We All Die Virgins
By Jaime Lyn
* Disclaimer and other such information in chapter 1. Enjoy ;)
Early December 28th, 2001
4:30am, give or take.
Holiday Inn Express,
The door had been easy to open. Lily just stared at the lock, knocked three times on the wall, clapped her hands, and blew on the key--just like Kelsey had told her. And then when Lily put the key in the lock, the door opened right away. Lily didn’t know who had taught Kelsey that trick, nor did she care, but apparently it worked just as well in motels as it did in regular houses.
Lily smiled at her handiwork and closed the door behind herself, being careful not to make too much noise.
She gazed around the room, which was not much different from her own boring room: double bed with a paisely patterned comforter, a wooden desk and a wooden chair, a wooden dresser, two beige lamps, a television and a VCR, and a bathroom set against the far wall. A lap-top computer thingie sat unopened on the wooden desk, a wire jutting out from the far side and plugged into an outlet over the nightstand.
A suitcase lay opened on top of the bed—a set of navy blue pumps had been placed neatly on top, next to a folded pair of black slacks and a white blouse. Ah, the suitcase, Lily thought. Now THERE was where the real meat of blackmail could be found. Lily had, of course, watched numerous television shows on the subject of blackmail. She especially liked the one about all the rich people up in that mansion--what was it called again? Mrs. White, Professor Plum, Evette the maid...all of them being blackmailed.
Lily shrugged. "No matter," she said outloud.
Lily unfolded the slacks and gazed at them—size two. Dana Scully was a size two. Lily frowned and placed a hand at her hip, making sure that her fingers reached all the way around. Yes, she was still slender. But was she really THAT slender? Lily’s parents had never given her clothes with sizes on the labels, and Lily had no idea how this size compared to anything else. She set the slacks down and dug deeper into the suitcases. More blouses, a pair of silk pajamas, a few pairs of socks, several white bras, a few pairs of white underwear—boring, boring, boring. Another set of pumps—these pumps black, and…what was this? Lily reached down to the bottom of the bag and pulled out something small and silky. She held the item in front of her face: black underwear. High-cut, lacy, black underwear. Only one pair of them, too.
Lily gasped and turned the underwear over and over. She remembered a movie she had seen on TV once. That one blonde-haired girl in the movie had said that women never kept black silky underwear unless they expected to have someone else see them in it. Black underwear was personal. Black underwear symbolized the desire for sex in the American woman.
Lily swallowed and dropped the underwear back into the suitcase. Did Dana Scully really expect Fox Mulder to see her in her underwear? Surely, there was nobody else Dana Scully could want to sleep with. After all, they came here together, didn’t they? And wasn't that how this worked? The woman dragged the man to a secluded place and then she worked her womanly ways on him---right?
"No," Lily whispered to herself. "Oh Kelsey--Kelsey what do I do?"
But Kelsey wasn't there to answer her.
"Okay," said Lily, still staring at the offending underwear. "Think. Think think think."
This one girl on a Women’s Network movie—she had been locked away in a closet by an evil friend who proceeded to seduce the good girl's unsuspecting boyfriend. That horrible woman had black underwear just like this pair. Dana Scully and the evil woman; they both wore the same underwear. It was the worst possible thing Lily could ever have dreaded to find.
“Ugh,” said Lily, returning to the suitcase. “I knew it. I just knew it.”
Still Early December 28th,
Now close to 5am,
Right Outside the Holiday Inn Express,
"Mulder," said Scully. She squeezed her eyes shut as she rolled her ankle from side to side. A slight sting coursed up her calves into her knees. She blinked a few times to eradicate the pain and gazed up at Mulder. The agony in her ankle had dulled to little more than a slight throb. They only had five more feet to go. She could make it. She was positive she could. "I think I can walk the rest of the way."
Mulder shook his head. "I shouldn't have let you walk the first part of the way."
Scully grinned without really knowing why. She was tired already, so tired she thought she might fall asleep right there against Mulder's chest. He smelled like sweat and Head and Shoulders Shampoo: sweet, masculine, and inviting. Too inviting, really. She hated feeling dependent on anyone, especially Mulder--ESPECIALLY when he'd angered her to the point of confrontation earlier in the evening.
"I'm okay," said Scully.
"I know," said Mulder. "I just wouldn't want you waking up tomorrow and realizing you've really injured yourself. At least to the point where you're no good to me." He grinned. "Because you know it's all about me."
Scully groaned at that last part but could come up with nothing to say in response. Frankly, she was too exhausted to care, or to keep up any kind of good conversation.
Besides that, her brain felt tingly. Her imagination wandered and floated to more pleasant locations; one fantasy in particular that she'd harbored for what seemed like forever, but never dared mention to anyone. Scully smiled to herself and fought to keep her eyelids open; she was definitely losing the battle.
In her dreamscape, Scully awoke in the dead of night to find Mulder lying next to her. She would be gasping, panting, clingy with sweat that dripped down her breasts. It wouldn't be sex that provoked her, but rather a nightmare that had overtaken her, one she imagined she'd never wake from. But somehow, from the void of her deepest terror, Mulder was there to pull her back. In him, she found the strength, a reason to wake. That he would be just inches away if she opened her eyes; that knowledge was the catalyst for returning from the land of the wild things.
And when her breathing returned and slowed, when her equalibrium evened out, then she would lay back down next to Mulder, his chest bare and warm, his arms splayed across the sheets in peaceful sleep. In her fantasy, Scully drew comfort from watching Mulder sleep, from simply knowing he was there. She pushed his messy brown hair out of his eyes and unbuttoned her top to accomodate the hot summer evening. Then she lowered herself next to him, warm and content, her breasts exposed to the night and to him without reservation. Mulder would kiss every last inch of her, from her toes up to her eyelashes, the second he awoke. Scully knew this instinctively. His lips, his hands, his body dancing, pulsing, shaking slowly and gracefully above her... Making love didn't have to be that second, just...eventually. The anticipation left her tingling in places she rarely visited.
Scully hummed to herself, her irises fluttering back and forth beneath closed lids.
"Scully?" Mulder was mumbling something. "Hey--You still with me?"
Scully smiled dreamily, sighed to herself and slowly opened her eyes. Immediately, she frowned and twisted her head to regain her bearings. The cold air assaulted her quickly, penetrating her haze and her overcoat and making her shiver. Okay, so it definitely wasn't summer. That was one thing. And for another thing, she was most definitely horizontal, but not because she was lying down. What the hell? Third of all--
"I told you not to carry me," Scully protested, and she yawned despite herself.
"I know," whispered Mulder. He didn't put her down and Scully, despite her contrary position, refused to argue. She reflexively reached an arm around Mulder's neck and stretched a bit. She should have realized sooner that she was, without a doubt, not standing upright anymore. She couldn't have been that tired, could she?
Her cold, numb limbs quickly answered for her: Yes. It's almost morning, you dimwit.
And as a matter of fact, Scully couldn't even recall when Mulder picked her up--or why. Didn't she already tell him that she was fine? That she could walk? The motel room was only a few feet away, after all.
"You were slumping over," said Mulder, smiling down at her. He seemed to be rather amused by the whole thing.
Scully nodded sleepily, too tired to argue about why she was perfectly capable of walking on her own. Her hands met in a loosely intertwined fist around Mulder's neck. Nobody had carried her like this since her father used to put her to sleep when she was a little girl.
"My Dad used to carry my sister up to bed like this," said Mulder, as if he had read Scully's mind. Scully leaned her head comfortably against Mulder's chest and murmured that she'd heard. She listened to his heart beating, dreamt of warm sheets that smelled like lemon, and remembered her father, who smelled like the sea. Perhaps Mulder DID read her mind. Stranger things had happened, right?
Sure. Now she KNEW she was tired.
"Sam liked to draw her pictures in the living room before bed," Mulder went on. "She always said she wasn't tired, but we all knew better. Mom would go into the kitchen and make her tea to take upstairs . She and Dad read together every night. That was their...their time...together. So it was my job to come upstairs and tell my dad when Sam was starting to get droopy."
Scully sighed. "Droopy?" she asked.
Mulder stopped walking. Scully felt her back touch something hard and cool. They were flush against the door to her room now, Scully's right side pressed lightly against the concrete wall. The outdoor walkway kept in gusts of cold air, blew it onto their faces and whipped tendrils of wind through Scully's hair. She was cold and yet still warm all over. Cold on the outside and burning everywhere else. Mulder's face was close to hers. He smiled, and seemed to have no intention of putting her down. Ever.
"Droopy," whispered Mulder, his nose nearly touching her forehead. "Falling off your feet. Like you a few minutes ago."
"Ah," Scully whispered back. "The Oxford Dictionary's working definition."
Mulder chuckled. He closed his eyes for a moment. His nose touched her hairline, tickled her ear. He seemed to be...smelling her hair. Or smelling her neck. Or something.
Scully took a small breath. She was exposed and emotionally naked and so very tired...and she was sick of feeling like Mulder always had the upper hand--in all things.
But then again, she needed the desire, the undercurrent of desperation. Mulder gave that feeling to her as nobody else could. It lit something powerful in her blood, made her heart beat faster. It made her want to stay here, trapped in this moment forever with him.
Jesus. She wanted to bury herself in his chest. She wanted to sob at the unfairness of it all, at the irony of developing unprofessional feelings for the one person she would never, could never pursue a romantic entanglement with. She'd promised herself, sworn to herself that first year together that she would never cross the line with him. That things would never come to that point. Then she broke her own promise and re-swore it again after Mulder kissed her just a few hours earlier. Absolutely not, not under any circumstances, would Dana Scully lose control again. She refused...refused...
"My dad," Mulder went on, his nose once again at a proper distance from her forehead, "He told me once, when I asked him about Sam, he said...'Son, you're too big now to carry up the stairs.' But he also said I didn't remember him doing it--back when I was small and my mother went to bed early. He said he'd carry me up and watch me sleep. Said he watched me for hours at a time, just...sitting there. Watching me. So, I....I knew when he said that, that he was proud of me. Sometimes, I didn't always think so, Scully, but--" Mulder paused, sucked in a hard breath of oxygen, and then blew it out like a cloud.
Scully swallowed back a hard, large lump in her throat. She smiled sympathetically at Mulder, touched a cold palm to his cheek and let her fingers run down, down to the place where his sweatshirt met his neck. She knew that he was giving away a very precious part of himself by telling her this. Truthfully, she'd never known much about Mulder's childhood, not beyond what he'd told her about Samantha and the years of blame he'd heaped on himself over her disappearance. Mulder wasn't exactly an open person and he didn't give away much. But then again, neither did she. Neither of them enjoyed putting themselves on the line, leaving their souls bare for the other to see. Mulder disclosing something this intimate with her was like...well, it was like a verbal exchange between members of a secret club. It was tantamount to Mulder apologizing for not having spoken with her first about Lily's overnight stay at the motel.
"He was proud of you," said Scully, her voice low and throaty. She touched two fingers to his jaw, his cheeks, his eyelids. Mulder closed his eyes beneath her touch. Her heart pounded furiously. "He was your father," she whispered, echoing something he'd once said to her.
Mulder smiled as her fingers finally found his mouth. She traced the outline of his lower lip.
"I'm sorry," whispered Mulder.
Scully's brows furrowed at that; she gazed at him and frowned. This was, of course, a rather odd situation. Mulder had already made his symbolic apology; Scully recognized the affectionate gesture as soon as he had offered himself to her. It wasn't like Mulder to apologize twice, and so bluntly for that matter.
"For what?" she asked.
"For before," said Mulder. He shifted his weight and Scully remembered, for the first time in a few minutes since, that Mulder was still holding her a few feet above the ground, his arms tight beneath her legs and around her back.
"Before," echoed Scully, her fingers tracing patterns on Mulder's lips. He was talking about the kiss.
Mulder nodded, his head tilting forward. His neck bent far enough forward for Scully's knuckles to press against the side of her own face, with her palm still flush with Mulder's skin, his jawline. She let her hand drop slowly, imperceptibly between them. Her eyeslids raised and then lowered slowly. Ever so slowly. She felt drugged, hypnotized. "For then," he uttered, his nose brushing her cheek. "And for this."
"Oh," Scully managed, her hand around his neck. His mouth found her bottom lip, wet and hot and oh--
Scully's eyelids fluttered closed.
And everything else went away.
Lily Ann Harbor watchedthe whole sordid thing from the window of Scully's motel room, her eyes widened in absolute horror. Her fist clenched and her knees locked. Her breathing became ragged and she gritted her teeth in anger, unsure of what to do next or where to look for help.
Dana Scully--Dana Scully, that no-good, two-faced tramp. She had stolen Fox Mulder right out from underneath her. How dare that woman? How dare she just saunter in with her cutesy red hair and her blue eyes and her full red lips and seduce the one man Lily was meant to be with for all eternity?
Lily's lips trembled, her teeth chattered. It wasn't fair. Wasn't goddamned FAIR! Kelsey was right--Kelsey was always right. Lily WOULD die a virgin. Lily would die alone, miserable, and withering away in a cold, hard bed. Just like her parents did. Just like her mother did.
"No!" Lily shrieked it at the top of her lungs, yelled it from the pit of her stomach. "No!"
A crackle sizzled through the air. Lily sobbed harder.
At that moment, one of the outlets above the nightstand popped like a large balloon, then fizzled and snapped, and Lily jumped in terror. The prongs sparked: shards of light exploded from burnt, black holes with smoke and ash boomeranging in all directions. Lily gasped and fell to the floor, her sobs loud and monstrous and dripping into scartchy wool carpeting. The main light above her head groaned and popped, and then exploded in a million pieces, sending plastic and glass ricocheting off the walls and cascading around her head like a waterfall. Lily shielded her face with her hands and shrieked in horror. Something else popped and there was another explosion of light, and then a groan and a thud--like furniture being moved. Lily didn't look up. She pressed her hands to the top of her head and stayed down. As far down as she could go. She waited for the worst to be over.
And then she heard something else--the sound of a key frantically being turned in a lock. God. This was it. Either she was going to be murdered like her sister or else she was going to be caught like a thief.
The door hitting the wall--Lily recognized the slam, and then the creaking of wood that got bounced backwards.
"Holy shit," she heard Fox Mulder say. Followed quickly by, "Lily? Jesus. Are you alright?"
Lily didn't answer. She couldn't.
There was a long pause at that moment, and the smell of burnt rubber whirling through her nostrils.
"Mulder," she heard the evil Dana Scully say, the woman's tone dull and edgeless. "Are you seeing a glowing tower of inanimate objects piled up to the ceiling?"
"Yes," said Fox Mulder, equally monotone.
Lily finally looked up. Fox Mulder and Dana Scully stood in the doorway, Fox with his gun drawn at his side and Dana Scully leaning against the doorjamb, one foot hovering in the air like a puppy with a broken leg. Her gun was drawn as well. They were both stationary, both staring not at her, but at something else in the center of the room.
Lily frowned and wondered what could possibly be more troubling that the fact that she'd literally broken into the motel room of a law enforcement officer.
"Okay," said Dana Scully, who gazed expressionlessly at her partner, her eyes glassy. "I just wanted to make sure I wasn't the only one."
Fox Mulder nodded, but otherwise remained silent.
Lily shook her head and turned, curious.
Her hand flew over her mouth and she gasped, her shoulders shaking with sobs.
Surely, Fox Mulder and Dana Scully hadn't been joking. For there, in the center of the room, did indeed stand a single tower of furniture, women's clothing and electronics--just swaying, glowing and blinking like a flashlight built from the floor to the ceiling.
End Chapter 9