just thought candlelight would lend a certain...
ambiance to my gourmet meal."  She reaches for a bowl on the
night stand.  Oh, it smells so good.  My mouth waters in
anticipation.

I scoot a little further up.  "You cooked?  Scully, I wanted to
fix dinner...."

"Chunky Chicken Noodle," she explains, spooning some into my
mouth.  "I know how to shut you up, too, Mulder."

Hussy.  I give her a mock scowl and prepare to do a bit of
sassing right back at her when the taste hits me.

It's like an explosion of warmth in my mouth.  Yum.  "Oh, this
is good."  Taking another bite, I let it swirl around my gums as
I sit up.  "Is this homemade?"  Of course it is.  Scully can
cook, you imbecile.  Unlike you.

She feeds me like I imagine she's going to feed Junior some day,
taking great delight in my moans of satisfaction.  Nodding, she
answers, "Yeah.  Straight from the Campbell's kitchen to you."

My eyes go wide.  "You cheated."

"No, I didn't.  Mulder, in all the time you've known me, have
you ever seen me cook?"

I pause in the act of swallowing, giving it some thought.  Come
to think of it, I haven't... wait a second. I've dropped in on
Scully many times while she was in the midst of eating dinner. 
Certainly she can cook?  "But - what about those chicken
breasts?"

"There's a first time for everything, right?"

"You mean -"

She spoons another mouthful into me.  "I hate to break it to
you, Mulder, but you married a gourmet take-out queen. 
Actually, I've gotten quite proficient at serving them on the
china Mom gave me."

Mom.  "Scully!  Your mother's coming tonight!"  I try to throw
off the quilt, but she shushes me and puts the almost empty bowl
back on the night stand.

"No, she isn't.  Weatherman says six to twelve inches of snow
tonight.  I called her and told her to stay home."  Her palm
slides across my bare chest.  "I also told her you'd had a
slight mishap."

Closing my eyes, I fall back against the pillows with a groan. 
"You didn't."  Maybe I ought to get that big "W" out of
mothballs.  'Mexican Fried Ice Cream Man' bites the dust, right
behind that French sissy.  Even WhineyDude can't whine his way
out of this public humiliation.

Long live WeenieMan.  The one, the only, the original.

"I did," she says, both hands now moving up to my shoulders.  "I
told her you had to rescue me yet again."

Popping one eye open, I mutter, "Huh?"

"Well, you did carry me to the parking garage.  And up the front
steps.  And put me to bed."

"So?  If I'm not mistaken, the actual rescue honors go to Rex
the Wonder Dog and the SkinMan."

It's her turn to say, "Huh?"

"And second place for cleanup goes to DiaperMan, Teddy the
Wonder Bear and the Pacifier."

She's looking at me like I'm a few bricks short of a load. 
Might as well go for broke.

"Sorry, Scully.  Mexican Fried Ice Cream Man has retired.  No,
wait - he was thrown out of the Superfriends by unanimous vote
because he couldn't handle his salsa."

"Mulder, what the hell are you talking about?"

"Me, Scully.  Me." I poke myself in the chest for emphasis as
she pulls away.  "Why the hell did you ever marry me?"

She crosses her arms.  "Why did *you* marry *me*?"

Ooooh.  Wonder Woman has nothing on The Interrogator. She's
scaring the shit out of me with that glare.

A thousand answers flow through my mind.  None of which I think
she particularly wants to hear right now.

Because I love you?  Because you're having my child?  Because
you have an incredible body that looks great even though you are
round with said child?  All of that sounds so... lame.

"Because... because... *hic*!"  Shit.  Not now.  "Hell."

"I'll tell you why we got married, Mulder."

Here it comes. "*Hic*hic*hic*...." Can someone die from too much
hiccuping?

"Because you're the only person in this world that I'd trust to
save me.  And I'm the only one that *you* would trust if *you*
needed saving.  We were made for each other, Mulder."

Her words get louder, but not harsh.  Eyes of blue flame
challenge me to refute her logic.

"I don't care about Rex the Wonder Dog.  He was just doing his
job.  What I *do* care about is the man that suffered smoke
inhalation because he had to come upstairs after me.  The man
that decided to let me sleep while he tried to cook dinner." 
Quietly, she brings a warm hand up to my cheek.  "You have never
failed me, Mulder.  And you never will."

Gulping, I lower my head and nod my agreement.  Mostly to get
her to stop before I start crying.  God, I love this woman.  I
raise my head to meet her gaze, then...

"*HIC*"

I drop my forehead into my hands.  If the hiccups don't kill me,
the humiliation will; I just know it.

Gentle fingers burrow through my hair.  "Well, there's certainly
no question that the baby takes after his father."

Her magic hand continues its massage as I look up at her again,
struggling against WhineyDude's desire to return.  "Why?  Did he
make a mess of the kitchen when I wasn't looking?"

"No."  She moves closer and nuzzles my neck.  "He hiccups, too."

"He does?"  Babies get hiccups?  While still in the womb? 
"*Hic*... you're kidding."

"Nope."  Her lips graze over my ear.  "Like father, like son. 
Would you like to hear the physiological explanation for an
attack of the hiccups?"

Her teeth close over my ear lobe and she tugs.  "*Hic*!"  Damn. 
"No, but I wouldn't mind it if you cured me right about now."

Amazing what her soothing touch can do for me.  However, I am
most decidedly becoming breathless once again.

Her hands pull the quilt down and before I know it, she's made
off with my boxers.  Mexican Fried Ice Cream Man may be short of
breath, but Ricardo jumps to attention.

"Scully?"  I watch as her head settles over my... Yeeehaaa!

That - that *thing* she does with her tongue... oh, Jesus. 
Ricardo is one happy little sidekick dude, let me tell you.

My hips squirm like Mexican jumping beans under the tickle of
her hair.

"God, Sculleee...."

In moments, I've come faster than a speeding bullet, more
powerful than a locomotive.  I'm so dizzy I can't even open my
eyes.

I feel Scully's body curl up next to mine, then sigh as the
quilt falls over us.

"Hiccups all gone?" she murmurs, her arm going round my chest.

"Mmm-mmm."  Mmmuy bueno.

"Your foot still hurt?"

Foot?  What foot?

"How about your hand?"

The palm in question turns her face up to mine.  I capture her
lips, hoping to steal her breath away.

"Guess you're invincible again, huh?" she whispers against my
mouth.

Fucking 'A'.  Steel reinforced tights, lead soldered cape,
titanium boots... and a big-assed 'M' burned on my chest with a
cattle iron.

I am Mexican Fried Ice Cream Man.  Content to stay that way.
Transformation is for the birds.  May 'Emeril Creme de glace
Homme' never rise from the ashes.

"Mulder," she sighs, becoming limp in my arms as I open her robe
and start kissing my way down her gorgeous body.  She must have
taken a shower after she woke up; her skin smells like baby
lotion.  Anticipating the event, eh Scully?

"Mi amor," I murmur, practicing my Spanish.  Sounds more
romantic than English.

Besides, I don't need no stinkin' English.  And my Spanish is
much better than my French.

"What?"  She moans with pure pleasure and her belly comes up to
bump my nose.  "Oh, sorry, Mulder..."

"Mi corazon."

She grabs my hair and forces me to meet her gaze, just when I'm
inches from my goal.  "Are you speaking Spanish?"  

I feel my face get hot.

"You are," she says, her surprise surpassed only by her stifled
grin at my expense.  "Why, may I ask?"

"Because..." Because... shit, this is harder than the "Why did
you marry me?" question.

The words come out before I can stop them.

"Yo solo quiero a mi esposa mexicana frita del helado?"

Hey - it sounded good in my mind this afternoon.

She clears her throat and is trying very hard not to burst into
uncontrollable laughter when she replies, "I believe the correct
phrasing is, 'Yo solo quiero a mi esposa del helado frito
mexicano.'"

As serious as I can possibly be amidst this absurdity I answer,
"Mucho gracias, Scully."

"'*Muchas* gracias', Mulder."

"You're welcome, Scully, though I haven't really done anything
yet."

"Oh, I'd say you've done enough for one day."

"Ah, not by a long shot, dear wife."  Lowering my head, I
finally commence payback.

She tenses and gasps, then melts under me and lets out a
breathy, "Oh!"

I'm sure she meant "Ole!", but at this point who the hell cares?

END


Viva la feedback!  mish_rose@yahoo.com or Bjm1352@aol.com

URLs: http://sf.exit.mytoday.de/visionsoftruth/mishfic.htm or
http://www.thebasementoffice.com/


Author's Notes (Mish): Once again, thanks to Musea for superhero
beta: Bodacious!Bonnie, for coming to the rescue when
Mewling!Mish wanted to give up on this story... Bandit!Blackwood
for general ass-kicking... Dynamite!Di for hitting us with
Duchovnyite (though I shouldn't be thanking her - not yet,
anyway <g>)... Awesome!Aud for still being the first and best...
Mighty!moutainphile for still more sweet but deadly salvos...
and 'Jintian the Just' and 'Cameo the Courageous'  for being the
inspiration behind this fic.

Special thanks to Ary, for correcting my Spanish.  The
last scene is for you, babe. :)

Author's Notes (Forte): Umm... what Mish said!  (It's *so* much
easier to write Notes when your partner has gone first!)  And
thanks to her for letting me be part of this lunacy.  Honestly,
she did the vast majority of the work -- don't let her tell you
anything different! :)