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Byers looks up from his computer. “Did you guys hear about the sonic weapon experiments in Tallahassee?”
“That’s old news,” Frohike says. “They’ve moved on to mind control through antenna waves.” He doesn’t take his eyes off the articles for the magazine laid out in front of him. “Say, do you guys think we should put the story about scopolamine in the Albuquerque water supply or New Zealand crop circles as the headline?”
“Crop circles,” Langly says from behind a comic book. “Better visual.”
“Scopolamine,” Byers insists. “Crop circles are just pranks by bored farmers. That’s not what our publication is about.”
“But it will sell more copies,” Langly counters.
Byers decides against arguing the point. Increasing marketability to get their message to more people is a long-standing debate. “I see you got the latest issue of Danger Girl finally,” he says.
“Last one at the shop.” Langly grins. “I had to wrestle it from Kilt Guy.”
“Are you still convinced that place is being surveilled?” Byers asks in a long-suffering voice.
“The…unsavory character from last time wasn’t there,” Langly admits.
“At least one unsavory character was there,” Frohike pipes up. Byers smiles to himself and Langly glares.
“I’m telling you. There was a fed in there, and he was looking real uncomfortable.”
“Maybe he just doesn’t like eau de nerd,” Frohike suggests, taking an X-acto knife to the crop circles article.
“That place does have a certain ripe odor,” Byers agrees.
“The owner is convinced they’re being bugged at the store,” Langly presses. “He told me he found a mic in the X-Men display.”
“Did he show it to you?” Byers asks.
“No,” Langly admits.
“Then how do you know it’s actually a mic? It could have been anything.”
Frohike chimes in, “Why would the feds possibly have any interest in that store? They want to hear some guys with Cheetos dust on their fingers argue about whether Babylon 5 or Enterprise is superior?”
“Deep Space 9 is—“ Langly begins.
“No,” Frohike and Byers groan in unison.
Byers says, “Unless that place is a money-laundering front, which frankly wouldn’t surprise me, I’m sure the feds have better things to do.”
“At least one of them does,” Frohike muses. “Mulder was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago.”
Byers checks his watch. “You’re right.”
“He’s probably distracted by his chick,” Langly says.
“Who, Scully?” Byers scoffs.
“You just wanna win that bet,” Frohike says.
Langly sets his comic down on his lap. “Damn right I do. Haven’t you noticed that he never sees us on weekends anymore when he’s not on a case? He seems happier, too. I’m telling you, he’s sleeping with Scully and you both better be prepared to cough up the dough.”
“Maybe he’s happier because he doesn’t have to see your mug all the time.” Frohike pinches his nose as he studies the magazine layout.
“Very funny.”
“He could be seeing someone else,” Byers suggests. “It’s not like he’s hurting for options.”
Frohike and Langly both look at him incredulously.
“Whatever. I’m starving.” As if on cue, Langly’s stomach grumbles.
“Don’t tell me you skipped lunch to make room for all-you-can-eat sushi,” Frohike says. “You’re not fit for polite company when you have low blood sugar.”
“Good thing I’m not around polite company.”
“He would tell us if he’s seeing Scully.” Frohike sounds vaguely miffed. “We’re his friends.”
“Not necessarily,” Byers says. “They have a vested interest in keeping this a secret. Bureau policy forbids fraternization between partners. Technically as the head of the department, Mulder has a lot more to lose.”
“He’s not her superior,” Langly says, finding the idea distasteful.
“Maybe not in practice,” Byers continues. “But on paper. And if anyone is out to get him, they could use that to bury him. And Agent Scully has her reputation to protect.” Byers had bet that they’d never find out one way or the other, but they haven’t yet decided on a timeframe.
“Her reputation is safe with us,” Frohike says firmly. “And she knows that.”
“He doesn’t think we’re going to rat him out to the pigs,” Langly says. “Maybe he just wants to keep it private for now. Secrecy is hot.”
“Oh, what do you know about secret relationships?”
Langly raises his eyebrows suggestively at Byers, who opens his mouth to respond before Frohike interrupts. “You two chuckleheads are missing the point. It’s not like him not to call.”
“Sure it is,” Byers says. “When he’s…” His eyes go wide.
“Shit.” Langly sits up straight, alarmed. “Let’s call him.”
Langly places a new tape in the deck as the other two men crowd behind him. He dials Mulder’s number by memory, and they silently count the number of rings on the speakerphone until they reach his voicemail.
“Mulder, it’s Langly. We haven’t left yet, but remember that you were supposed to meet us here at 7 to go for sushi tonight. So, uh, call us back. Okay?”
Langly looks at the guys to see if they want to add anything else and after an awkward silence, hangs up. They dial Mulder’s cell phone to find that it’s off.
“Maybe we should try Scully?” Frohike suggests.
“Good idea,” Byers agrees.
They try her home phone first and again get her voicemail. Her cell phone is also off.
They look at each other, none of them sure how worried they should be. Before they have a chance to formulate a plan, the phone rings.
Langly answers quickly, hitting the record button on instinct. “Lone Gunmen.”
“Hey, Langly,” Mulder says, slightly winded. “Got your message.”
Langly says, “Mulder, where are you? You were supposed to be here thirty minutes ago. I fas—“
Frohike elbows him in the ribs and he yelps.
“Sorry, guys,” Mulder says.
“What happened? Is everything alright?” Byers rushes in.
“I’m just—ah!” A yelp of pain comes from the other line.
“Are you hurt? Is someone hurting you?” Every inch of Frohike’s short frame puffs up.
“I’m fi—“
The phone crashes to the ground, followed by a thump.
The three men call his name. Just as they start to wonder if the line went dead, Mulder’s voice comes back. “Sorry about that. I’m just a little, uh, tied up right now.”
“What happened?”
“I got detained,” he says, distracted. “Don’t worry about me, okay? Sorry for ditching you like…a bad date. I’ll call you tomorrow. ” His words are choppy. They hear another gasp of apparent pain before the line goes dead.
“He didn’t use the code word,” Byers notes.
“Something was obviously happening to him.” Langly rewinds the tape on the recording back to the moment where the phone crashes to the ground. Thump. “You hear that?”
Frohike and Byers nod but wait for Langly to explain. He rewinds it one more time. When they still don’t understand what he’s getting at, he finds a wooden chair and sits in it. As the other two watch, he rocks the chair to the side and lets it thud back to the ground.
“What are you saying?” Frohike asks, though it sounds like he knows exactly what Langly is explaining.
Byers says, “He’s tied up on a chair.”
“And maybe being tortured,” Frohike continues for him.
“He said he was tied up,” says Byers.
“And mentioned being detained.”
“Why didn’t he use the code word, though?”
“Maybe it’s too obvious,” says Byers. “Whoever has him tied up would be able to tell that it was a code word because it’s not exactly inconspicuous to use ‘gyascutus’ in a sentence.”
“We had to choose something that wouldn’t be used regularly in conversation,” Frohike says defensively, having chosen the word himself.
“Well, whatever it is, we need to go over there and make sure he’s safe,” Byers states.
“And if he is, he’s buying us all sushi,” Langly concludes.
***
After taking the phone from its perch between his ear and shoulder, Mulder’s captor presses play on the stereo. A slow, silky Portishead beat fills the apartment again. The living room is lit blue from a sheer scarf thrown over a lamp, the glow of his fish tank completing the effect. City lights cut through thin slits in the Venetian blinds, striping the room and the beautiful face of his tormentor.
He rolls his head, his neck just starting to strain from the effort of keeping the phone in place with his current physical limitations. Instinctively, he squirms against his restraints. One of his neckties holds his wrists together behind the kitchen chair. Two other ties hold his ankles to the legs of the chair. The most garish ties from the back of his closet were selected, and he’s not sure if this had been on purpose. The knots are deftly tied, just tight enough to hold firm without cutting off his circulation. The wood, heated from his bare skin, digs into his body.
His captor sinks to her knees between his spread legs, returning to their previous activity from before—and during, if he’s being honest—the interruption of the phone call. He groans as a hot tongue slithers up the length of his shaft. His hands twitch, compelled by muscle memory to stroke her head. A lock of sleek hair falls forward to tickle his pelvis. She tucks it behind her ears. Without his customary assistance holding it back for her, the hair falls down again as she dips forward to take him into her mouth.
That mouth, god, that mouth. That mouth that has been used to surprise and comfort and frustrate him. He’s spent so much time staring at it, he’s certain he could render it from memory if he knew how to paint. The imperious yet sensual full upper lip, its almost imperceptible asymmetry making it somehow even more attractive. Her mouth has made regular cameos in his fantasies throughout the years, imagining her moaning and saying filthy things and, yes, sucking him off. The latter had made him feel the most guilty, like it was somehow worse to think of taking his pleasure from her while giving nothing in return, like this fantasy is somehow more degrading than the others without the confirmation that she enjoys that act (or would enjoy it with him). Not that those bubblings of conscience ever stopped him from indulging his imagination. Reality, it turns out, is even better than fantasy. She sucks his cock like there’s nothing else in the world she’d rather be doing, like she’s trying to surpass every blowjob he’s ever received.
The longer they’ve been sleeping together, the less their sex resembles those abiding fantasies. Discovering she’s kinky might go down as his greatest discovery on the job. He never assumed she’d be a prude, not like some people seem to extrapolate from her meticulous rigidity at work. He’s always sensed the animal in her, the heady pheromones radiating from beneath her tailored suits. And he knows her. Better than anyone, if he might say so himself. She’s more of an adrenaline junkie than she’ll ever admit. She’s fierce and passionate and just as likely to make a dick joke as she is to recite from a medical journal.
The sexual progression had been both gradual and all at once. It had started sensual, passionate, the kind of sex that reminds you that vanilla is a damn good flavor when done right.
Then one feverish night, they’re treating themselves to drinks after a long case. The pour is strong at the bar, and she’s loose-limbed and flushed, leaning against him in the booth. Her gin-roughened whisper is forever imprinted on his mind: “Sometimes it scares me, but I would let you do anything you want to me.”
He’s loosely holding her wrist on her leg, enjoying the casual intimacy he’s allowed now. On instinct, he tightens his grip. Her jaw slackens, her eyes get glassy, and she makes the sexiest little gasp. He increases the pressure and watches her gulp, press her thighs together. They can’t get back to the hotel quickly enough. This time, with her encouragement, he doesn’t hold back. She matches and encourages his primal intensity, and they peel back layers in each other’s sexualities in the process. From that night on, it seems everything is on the table for them to explore.
Ever the pragmatist, she finds props from her surroundings. She presents to him handcuffs, scarves, candles and ice cubes with the silent eagerness of a well-behaved dog bringing her owner a ball to throw. The first time she’d asked him to use his belt on her, he’d been apprehensive. But her writhing moans quickly confirm that whatever this is, it’s not violence. It makes her melt bonelessly in his arms in the aftermath, gives her this adorable dopey expression he’s never seen before. He catches her in front of the bathroom mirror, tracing her marks with a self-satisfied smile.
He loves everything they do together, but bondage is his favorite. When she’s bound beneath him, the walls she’s put between them sometimes—occasionally with his reinforcement—are broken down. She belongs to him, and she's giving herself to him completely.
When she asks him if she’d like him to return the favor, it takes him a moment to figure out what she means; their games almost feel like a favor she’s doing for him despite her obvious pleasure. But as soon as he understands, he accepts gladly. He’s curious how it feels on the other side of things, and he wants her to know that same thrill.
Turns out, he likes things just as much on the other side. Maybe it’s not accurate to say he likes bondage in a general sense. He likes being tied up by her. Being her toy, her plaything, a man at her mercy.
He will never get used to the way his cock looks between her lips and treats himself to a few slow thrusts that she easily accepts. The visual: obscene. The sensation: incomparable. He’s a damn lucky man.
“Are you close, baby?” she asks, replacing her mouth with a wet fist as she looks up at him. She teases him with her tongue as she waits for him to answer, momentarily delaying his speaking capabilities.
“Yeah,” he manages.
She snaps her hand back quickly, lifting her head. The corners of her lips turn up in a sinister smile. “Perfect,” she says. “I’ve got you just where I want you. Maybe now you’re ready to talk.”
She stands and circles him, trailing a finger across his chest and back. The clack of her heels on the hardwood floor punctuate the drumbeat on the stereo.
A shiver of ice runs up his spine as an unpleasant consideration runs through his mind. He tries to push it away, but it lodges in his brain like a song skipping. If he’s looking at a facsimile of Scully, it’s pretty perfect. The sprinkle of freckles along her collarbone, the faint smile lines around her eyes, the mole above her lip that she hides under makeup for some reason. Nothing she’s said so far has tripped his warning sense. It’s her, he tells himself. It has to be her.
But what if it hasn’t been, all this time? It’s not difficult to believe this is all too good to be true, that the real Scully couldn’t possibly want him this much.
Her brows knit together. “Are you okay?” she asks, stooping a little to gaze directly at him.
He starts to respond affirmatively but changes his mind. “Safe word.”
“You want to stop? Okay—“
“No.”
It takes her a moment before she realizes what he means. The confusion is understandable; they’d agreed on the traffic light system when they play their games. Red for stop, yellow for slow down. This is a different sort of precaution, born from their history of encountering shapeshifters.
“Isotope,” she tells him. “It’s me, Mulder.”
“Tell me something,” he says. He’s relieved, but he needs a little more to let this go. After all, isn’t it possible that they were being surveilled when they set up the safe word system?
She hikes her skirt to perch on his lap. The fabric rides up so he can see the top of her thigh highs and the straps that dig into her skin. She strokes his cheek with her fingertips. He can’t imagine this much tenderness and genuine concern coming from something wearing her face.
She says, “Your name is Fox William Mulder, but your mother would have called you Margaret if you were a girl. Then she met a Margaret that she couldn’t stand, which is why your sister was named Samantha. You hate cauliflower, and you always order a burger and fries if it’s available on the menu. You recently learned new uses for a hairbrush. When you were ten-years-old, you peed your pants at summer camp when—“
“Okay, okay.” He laughs. “That’s enough.”
“Do you want to keep going?”
He nods.
“With everything we talked about?”
He nods again, parting his lips as he lifts his head up to her. From her perch on his lap, she’s above him. A rare but enjoyable position considering he has almost a foot of height on her.
She takes the cue, leaning down to kiss him, pulling him closer with her palms cupping his face. The kiss is soft and sweet, quickly turning amorous as he opens his mouth to her, tasting her. He feels her muscles slacken against him. Then she grips his hair, pulling his head back roughly until his throat tightens, his breath going shallow. The pain in his scalp sends shimmers of pleasure through his body, making his cock twitch.
She trails a sharp fingernail down his chest. He can’t look down to see if she’s leaving a red line, but he hopes she marks him.
“Maybe now you’re ready to be a good boy and talk.” More fingers, more burning paths down his chest and thighs.
“What do you want to know?” he asks.
She has a question at the ready: “Your waterbed.”
With careful concentration, he hides his amusement. He doesn’t want to risk breaking the spell, or to think he’s making light of her jealousy, which he is convinced simmers under her curiosity.
“What about it?” he asks.
“To start, when did you get it?”
“You know, you don’t have to interrogate someone for questions they’d answer willingly.”
She pinches his nipple. “But it’s so much fun.”
He groans, the sound growing louder as she adds a sadistic twist.
The corners of her eyes crinkle. She’s fucking love this.
She twists harder until he responds.
“Ah! After Area 51.”
“Good boy,” she coos. “Why did you get it?”
“I didn’t.”
Her lips tighten. She twists his other nipple and he yelps. “It was just…there when I got back to my apartment.”
“You really expect me to believe that?” She narrows her eyes.
“No,” he says. “But it’s the truth.”
She releases a nipple, reaching down between his legs. She squeezes his balls until the hurt circles back to pleasure. He sucks air through his teeth. When he closes his eyes, the back of his eyelids dance with white light.
“You’ve got quite a grip there,” he gasps.
“That’s hardly news to you.”
Christ, he loves her cockiness.
“Did anyone else…enjoy this gift with you?” She arches a brow but swallows, undermining the domineering persona she wears.
“No,” he says quickly. “Unless you count solo activity.”
Her gaze is pointed and direct, obviously employing the lie-detecting skills she learned in the Academy. After a beat, she quips, “Under the mirror, no less. Narcissus himself would be impressed.”
She scrapes the tender skin on his sides. Her grip on his hair tightens, making his breath shallower. Four claws dig into his hips. He couldn’t be harder.
“You must have some idea who would have given it to you, if it just appeared in your room one day. Which I have a hard time believing, as I’m sure you understand. I think you’re hiding something.” She places her tongue between her teeth, considering.
“Gift from the Syndicate?” he offers. “Maybe Krycek felt bad about how we left things last time?”
She laughs, a light giggle that he wishes he could record for posterity.
“I’m sure Krycek would have enjoyed this particular interrogation technique with you.”
“Don’t give him any ideas.”
She draws her lips into her mouth like she’s trying to suppress a smile.
“How much does a waterbed cost, anyway? That must be an expensive gift for someone who wants no credit or has no plans to use it with you.”
His damp skin tugs at the back of the chair as he shrugs.
“No idea, but it’s gotta cost less than the apartment charged me. Not a great gift if I’m being honest.”
She makes an affirmative noise, then she leans down as if to kiss him. Instead, his cruel mistress takes his lower lip between her teeth, testing how far it will stretch. His cock aches from the lack of attention.
“I should have you gagged,” she says as she releases his lip, followed by a brief, chaste kiss. “It’s not like that pretty mouth is any use to me. Since you’re so adamant not to tell me the truth.”
Her hips sway more than usual as she walks to the kitchen. The brief abandonment heightens his awareness of his physical predicament. His pulse quickens, his exposed skin prickles with goosebumps. The binds feel tighter somehow, the wood slats on the back of the chair digging into his muscles with every quickened breath.
Scully returns with another kitchen chair and sets it down in front of him. Keep her eyes fixed on his, her expression inscrutable, she sits and opens her skirt. Her lap mostly in shadow, he can’t know for certain that she’s not wearing underwear, but the smell of her arousal fills his nostrils. Her movements are as deliberate and sultry as the music as she unclips one stocking from the garter and rolls it down her leg. Blue light on her pale skin gives her an unearthly glow.
“Last chance to talk,” she tells him as she peels the stocking from her foot and slips her shoe back on. She holds the stocking up as a warning.
He presses his lips together in answer.
“Very well.”
He’s almost painfully aroused as she strides behind the chair. He opens his mouth to welcome the invasion of the stocking. The fabric is softer than he’d expected and quickly soaks through with saliva. Is he tricking himself thinking that it smells like her? Her scent fills the apartment, her subtle floral perfume competing with the loamy fragrance of sex.
“Is that okay?” she whispers in his ear, her hot breath tickling him.
“Yesh,” he says through the gag, his speech muffled but not completely incomprehensible.
She reaches behind him to touch his wrists. “Any numbness?” she murmurs.
He indicates no, making a mental note to request a medical theme next time she gets a hankering to be on top.
A drop of pre-come leaks from the tip of his cock, growing cool in the air. If she doesn’t touch him soon, he feels they’re going to have a real medical situation on their hands.
She sits back on her chair to his great dismay. “What to do with you,” she muses out loud, lascivious eyes scanning his body from head to bound ankles. “What to do.”
She parts her legs, sliding her pumps along his hardwood floor. With the way she slouches and lifts her hips, he confirms that she’s completely bare under her skirt. He can see her wetness, hell, he can hear it as she slips two fingers inside herself. He salivates into the gag.
“I like you like this,” she says. Her voice has that husky cadence that betrays her arousal. “Bound and gagged and entirely at my mercy. Mine.”
“Yoursh,” he agrees through the hose.
“Maybe I should fuck you.” She says it like she’s considering which brand of shampoo to buy, and he feels the sting of her indifference in his cock’s pulse. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
He nods so hard he’s in danger of throwing out his neck.
“You want it so bad. I can tell. You’re desperate for me to ride your cock.”
He might cry if she doesn’t fuck him soon.
She tilts her head. “Do you think you deserve it?”
Definitely not. He shakes his head.
In a flash, she’s off her chair and straddling him again. She takes his chin firmly between her fingers and lands an open-handed slap on his cheek. The blow is tentative, much lighter than it needs to be. Sensing this, the next slap is a solid snap. The pain is exhilarating. For a moment, his mind goes spinning off into the stratosphere, his brain bathed in endorphins. When he falls back into his body and opens his eyes, she seems to shimmer like a desert mirage.
She gives his other cheek a matching slap. He grins as best he can through the gag, encouraging her to continue.
The beat of the song ripples through his body. His skin registers every subtle shift in the air. She’s radiant, like some kindly cruel goddess.
“I’m going to ask you again,” she says firmly. “Do you deserve it?” She slides forward on the chair until she’s rubbing against him, smearing evidence of her readiness against his thigh.
He shakes his head again. No one’s lucky enough to deserve the karmic reward that is her, least of all him.
Smack. Smack. Two powerful blows on each cheek. His skin burns. He feels like he’s melting into the chair. Everything is intensified: the delirious powerlessness from the restraints, the feeling of her thighs against his, one bare and one still stockinged. His heart seems to be beating exactly twice as fast as the beat of the music.
Finally, finally, she lifts her hips and sinks on his cock. They both release their breath in a shared sigh. He grits his teeth with the effort not to come right then and there, the grip of her tight inner walls pushing him toward the edge. When she starts to move, the sensation is almost unbearable.
Her composure slips as she loses herself in her pleasure, her still-clothed chest undulating in his direction. She unbuttons her blouse. He only has a moment to appreciate the navy lace bra before she lifts her breasts over the fabric, teasing her nipples with her fingers as her hips surge. He wishes she would remove the gag and lean toward him, but she doesn’t. She’s still teasing him.
He desperately misses the use of his hands, wanting to touch her skin, grip her hips as she rides him, smack her ass. Instead, he resigns himself to the visual, to the feel of her thighs against his, the slick heat enveloping him.
He rocks up against her, and her breasts brush against his chin as she falls forward. She lets him carry the rhythm now, meeting him with every thrust.
“You feel so good,” she says softly. Her fingers tangle in his hair, gently now, though he craves her rough tugging from earlier. She kisses his face—everywhere but his gagged mouth—as they move together. Faster, cresting, getting closer.
“You deserve this,” she repeats before landing another slap on his heated, tingling cheek. “Do you understand?”
Smack.
The second slap almost pushes him over the edge.
“We deserve this.” Her muted voice is barely audible over the music.
He wants to agree with her, but all he can do is moan into the gag.
The door crashes open, and yellow light from the hallway spills into the room. Haloed by the light are three silhouettes. Three familiar silhouettes of men that Mulder might have to kill as soon as he’s untied.
***
Five Minutes Earlier
“You guys have any cash?” Byers asks as the cab pulls to the curb in front of Hegal Place. The driver eyes them dubiously through the rearview mirror.
“I just have a hundred dollar bill,” Frohike says.
Langly says, “I didn’t bring anything. Frohike owes me dinner tonight.”
Byers sighs and hands the driver a twenty. The three men manage not to injure each other as they tumble out of the back seat with haste.
Knowing there’s no point in trying the locked front door, they slip into the unlit alley by Mulder’s apartment building. Wind sends a newspaper down the paved path like a tumbleweed. Graffiti overlays the brick walls, and trash litters the ground. Byers wrinkles his nose as he almost steps on a discarded pair of underwear.
“You guys really need to start bringing cab fare,” Byers says.
“How can you be concerned about money when Mulder’s in danger?” Frohike chastises.
“Might be in danger,” Byers corrects.
“Better be in danger if he’s standing us up like that,” Langly mutters sourly.
“Hey, don’t say that.” Frohike swats Langly on the back of the head. The taller man responds with an exaggerated expression of pain and offense.
Byers pulls the pepper spray from his pocket and holds it in his fist, his thumb on the safety trigger.
“After we rescue Mulder, we should see if that sushi place is still open,” Langly suggests.
Frohike looks up at him, owlish behind his glasses. “What do you think is going to happen? We’re not getting sushi after this.”
Langly groans.
“Next time, we gotta make sure baby gets a snack first,” Frohike says to Byers.
At the back entrance, they find the door with the lock that doesn’t trigger an alarm when it’s picked. Frohike pulls out his lock pick set and makes quick work of it; the lock has been violated many times before.
“The security in here is a joke,” Frohike says to himself. He starts to pull his revolver out of the breast pocket of his leather jacket.
“Put that back,” Byers hisses. “We can’t have Mulder’s neighbors seeing three guys who don’t live here barging in with a gun.”
Frohike acquiesces, keeping the gun in his pocket for quick draw. With his immobile right arm, his movements are stiff and obvious.
As they reach the elevator, they almost run into an older lady with a terrycloth bathrobe over floral pajamas and slippers. She holds her mail closer to her chest and eyes them from head to toe, like she’s committing to memory what she might have to tell the police later. They treat her to their most winning smiles.
“Just visiting a friend,” Langly says cheerfully.
Byers holds his hand with the pepper spray behind his back, clearly looking like he’s hiding something. Langly keeps his less-obvious weapon—the X-Acto knife he grabbed from the headquarters–by his side.
With a soft harrumph, the woman shakes her head and disappears into her apartment.
They all three bundle into the elevator, the door almost closing before a small hand pokes through, the door opening in response. A young girl joins them, setting her backpack down on the floor with a loud thump. She wears denim overalls over a pink t-shirt. Wisps of dark hair escape two neat pleats.
“Do you guys live here?” the girl asks.
“No,” Byers says.
“Why are you here?”
“We’re visiting a friend,” Frohike says warmly. He likes kids, and Langly and Byers enjoy teasing him about feeling comfortable with them as he’s closer to their height.
“Who is he?”
“He lives in 42,” Frohike explains, ignoring the glares of the other two men.
“We’re in 46,” she chirps. “My parents are always complaining about the guy in 42. They say all this bad stuff has happened in the building ever since he moved in. And they’ve been going on about the noise a lot lately. My dad’s all like, ‘He’s shameless.’” Her voice pitches down in an unflattering caricature of her father.
“That’s not an unfair characterization,” Byers says under his breath.
“Your friend seems nice to me,” she says with a shrug. “He always says ‘hi’ to me in the halls unless he’s in a really big rush. I think my dad is just jealous because my mom thinks he’s cute.”
“Your mom has good taste,” Langly jokes.
The elevator stops at the fourth floor, and they let the girl get off first, waiting a beat. She takes her time with the keys and turns to look at them. Knowing it would look weirder if they wait for her to get in the apartment, they step out of the elevator and walk down the hall to 42. She’s still having trouble with the keys when they get to Mulder’s apartment.
“You need help there?” Byers asks with apparent impatience.
“I got it,” she shoots back, clearly not appreciating his tone. She watches them with suspicion as they stand aimlessly in front of the door, not knocking. After she finally gets in her apartment, they hear her lock the deadbolt behind her.
“Maybe her dad has a point about the noise,” Frohike mutters as she shuts the door. A trip-hop beat under wailing vocals snakes out from under the door.
“Dummy,” says Langly.
“The dad?” Frohike asks.
“The album, dummy. Portishead.”
“What now?” Frohike pulls his gun back out and holds it to his side.
“Shh.” Byers stands with his ear to the door.
“You’d want to listen to music if you’re torturing someone in their own apartment. Mask the sound,” Frohike says quietly.
A distinct slapping noise can clearly be heard over the music.
“Not very well…” Byers notes.
Smack.
Frohike looks at the others, and they nod at him. With one powerful kick, he breaks down the door. The feat is not as impressive as it looks; the door has been kicked down so many times it’s barely hanging on to the frame.
Pumped with adrenaline, none of the men register the female-sounding yelp as the door swings open, crashing against the wall.
“Get away from him, you—“ Frohike shouts, brandishing his gun at the same time as Langly says, “Let him go.”
Byers just says, “Oh no.”
Scully straddles Mulder on a kitchen chair. Her eyes are huge, her Irish skin clearly displaying her previous arousal and current embarrassment. Pulling her blouse closed, she scrambles off her partner, nearly tipping the chair in the process. As she steps back, she reveals Mulder: gagged with pantyhose, completely naked, and erect. Very erect.
Langly tilts his head to the side, staring as if in a trance until he catches himself. Byers turns his back, muttering apologies toward the kitchen.
Scully keeps her back to the men as she hastily buttons up her blouse.
Frohike closes the door the best he can—it hangs from the hinges—and pointedly looks at the ceiling when he turns back around. “Sorry, man, we thought you were…”
Langly coughs. “Tied up.”
“You sounded distressed on the phone,” Byers supplies.
Mulder works his jaw until he spits the gag. “I was pretty un-distressed until the Three Stooges busted down my door. Scully, a little help here?”
She murmurs an apology and tosses his boxer briefs over his lap, where they land tented over his erection, almost more obscene than leaving him naked. She dips behind the chair to start untying the knots around his wrists, her fingers unsteady and fumbling.
“I know I make a pretty damsel-in-distress, but really, you shouldn’t have.” Mulder’s voice changes from playful to warning with his last words. He shakes his newly freed wrists. Scully crouches in the front of the chair to remove the tie from one ankle while he tries and fails to untie the other.
“You tie a wicked knot,” he tells her.
“You learn a thing or two about knot tying in a Navy family,” she mutters.
Once he’s finally free, he quickly slides on his boxers and jeans. “You can turn around, Byers. I’m decent now.” Addressing all three, he says, “You know, usually you have to pay good money for this kind of show.”
“Speaking of which,” Langly says to his companions.
“Not now,” Frohike and Byers say in unison.
“What?” Mulder asks curiously as he pulls his t-shirt on.
“We had a little bet going,” Langly admits.
“No we didn’t,” Byers contradicts quickly.
“Who won?” Mulder asks.
Langly sheepishly raises his hand.
“I thought you’d tell us.” Frohike sounds pained.
“Sorry, big guy.” Mulder pats his head, and Frohike swats his hand away. “What can I say? Some things are private. Or at least they should be.”
“We should go.” Byers’ face is even redder than Scully’s, who has since buttoned her blouse up to her neck.
“He’s right,” Frohike agrees. “Since Mulder doesn’t seem to be in any…danger.”
Scully crosses her arms. “So, let me get this straight,” she starts. Everyone turns to look at her. She draws herself up a little taller, as though defiantly choosing not to be ashamed.
She continues, “You thought Mulder was being tortured in his apartment and you three—armed with an antique revolver, a can of pepper spray and an X-Acto knife—would fight off an assailant who took down a 6-foot tall, trained FBI agent?” She tries and fails to suppress a closed-mouth smile.
Byers tells her, “We tried calling you first.”
“Do you even know how to use that thing?” Scully asks Frohike.
“Sure I do,” he says. “You aim and pull the trigger.”
“Uh huh…”
“I have a license,” Frohike protests. “It was my grandfather’s old gun.”
She holds out her hand, and he reluctantly gives it to her. She inspects the gun, pushing out the barrel and dropping the bullets into her palm, dropping them in the breast pocket of her blazer. “Smith & Wesson Model 10,” she notes. “It’s quite beautiful.” She hands the unloaded gun back to Frohike, who is relieved to get it back.
“I can’t condone your plan,” she says. “But that was noble of you.”
“Thank you,” Langly says with exaggerated sincerity.
“We really should be getting out of your hair now,” Byers says.
“Are you still planning on getting sushi?” she asks.
“We’d better be,” Langly grumbles.
“Why don’t we join you?” Scully suggests. All four mouths drop open. She shrugs. “We haven’t made dinner plans yet, and I could definitely go for some sushi now. Just give us 30 minutes to get ready.”
Frohike makes a lascivious face and gets a warning look from Mulder.
Scully ignores this. “Do you know where it is?” she asks Mulder.
He nods.
“Unless you want to take care of that door first,” she says.
Mulder shrugs. “Leave it. And don’t wait for us to order,” he tells the Gunmen.
“We wouldn’t dream of it,” Langly says cheerfully.
“More time for him to exploit the all-you-can-eat menu,” Byers explains.
The three men shift on their feet, the silence awkward.
Scully raises a single eyebrow at them. “Better hurry up. Otherwise, we might feel inclined to call the super and tell him three nut jobs kicked down an FBI agent’s door.”
Frohike lifts his hand in a salute before turning to leave. “ Yes ma’am.”