Sleep is Sweeter: Aftermath by M Partous

Sleep is Sweeter Aftermath cover

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Sleep is Sweeter: Aftermath by M Partous

Sleep is Sweeter Aftermath cover

Category: Mulder/Scully romance, humour

Rating: NC-17

Summary: Forget Jose Chung, fake alien autopsies and sweet potato pie. The real X-File? What actually happened in the motel room that night…


Ode to ‘Anne Haynes’: “Sleep is Sweeter” (Aftermath) NC-17

by M Partous


This is really meant as a tribute to Paula (Anne Haynes), whose sonnet series continues to entertain me to no end. “Sleep is Sweeter” is her contribution to the Jose Chung “What-really-happened-in-that-hotel-room-that-night” scene; I felt Chris Carter missed a real opportunity to make fun of us relationshippers by putting them in bed together and, as Paula suggests, making what subsequently happened very unclear. Well, I can’t resist, in my unworthy way, taking the thing one step further. It won’t make any sense if you haven’t read “SONNET: Sleep is Sweeter,” though. (All comments welcome, pro and con, by the way.)

So before launching into the usual disclaimer, let me just plead for Paula’s forgiveness, with the understanding that imitation is the highest form of flattery, and stress that I did it because she inspired me.

DISCLAIMER: All character herein are the property of Chris Carter, I expect, although I’m not familiar with his arrangement with Fox. I mean, for all I know, they own all the rights to everything. Whatever the case may be, one thing is certain — I certainly own no rights and am fully cognisant of this fact. I swear that, even if tortured by aliens, nothing will ever lead me to claim otherwise.



12:49 AM

Mulder was confused. That was bad enough; what made matters worse was the fact that he was angry too. And what made things really bad was that he was angry at Scully.

Totally pissed, in fact.

He was used to dealing with her scepticism, even now, when the level of it had stopped making any sense in light of the experiences they’d had. It was truly mindbending, the way she could continue to spout “rational” explanations that bordered on lunatic within the contexts they usually found themselves. He swore that she was capable of calmly looking at someone floating in midair and saying, rather smugly, “string” or something — even when it was patently obvious that there was no string of any kind for miles around.

That too was bad enough, and inexplicable to boot. But this latest escapade of hers with that muck-raking rodent Jose Chung really took the cake. He’d at least assumed she was loyal to him, but it seemed that more and more, she actually derived pleasure from spreading contemptuous innuendo about how flaky his views were.

How flaky he was.

In the old days, she’d stood by him whenever the brass guffawed in his direction. Now, he no longer really knew where she stood. (Well, that wasn’t altogether true, he admitted. Deep down, he knew she still stood by him staunchly where the bosses were concerned. Unfortunately, she seemed to have no qualms telling everyone else that he was Cadet Mulder of Starfleet Academy.)

He couldn’t believe she’d gone so far as to spend hours with that creep Chung, condescendingly exposing Mulder’s “unique” approach to his work. Judging from the book — which he’d felt compelled to read, even though it disgusted him — she hadn’t spared him one bit.

Chung had made him look like a complete whacked-out psycho, and the alias he’d given him wouldn’t fool even the most clued-out member of NICAP.

Mulder was humiliated. And he blamed Scully for it. Frankly, it was a betrayal he didn’t thing he could ever get over.

But what really confused him was the fact that he knew, and suspected she knew, that something very odd had happened that night in the motel room when they’d been investigating the case that led to all this humiliation in the first place.

When he’d awoke with his arms wrapped around her and the biggest erection he’d ever had in his life.

Which, in itself, would have been okay, would’ve been great, in fact. The problem was, he was fully clothed, and so was she. Which didn’t gel at all with what he remembered as a night of passion to rival the steamiest videos in his collection.

He’d literally sailed out of bed and into the chair at the opposite end of the room, shaking. He’d been disappointed, of course, almost excruciatingly so — but he could’ve dealt with that.

It wasn’t the first time.

The problem was, he smelled her all over himself, that lovely, clean, Scully-scent he knew extremely well, painfully well, and it was everywhere, on his clothes, on his skin, inside his very nostrils. Later, when he’d made his escape and stripped to shower in the safety of his own room, he’d realized that even the skin under his clothes smelled like her. But there was no physical evidence of — well, of consummation. And judging from his raging hard-on, which he’d had to quell himself, groaning into the shower curtain in frustration and desperate release, he hadn’t got any at all that night, regardless of his memories.

What had added a particular edge to his solitary orgasm that morning was the conviction that Scully knew.

The look she’d given him spoke volumes. She’d sat up against the headboard, staring at him, her eyes slightly unfocused, her hair dishevelled, her lips moist, swollen as if by kisses — his kisses, he moaned as he leaned against the shower wall — her mouth slightly open in that way that made him want to scream and place his fingers in it, or his tongue, or some other part of himself, anything just to be inside her in some way before he completely lost his mind. And he’d sat in his chair, clutching his jacket to cover the bulge at his centre, and he’d stared back at her, at the strand of fire-coloured hair which fell over her come-hither eyes, and quite honestly wanted nothing more than to shoot himself and end his misery right there, right then, but he’d somehow managed to misplace his gun along the way.

He’d wanted to die because she’d had bedroom eyes, morning-after eyes, the eyes of a woman who’s been satisfied in that very particular way, and he could really tell because he’d seen the look before but never on her.

She’d stared at him and said nothing, and he’d been completely unable to choke any words past the sudden paralysis in his throat. Her expression, which he could read like a book, had changed subtly as she locked eyes with him — sleepiness, contentment, some- thing that looked suspiciously like love, then shock, confusion, doubt, and sadness. But the absolute worst was the final expression that crossed her face, the slow emergence of the patented professional Special Agent Scully ready for duty look.

As they stared at each other, both of them, he knew, saw the sudden extinguishing of something unbearably beautiful which both of them knew had taken place somewhere, in some other reality.

Of course, he’d never been able to ask her whether she’d found any evidence of him on or within her body when she’d finally shooed him out. She suspected she would’ve told him if she had. And in his heart, he wondered if she’d been as disappointed as he’d been to find no trace of their lovemaking.

So now he was so mad at her that he could barely stand to look at her, but he was also hotter for her than he’d ever been, and this conflict was enough to drive even the sanest man completely around the bend. And Mulder, as even he himself had to admit, wasn’t exactly the sanest man, even on a good day.


8:23 PM

Mulder sat in his chair, his feet up, his hand absently tapping a pencil against the edge of his desk.

He was steaming.

He was still steaming.

Scully had wisely decided to stay clear of him — he felt some satisfaction from the obvious fact that she’d been as shocked by Chung’s “From Outer Space” as he had. It was also fairly obvious that she felt bad about the whole thing, judging from her rueful expression and the furtive glances she threw in his direction, peeking through her hair in a truly appalling girlie way which made him want to jump over his desk and throttle her — after he’d thrown her against her desk and explored the inside of her mouth with his tongue for about 45 straight minutes, that is.

She knew he was pissed, and she knew why, and even though Mulder didn’t like to admit it, he relished seeing the all-powerful Scully, Queen of the Ball-Breaking Brigade, cower in the full realization that she was actually, you heard it here first, folks, WRONG, and that she’d really screwed up for once in her saintly life. It was kind of nice to feel self-righteous for a change, Mulder thought grimly — and he planned to milk the thing for all it was worth.

“Uh, Mulder?”

Nothing. The pencil tapped, and Mulder pretended to pore over papers on his desk.

“Mulder?” She was using her most sheepish, most infuriating, ingratiating little-girl voice.

It almost worked. Mulder clenched his jaw and tapped a little faster.

“Mulder, are you mad at me?”

He dropped the pencil, dumped his feet to the ground and stared at her, eyes wide.

Scully started and actually drew back, to his gleeful satisfaction.


“No, not at all, Scully,” he said sweetly, his face hard. “Why would I be mad at you? It’s perfectly understandable that you would want to assassinate my character all over the New York Times Bestseller List. I’m a reasonable man. Why would I have a problem with that?”

She looked ashamed for just a moment before her face set and that Irish temper reared its head.

“I did not assassinate your character, Mulder.”

“Oh no, of course not, bad choice of words on my part, but what do you expect from a flake?” He spun in his chair and lept up, but Scully was lit up herself now and was having none of it.

“Why do you always have to be so paranoid, for God’s sake?”

“Absolutely! You’re absolutely right! I should’ve been more specific: What do you expect from a paranoid flake!” He was shouting now.

“I never said you were a flake, either! I just presented things as I saw them, that’s all! Are you saying that now I have to agree with everything you say? Why? Because you’re the guy? Because you’re the big macho man?” Scully sprang to her feet, her hair whipping around her face as she screamed at him.

“That’s it. That’s enough.” Mulder lunged at her, and she gasped, backing up against the filing cabinet. He was infuriated, but he could still see the look in her eyes — fear, which made him wince even at the height of his anger, and unbelievably, an unmistakable flash of desire.

He stopped in his tracks, inches from her face, and blinked.

They stood there, eyes blazing, panting, his head bent over hers, his breath stirring the hair at the side of her face, her breath brushing his lips. He could feel the heat coming off her in waves, that Scully fire which she kept in check most of the time but which he’d caught tantalizing glimpses of over the years. Her heat ignited him and caught his body as if it were nothing more than a helpless twig in the path of a forest fire; the burn of his anger changed abruptly, so abruptly, in fact, that he gasped as he felt his sex swell impossibly quickly, and her startled eyes lowered to his lips before closing as if in fatigue.

She sighed and move imperceptibly closer, leaning her head against his chest.

“Sorry.” Her voice was muffled.

He stood there, shaken, febrile, and suddenly wrapped his arms around her fiercely, pressing her fully against his so that she could feel his need. It was her turn to gasp as her hands snaked up his sides to settle on the back of his neck. He pulled her head up urgently and parted her lips roughly with his tongue, filling her mouth at once, raking it against her teeth, lapping at the inside of her cheeks, the roof of her mouth, the back of her throat. She moaned again, duelling his tongue with her own in a desperate attempt to gain access to his mouth, which excited him so much he thought he would surely come and further humiliate himself, his cock iron-hard now and aching as he rubbed against her belly like a teenager.

She giggled against his mouth, but her own hips were writhing and really she was in no position to pass judgement.

There was no waiting now, no possibility of postponement; his hands flew down her body and raised her skirt up around her waist — thank God for summer, he thought, blessing the stars for the lack of pantyhose — and in one motion pressed his body down along her length until his head was level with her core.

He leaned his head against her trembling stomach, momentarily dazed by the sight of her drenched panties, and he kissed her belly, flicking his tongue in and out of her navel and eliciting small gasps and whimpers from her as he lowered the underwear down and off her feet, one by one.

He kissed his way back up her leg, taking a moment to dip his tongue in her fragrant nest of red hair — more of that later, he thought giddily — causing her to cry out and clutch his head as he nipped at her little clitoris — but it was clear that she was more than ready, and seconds later he was standing again, leaning against her and plundering her mouth as he frantically unbuckled his belt.

She wanted to help him and tried, but it was his turn to chuckle as her hands clutched ineffectually at his shirt, her head lolling back as his lips caressed her throat. He lowered his pants, his shorts, and kicked them off almost angrily as his hands caught her buttocks and lifted her up against the filing cabinet.

With one thrust he was inside her, and he growled, his head sinking to her neck with the sheer relief of the thing as he began to push slowly against her, his body given over to an ancient rhythm.

She hissed in his ear and grasped the shirt on his back, her fingers clutching, unclutching, clutching as she tossed her head back until her flushed face was covered in a veil of hair. His eyes were glazed but he stared at her, hoisting her up as he lowered his mouth to her breasts — he really should’ve taken her blouse off first, he thought vaguely just before all thought finally fled — and bit at her nipples through the fabric of her blouse and bra. She moaned and arched into his mouth, her nipples hard as she brushed them against his lips. He thrust and thrust, probing deeper and deeper until the very tip of him pounded against her cervix, and she screamed suddenly before he could clap one hand over her mouth, pressing her back against the cabinet for leverage.

It was the kind of scream that could bring other agents running, and he was incapable of stopping now even if Walter Skinner himself were to loom in the doorway.

She continued to moan against his hand, wetting his palm with her lips, her tongue, kissing it helplessly, gnawing at it with her teeth, and then she froze against him, her legs tightening around his waist as she let out a muffled cry and began to convulse around him. He moved urgently against her and suddenly snorted against her neck, his body locked in place as the waves of pleasure rocked him and he filled her, and then his thrusts beginning again, gently, unevenly, before he stilled at last.

They stood together, gasping, for a few moments, his hand trailing down to holder her securely once more. His heart thudded dully against her breasts, his pulse hammering through his arms, his legs, and, suddenly weak, he lowered her to the ground. She leaned against him, her arms around his waist, and he rested his face on her hair.

There was the glow of pleasure and the quiet wonder of love, too, but all that mattered right now was sleep, and his eyes were closing already…


Mulder awoke with a start and looked up, disoriented. Then he gasped, his eyes closing once more as he cried out.

It couldn’t be, it just wasn’t possible, it wasn’t fair! He clenched his fists against his face and moaned.

His cry woke Scully with a start. She sat up abruptly in the large motel bed and stared at her partner across the room. He was sitting in an overstuffed armchair, his jacket draped across his torso and legs, his fists balled and pressed to his face as he rocked back and forth.

“Mulder? What is it? Are you all right?”

“No,” came the muffled reply. At least, he thought miserably, he’d come this time — which would just make sneaking out without letting Scully know anything was up — hysterical laughter sang through his brain — all that much harder.

“Mulder, what’s wrong?”

Muffled: “Nothing. Nightmare. Whatever.”

“But, Mulder—I…I don’t even remember letting you in….”




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