Title: Intoxicated

Author: Diandra Hollman

E-Mail: diandrahollman@gmail.com

Website: http://diandrahollman.neocities.org/

Date Finished: 3-18-2003

Rating: a strong R 

Classification: S A R

Keywords: X-Files/Alias Crossover, Mulder/Scully UST, 
         Vaughn/Sydney UST, Slash themes, Mulder POV, some 
         mild Vaughn abuse because I apparently can't get 
         through a story without roughing *somebody* up at 
         least a little. ;P

Spoilers: Two shows and I still manage to have absolutely NO 
         spoilers whatsoever. Isn't that sad? Well, maybe some 
         *very* general ones. Y'all know about that whole evil 
         government/alien colinization thing, right? You know 
         that Sydney is a double agent working for some evil, 
         evil people, right? There. That's all the "spoilers"
         you'll find here. :)

Disclaimer: These characters don't even belong to the same 
         people, much less me or I'd be rolling in cash instead 
         of wondering how in the heck I'm going to be able to 
         afford my next semester of college. ;P
         All characters connected to "X-Files" belong to Chris 
         Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and FOX. 
         All characters connected to "Alias" belong to JJ 
         Abrams, Bad Robot Productions (seriously, who came up 
         with *that* name?) and ABC.

Archive: Heck, I don't know. Gossamer, Ephemeral, Mulder Slash, 
         Cover Me and Alias Slash. If anybody else wants it, 
         just let me know. I like to know where my "babies" are 
         going so I can visit them once in a while. ;)

Summary: "I *am* straight, despite the evidence to the contrary 
         that was literally laying in front of me that morning. 
         At least I'm reasonably certain that I am."

Dedication: To Lisa, who proved that she's willing to stick by 
         me no matter what I write, whether it's DSR, MSR, 
         slash, or crossovers with shows she doesn't watch. ;D 
         Thank you! And to all the fanfiction authors out 
         there - you know who you are - who are brave enough to 
         'color outside the box'. Am I mixing metaphors there? 
         Oh, well, you know what I mean, right? ;)
         And finally, to the actors who bring these two 
         wonderful characters to life: David Duchovny and 
         Michael Vartan. :::gros bisses::: ;) Also: I'm sorry.

Author's Notes: Despite the fact that these shows actually did 
         overlap... briefly, I couldn't write the story the way 
         I wanted to write it unless I adjusted the timelines a 
         bit. Hence the "AU" label. I'm not going to commit 
         myself to any *specific* timelines, but this story 
         takes place somewhere around season 8 of The X-Files - 
         after "DeadAlive" and season 2 of Alias sometime 
         before "Passage I".

         Also, Scully was never pregnant and Alice doesn't 
         exist. Don't everybody thank me at once. ;D No, I 
         didn't have a problem with the pregnancy arc, I just 
         hate trying to work it into my stories. And to the 
         Alice fans out there (both of you), I just want to say 
         that I don't in any way hate her, but let's be honest 
         here: she was never anything more than a plot device.

         Other than that, any characters outside of Mulder, 
         Scully, Vaughn and Sydney don't play a part in this 
         fic, so whether they exist or not...well, I'll leave 
         that up to your imagination. ;)



Intoxicated
By Diandra Hollman 


I met him in a bar. We were both fairly sloshed by the time we 
even started talking to each other. That's the only way I can 
explain what happened; we were drunk.

We talked about work mostly, although neither of us really 
specified exactly *what* it is we do other than we both work 
for the government and hey, what a coincidence. Let's drink to 
that! We focused more on talking about the people we work with 
and the dangers of a government job. We admitted that we have 
both come closer to death more times than we would care to 
remember.

"We must have some seriously overworked guardian angels," I 
joked.

He grinned stupidly at that. "Yeah," he agreed. 

After a few more drinks I admitted that I had actually *died* a 
couple of times and had been *buried* for three months. 
Thankfully, he was too plastered to tell me I was a few bolts 
shy of a Volkswagen and anybody who may have overheard probably 
assumed I was too drunk to know what I was saying and therefore 
I shouldn't be taken seriously.

At closing time we staggered out the door and into a cab that 
seemed to appear out of nowhere. I don't remember who gave 
directions to the driver, but as luck would have it we both 
happened to be staying at the same hotel anyway.

During the ride we somehow gravitated closer to one another 
until my hand ended up in his lap. The next thing I knew, our 
tongues were wrestling each other for dominance.

His hand grabbed mine and pressed it boldly to the growing 
hardness that strained against the front of his slacks.

I somehow managed to find my hotel room and pulled him inside 
by his tie - which, I noticed, was almost as hideous as my own.

What happened after that was a blur of events that neither one 
of us will ever willingly tell another living being. 

I remember the awkwardness with which we removed each other's 
clothes - often choosing to simply tear the material when 
buttons proved too difficult for our alcohol-induced lack of 
complex motor functioning. I remember vaguely wondering how the 
alcohol hadn't rendered us both impotent.

Mostly, I remember the feel of his body beneath mine, 
surrounding me. I remember the sounds he made and the way his 
legs wrapped around my waist, his hands clawing at my back as 
my hips rocked against his. I remember both of us moaning 
half-coherent encouragements that mostly consisted of how good 
it felt and pleas to keep doing it.

I remember the way his eyes rolled back in his head as he came 
with a sigh and a quiet moan. Control. Something I was 
apparently lacking when I came shortly afterwards with a 
triumphant shout that could likely have woken the dead. I also 
remember thinking that I should get off of him before I crushed 
him to death, but I passed out before I had the chance to 
actually attempt it.

I woke up the next morning when an arm slammed into my chest. 

Normally I would have jumped out of bed and reached for my gun, 
but I didn't have the energy to do anything more than moan 
pathetically as I was rewarded for my return to consciousness 
with a deep throbbing in my skull.

I shoved the offending arm aside and crawled out of bed to get 
an aspirin from my suitcase - silently thanking Scully for 
always insisting I bring some with me just in case.

I managed to drag myself back to the bed and, lacking the 
energy to actually get into it, slumped on the floor beside it 
and propped myself against the hard metal frame, waiting for 
the elephants tap dancing in my head to take an intermission.

When the pounding finally began to ease, I tried to remember 
where I was and what had happened the night before. I almost 
forgot about the owner of the arm that had rudely awakened me 
until I heard a groan.

My alcohol-and-sleep fuzzed mind scrambled frantically to 
remember who the hell this person was and what the hell they 
were doing in my bed. And when I finally remembered, I 
immediately wanted to forget again.

What the hell had I done? 

I suddenly became aware of an uncomfortable stickiness on my 
skin in the places where the sweat - among other things - had 
dried. 

I don't think I've ever taken a shower and gotten dressed so 
quickly in my life.

As I was standing in front of the dresser mirror, trying to 
straighten my tie, I heard another moan from the bed where he 
was still sound asleep.

"Sydney," he mumbled.

I briefly debated leaving before he woke up - allowing at least 
one of us to forget that anything happened the night before. 
But I knew he would remember when he tried to figure out why he 
was in somebody else's hotel room.

I filled a glass with water in the bathroom and shook two more 
pills out of the aspirin bottle. Then I sat on the edge of the 
bed closest to him and just looked at him, thinking.

My first thought was that I could have done worse. He could 
have been an ugly, middle-aged, pot-bellied truck driver named 
Phil. Considering how many drinks I'd had, I wouldn't have been 
surprised. But this guy had to be at least five years younger 
than me and he was probably in better shape than I was; a fact 
that I found mildly irritating since I remembered him telling 
me that his is mostly a desk job.

He was a pretty good-looking guy. From certain angles, his nose 
looked slightly too big for his face, but I'm probably one of 
the last people who should pass judgment on that issue. Of 
course, I really don't know much about what is and isn't 
attractive in a man. I *am* straight, despite the evidence to 
the contrary that was literally laying in front of me that 
morning. 

At least I'm reasonably certain that I am.

I knew the exact moment he woke up. He rolled over onto his 
side and went completely still. Then his body stiffened, his 
forehead becoming a veritable maze of creases, and he moaned 
miserably. 

"Here," I said softly, unclenching his hand and pressing the 
pills into it. "Take these."

I knew that he carried a gun. And if he weren't so hung over I 
would probably have been on the business end of it at that 
moment. But his trained instincts were failing him just as my 
own instincts had failed me earlier and he was in too much pain 
to give a shit.

"You don't have to yell," he grumbled hoarsely. 

I held the water in front of him, waiting for him to take it. 
He didn't. Instead he buried his face deeper into the pillow 
and moaned again.

"Come on," I coaxed, tapping the water glass against his hand. 
"They'll make you feel better." 

He grumbled in annoyance and raised his head long enough to 
swallow the pills with a good share of the water.

A minute later he was kneeling on the bathroom floor, emptying 
the contents of his stomach - which didn't amount to much 
aside from the pills I had just forced him to take - into the 
toilet.

I followed him, ignoring the fact that he was still naked. I 
soaked a washcloth with cold water and handed it to him. He 
mumbled an acceptance and sat silently pressing it to his 
forehead, his elbows resting on the toilet seat.

"Why," he finally slurred.

"Why what," I asked softly, still mindful of his overly 
sensitive hearing.

He shook his head slowly, wincing at the pain the movement 
caused and muttered something that sounded like "nothing."

I retrieved another pair of aspirin and offered them to him. He 
shot me a baleful look. I raised my eyebrows innocently. We 
stared at each other for several moments until he finally gave 
in and took them from me reluctantly. 

"Slower this time," I advised as I handed him the glass of 
water. He took a couple of sips and handed it back. 

"You okay now," I asked.

He waved his hand vaguely in my direction and buried his face 
in the washcloth. I shrugged and returned to the bedroom to 
re-pack my suitcase.

I was nearly finished by the time he came out of the bathroom. 
I watched him dress out of the corner of my eye. He looked 
amazingly stable considering his stomach had been trying to 
eject itself from his body only minutes before. 

When he was mostly clothed, he sighed heavily and slumped on 
the bed, then yelped and shifted his weight onto one hip, 
propping himself up on his arm. I winced as I realized the 
cause of his discomfort and that I was the one who had 
inflicted it.

I turned to face him warily. We stared at each other for a 
long, uncomfortable silence, each of us trying to read the 
other's thoughts. I saw the same question in his eyes that I 
was sure he could see in mine: how did this happen and what do 
we do now?

"Look," I finally said. "About last night..." I'm sorry, I 
never meant for this to happen was what I was going to say, 
but I never got the chance.

"Let's get one thing clear," he interrupted. "*Nothing* 
happened last night; none of this. As far as I'm concerned, we 
never even met." He fixed me with an intense stare that 
suggested he was used to giving orders, but not necessarily 
used to people to actually *following* them. "Understood?"

I wanted to argue with him. I wanted to tell him that hey, he 
certainly didn't have to worry about me telling everybody I 
knew about what had happened. I was having a hard enough time 
admitting it to *myself*. Or maybe I just wanted to argue for 
the sake of arguing. My pride didn't take too kindly to taking 
orders from a kid who, as far as I knew, was not even an FBI 
agent, much less my superior. But he had a gun and from the 
look in his eye, it was in my best interests to not piss him 
off. 

So I decided to change the subject.

"Who's Sydney," I asked.

He stiffened, his jaw tightening. "What do you mean?" 

I got the distinct impression that if I gave him the wrong 
answer I would end up looking down the barrel of his gun after 
all. 

I raised my hands innocently. "You were talking in your sleep. 
I was just curious," I said defensively.

His eyes narrowed. "What did I say?"

"That's all," I assured him. "Just 'Sydney'."

He stared at me a while longer, as if he were trying to read my 
intentions. Upon finding nothing suspicious, he dropped his 
gaze. He stared at his forgotten tie, which was crushed in his 
hand and tried to smooth out the wrinkles with his fingers. 

"She's a co-worker," he mumbled absently. He fussed with the 
tie for another moment while I waited for him to continue. 
Instead, he changed the subject again.

"Who's Scully," he asked, looking back up at me. I raised my 
eyebrows in surprise. "You said her name last night when..." He 
faltered. "Right after you fell asleep." 

I figured he was too embarrassed to tell me that I said it when 
he rolled me off of him so he could breathe. 

"A co-worker," I said, mimicking his own vague answer.

He rolled his eyes, his lips curling into an ironic smile, and 
went back to smoothing out his tie.

There was another awkward pause before I continued. "Sydney's 
more than just a co-worker, isn't she?"

"What makes you say that," he asked, giving up on his tie and 
stuffing it into the pocket of his suit jacket, which was lying 
on the bed beside him.

"Lucky guess."

He gave me an odd look. "Yeah, I suppose she is."

"Have you told her?"

"Told her what," he asked innocently. At least he was trying 
for "innocent", but I could tell he was just playing dumb.

"Told her that you think of her as more than just a 
co-worker...a friend. That you think you may be in love with 
her."

He gave me a crooked grin. "That's a pretty big assumption, 
Agent Mulder." 

I shrugged. "It just seemed to me like..." I frowned as I 
realized what it was he had just let slip. "Wait, how do you 
know my name?"

He blinked. "You told me last night."

I cocked my head at him and squinted to indicate that I knew he 
was lying. "No, I didn't. I may have been drunk, but I'm sure I 
would have remembered that."

He seemed to try to think of a way around telling me the truth 
before deciding it was not worth the effort. He sighed. 

"All right. I saw it on the credit card you gave the 
bartender," he admitted. "It's a force of habit, I guess. I 
didn't see the first name, but I remember you *did* tell me you 
work for the government."

"As did you," I mused. "And judging by this conversation I 
would guess that you work in Intelligence."

He shook his head and laughed dryly. "And now you know why I'm 
not a field agent." 

I walked over to the bed and extended my hand. "Special Agent 
Fox Mulder, FBI."

He winced at my first name and said "Wow."

I smiled. "Now you know why I would have remembered telling 
you."

He took my pro-offered hand in a firm grip and said "Agent 
Michael Vaughn, CIA. I would say it's nice to meet you, but I 
think that ship has already sailed." I smirked. "And I suppose 
Agent Scully is more than just a co-worker as well?"

I blew out a breath and sat down next to him on the bed. "I 
guess you could say that. It's complicated." 

He gave me a humorless, bark of a laugh, as if to say 'I'll 
bet!'

"She's probably the only person I can trust. We've been 
through a lot together. I don't know what I would do without 
her."

"But you're not sure if she feels the same way," he finished.

"Yeah," I agreed. "And even if she did..."

"It's too complicated."

I smiled at him. "We may have more in common than we thought."

He chuffed. "Only if Scully's mother murdered your father and 
you can't ever be seen with her in public or you could both be 
killed."

I flinched. "Well, no...we're partners, so we're pretty much 
expected to be seen together in public. And her mother didn't 
kill my father, but Scully did shoot me to keep me from killing 
the man who did."

His eyes widened in surprise. "Wow. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. You didn't know," I dismissed. "Besides, that was 
a long time ago. We've moved on."

"How long have you two been partners," he asked. 

"Eight years," I said proudly. Vaughn got a look on his face 
that suggested he was imagining being in a perpetual state of 
unrequited...whatever it is for that long.

"How about you and Sydney," I asked.

"This is our second year."

My lips twitched as I tried not to laugh.

"What," he asked, trying to sound wounded even though I could 
tell he was holding back a smile.

"Rookie," I teased. He elbowed me lightly. 

"How can you stand it," he asked, becoming serious again. "How 
can you go on that long without doing something?"

I leaned my elbows on my knees and rubbed a hand over my face 
as I debated his question - a question I had actually asked 
myself more than once. 

"Honestly? I have no idea. I guess I keep hoping Scully will 
make the first move." I looked down at my hands where they were 
clasped together in front of me. "I guess I'm too much of a 
coward to do it myself," I admitted.

"I can't believe you would wait *eight* years just because 
neither one of you was willing to make the first move."

I shrugged. "It took me a while to trust her at first. She was 
basically sent to spy on me. Give the FBI a reason to shut me 
down."

He frowned. "Shut you down?"

Here we go...

"I work in the X-Files division. We deal with paranormal 
phenomena. They assigned Scully to work with me based on the 
theory that, with her scientific background, she would find 
logical explanations for all of our cases."

"I didn't know the FBI had a division for that," he said 
warily.

"That's because we're like the long lost cousin that nobody 
talks about. Our office is in the basement, which hardly ever 
gets any visitors. We usually get sent on cases that nobody 
else has been able to solve. They only send us in after they've 
exhausted every other option."

I watched Vaughn's reaction to my story, trying to determine 
how much I could say before he thought I was as crazy as 
everybody else did. He seemed to be taking it in stride so far, 
so I decided to keep going.

"We have discovered evidence of a massive government conspiracy 
to keep people from knowing the truth about extraterrestrial 
life when they have, in fact, formed an alliance with these 
aliens in the hopes of saving their own hides when the aliens 
finally colonize Earth. If we can prove it, hopefully we can 
stop it."

Get to the point, Spooky. Get to the point!

"But I'm sure you know how the government feels about partners 
dating each other. If the FBI found out they would split us up, 
and as much as I didn't trust Scully at first, I'm not sure I 
can do this without her." 

There was a lengthy silence before he spoke. 

"I'm guessing I'm not the first person to say this, but...you 
do realize how crazy that sounded, right?"

I laughed. "You probably won't be the last to say it either."

He shook his head, his expression either showing amazement or 
disbelief that I wasn't in a straight-jacket and surrounded by 
padded walls.

"What about you and Sydney," I asked. "Why haven't you told her 
yet? Or are you hoping she'll beat you to it?"

"I'm not afraid to be the one to make the first move," he said 
softly. "And while I don't know what I would do if she told me 
she doesn't feel the same way, that's not what's holding me 
back."

I sat up and turned slightly to face him, silently encouraging 
him to open up a bit. He seemed to debate with himself for a 
moment. Then he took a deep breath.

"She's not just a CIA agent," he began. "She works undercover 
for another agency - a sort of rogue agency that poses as a 
top secret division of the CIA, but is actually part of an 
international organized crime ring. She provides us with 
valuable inside information on this agency that we hope will 
eventually lead to its destruction."

He paused. "If that agency were to find out that we know each 
other, if they found out that she had connections to the CIA, 
they wouldn't hesitate to kill both of us - and probably 
everybody close to us."

Somehow I managed to keep my jaw from crashing into my knees. 
I'm not sure what I had expected him to say, but it wasn't 
*that*.

"Wow," I finally choked out. Okay, I guess it sounded more like 
a pathetic squeak. I cleared my throat and said, "you win."

He smiled sadly. "Now you know why I didn't say anything 
before."

I frowned, my brain still scrambling to process everything. 
"What made you change your mind," I asked.

He shifted uncomfortably. "Well, for one thing, I can't imagine 
any agency that would send somebody to do *this* just to find 
out what I know."

Translation: they wouldn't send somebody to sleep with the 
person they're trying to squeeze for information, or if they 
did they would at least have sent a woman.

"Not to mention," he continued. "Coming up with a cover story 
like *that* and an alias like 'Fox'."

Translation: you're too crazy to be a fake.

Pause.

"So what is this really about," he asked tentatively.

"What do you mean," I asked, confused. 

He shifted, wincing slightly. "Do you usually go to bars to 
pick up guys?"

I laughed. "No! No, actually, until today I would have said 
that anybody who suggested that I was anything other than 
straight was blind."

"And now," he asked softly.

Our eyes met and I could see a mixture of anticipation and 
dread in his gaze, even though the rest of his face remained 
blank.

I had the sudden taunting memory of his tongue laving my ear, 
pausing with a soft whimper as my fingers stretched him in 
preparation...

"I think we were both in desperate need of human affection," I 
finally said. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the psychologist is 
back! "Rather than risk a potentially - or in your case 
mortally - dangerous relationship we were looking for an 
alternative." The look on his face told me he wasn't buying it.

"Then why didn't we find women that remind us of Sydney or 
Scully," he argued.

"I don't think either one of us planned *this*." I waved my 
hand in the general direction of the bed we were sitting on. 
"It's obvious that we have a lot in common. I think we were 
drawn to each other because we both saw a person who could 
sympathize with our situation - someone we could talk to. The 
alcohol did the rest."

Vaughn's lips twitched briefly. His voice lowered, its tone 
almost hesitant. "Are you sure it was *just* the alcohol?"

Instead of answering I leaned over, grabbed him by the chin, 
and kissed him. 

This had made sense to me at the time. If I was right, then 
neither one of us would derive anything from it. It would be 
like kissing your cousin or something - completely platonic.

It almost worked.

He twitched violently, startled, but didn't say anything. In 
fact his mouth remained firmly closed. The problem came when I 
found myself inexplicably reluctant to stop - couldn't bring 
myself to pull away. And he wasn't making any move to help me. 
Instead, he did the last thing I would have expected him to do. 
He kissed me back. His formerly rigid posture just melted away 
and he leaned closer and opened his mouth for my tongue.

A little voice in the back of my head screamed at me to stop, 
retreat, apologize... but for some reason I just couldn't do 
it. His lips were warm, soft and dangerously inviting. 

My hands, which were suddenly moving without my permission, 
reached up to cup the back of his neck, cradling his head. His 
hands started to mirror the gesture, but stopped hesitantly 
before they settled on my chest. I half expected him to push me 
away, but instead he just clutched the fabric at the front of 
my shirt in his fists.

I think the need for air is what finally forced us apart, 
although I would like to imagine that we came to our senses. 
Either way, we sat frozen for what felt like a half an hour 
(though it was probably only a few seconds), our faces no more 
than two inches apart, just staring at each other. 

I could feel his breath on my face; soft, panting gasps. I 
didn't have to be a doctor to guess that if I shifted my hand 
slightly to feel the pulse point in his neck I would discover 
that his heart was racing.

Even though his hands were still clenching my shirt, I could 
tell by the look in his eyes that his mind was most likely 
working frantically to erase those last few moments from 
memory so he could pretend that it never happened. Although it 
could have just been shocked confusion.

Either way, he apparently decided that resistance was futile 
because the next thing I knew his hands were gripping my hair 
almost painfully and his tongue was in my mouth.

By the time I came to my senses, I found myself hovering over 
a prostrate Vaughn with my hands roaming underneath his shirt, 
which I had apparently untucked from his pants at some point. 
I pulled back when I felt him wince. I frowned in confusion, 
utterly lust-stupid. Then I saw it; the thin line of bruising 
underneath his bottom lip where the delicate skin had nearly 
been broken and another memory of the night before came 
flooding into my mind...


//I heard him gasp as I aligned myself against his opening, 
pushing forward just slightly, cautiously. His hands clutched 
at the sheets as he closed his eyes, trying to control his 
breathing and force his muscles to relax. My suspicions were 
confirmed - he was what you could call a "backdoor virgin"; 
completely unfamiliar with the things that happened between 
two men in the bedroom.

I hesitated for a moment, searching my alcohol-soaked mind for 
a way to reduce his discomfort. I finally decided that it was 
like removing a Band-Aid - the quicker the better. So I 
snapped my hips forward, burying myself to the hilt with one 
smooth thrust. 

He stiffened, a soft, strangled sound coming from deep in his 
throat even as he clamped his bottom lip tightly between his 
teeth to keep from crying out at the sudden pain. 

I was impressed. I remember I screamed bloody murder and nearly 
passed out my first time. Yes, I had had other homosexual 
encounters in the past and no, it's none of your damn business. 
Desk job my ass - this man had been trained to withstand 
torture even while under the influence of a mind-altering 
substance.

I massaged the back of his neck with one hand - the other 
gripping his hip to prevent him from pulling away - and 
murmured in his ear until I felt him start to relax. I rocked 
my hips slightly and he flinched. 

"Don't move," he pleaded, his words slurring only a little.

I ignored him and tilted my hips upwards. He gasped, his back 
arched and his eyes glazed over with the intoxicating mixture 
of pain and pleasure. I encouraged him to wrap his legs around 
me, slipping just a little bit deeper...//


I leaped off the bed and away from Vaughn. Unfortunately, I 
had nowhere to go. I paced the floor in front of the bed 
restlessly, trying to think of an excuse, an apology, something 
that I could say to make up for what had happened. Vaughn just 
lay motionless on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling.

"Damnit," I muttered under my breath. "I'm sorry. I don't know 
what I was thinking."

He didn't move and he didn't respond. The silence was doing 
absolutely nothing to calm my nerves. I wondered if I should 
just leave and avoid any further embarrassment, but remembered 
that it was *my* hotel room we were in. 

I was relieved when he finally spoke, his voice bland - as if 
he were simply reporting the weather. "Was that a yes or a 
no?" Smart-ass.

"I...ah..." I stammered. Then, I turned and ducked into the 
bathroom before I could say anything else. Yes, I know...
classic avoidance behavior, but frankly, I wasn't sure I 
wanted to think about the answer to his question. I needed a 
couple of minutes to compose myself. I also had the strange, 
sudden urge to empty my bladder.

By the time I returned, Vaughn had put his suit coat back on 
and was standing awkwardly next to the bed. We stood in 
uncomfortable silence for a few seconds, staring at each other 
and yet managing to avoid eye contact, before either of us 
attempted to speak. Unfortunately, we both attempted to do so 
at the same time.

"I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"I think I'll just-"

He laughed nervously and looked at his shoes.

I tried again, hesitantly. "You should probably get going. 
Check out time is at eleven."

His head came up - his eyes finally meeting mine again - and 
squinted at me. This unnerved me even further. As if he could 
look right through me and see all the thoughts and desires I 
had repressed - all the doubts I now had that stemmed directly 
from that one still-unanswered question. Then a strange look 
that I couldn't decipher came over his face. He nodded. 

There was another lengthy pause before he stepped toward me and 
held out his hand, saying, "Well, it was nice meeting you, 
Agent Mulder."

I tamped down on the urge to say something sarcastic and said, 
"Likewise, Agent Vaughn," as I accepted his handshake.

I froze as I felt something press into my hand and realized 
that he had 'palmed' something to me. Damn, he was good at 
that...any casual observer would never have suspected a thing.

I looked at him questioningly. His face remained neutral, but 
his eyes spoke very clearly. 'Don't say anything,' they said 
rather firmly.

I didn't. And when Vaughn let go I just closed my hand around 
the object and returned it to my side without looking at it. I 
nodded and his lips turned up briefly in an almost 
imperceptible smile. 

Then he turned and walked out of the room, giving me one last 
hesitant look before closing the door softly behind him.

I stood in the middle of my empty hotel room for a while, 
thinking. Wondering what the hell just happened. I was almost 
afraid to look at the thing in my hand - which I now recognized 
as a piece of paper - although I wasn't sure why. I turned it 
over in my hand a couple of times and debated just slipping it 
into my pocket and forgetting about it for the time being or 
possibly throwing it away without even looking at it and 
pretending it had never existed.

In the end, curiosity won out - morbid though it may have been. 
I brought my hand in front of me, slowly uncurling my fingers 
to reveal the small slip of paper that had been folded neatly 
in half. I unfolded it warily...and my breath caught in my 
throat as I read what I could only assume was Vaughn's hasty 
scrawl.

555-1347 
V

My eyes flew to the door, almost as if I expected him to walk 
back through it at any moment. When he didn't, I looked back 
at the note uncertainly. What the hell did this mean? Why?

After I recovered a bit from my initial shock (about twenty 
minutes later), I set the piece of paper down on the dresser 
and finished getting ready to leave. As I was heading out the 
door, I paused to look at it again. 

I wasn't sure what it would mean - what the consequences 
were - if I chose to keep it. Would it suggest something about 
me? Would I be acknowledging some...unconscious desire that I 
wasn't ready to admit to having? But at the same time, I 
couldn't just *leave* it sitting there.

I picked it up and stared at it for a while longer, as though, 
if I waited long enough, the answer would come to me. 

Christ, Mulder, it's just a piece of paper. Get over it.

And with that thought, I stuffed it quickly in my pocket - 
right alongside my wallet - picked up my suitcase and left the 
room.


THE END


Author's end notes: And before anybody sends me snippy messages 
saying something like "Mulder/Vaughn would never cheat on 
Scully/Sydney!" I would like to say - in advance - I KNOW!!!! 
But so what? That's the beauty of fanfiction! You can do 
whatever you want! ;D

That being said, feedback would be greatly appreciated! :D Just 
send it to the e-mail addy in the header.