TITLE: Hog Heaven 
AUTHOR: Jess
EMAIL ADDRESS: jessica@amazon.com
DISCLAIMER: Oh yeah right, in my fantasies, obviously.
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Anywhere, just let me know.
SPOILER WARNING: None really.
RATING: PG-13 for language and some naughty thoughts.
CONTENT WARNING: None, unless you're offended by Elvis references.
CLASSIFICATION: UST, almost MSR, X-File
SUMMARY: Mulder and Scully go in search of a "motorcycle-riding,
shape-shifting, Elvis hair-do sporting alien" and discover something
about themselves in the process.

No, Mulder doesn't wear any buttless leather chaps. Email me if this
disturbs you as much as it does me.



"Jesus, Mulder, you have got to be kidding!"

Scully steps off the back of the motorcycle and stares at me. I can feel
her angry glare even through the gray Plexiglas visor on her helmet.

"I… I don't know how this happened…" I begin, but Dana Scully, my
normally calm and rational partner, has had it.

She is ripping the helmet off her head as if it were suddenly filled
with seawater.

"How it happened? How it happened, Mulder?"

The internal microphone is still on and her screaming echoes through the
receiver in my own helmet, bouncing around my head like hail.

"I'll tell you how it fucking happened!" And then she has pried her
helmet off and tossed it into the nearest irrigation ditch and I am no
longer being berated in stereo. "It happened because as usual you have
dragged me halfway around the country on a completely insane goose chase
without any consideration as to whether or not I would actually find
this case legitimate, much less compelling. It happened because I've had
to spend the last three days dressed up like a teenage Goth queen while
you hammed it up in innumerable seedy bars with big-breasted barmaids
named Sally. It happened because I have had to spend every waking second
racing around on the back of the most uncomfortable machine ever
invented by man and finally, Mulder, it happened because you ignored my
insistence that we ought to get more gas at the last trashy kitsch-laden
truckers' haven you called a pit stop!"

I am, for once in my long life, completely dumbstruck. 

"I'm sorry, Scully… I didn't realize…"

"You didn't realize? You didn't realize? You mean telegraphing my total
disgust at the ridiculousness of this entire scenario for the last week
didn't work? What does it take to penetrate your egotistical haze,
Mulder? Do I have to spell it out? I. Am. Not. Enjoying. This."

That stirs me.

"Oh yeah? Well you seemed to be enjoying it plenty when I dribbled that
lime juice on your breasts."

She is silent for a moment, glaring.

"I was drunk, Mulder. So were you. That doesn't count."

"In a court of law, it would," I smirk.

"In a court of law, I don't think chasing around motorcycle-riding,
shape-shifting, Elvis hair-do sporting aliens would hold up either."

**********

Maybe I should explain how we got to this point. With Scully and I, it
is never as simple as it sounds. But it started, like most of our
disasters, with the gunmen.

"Mulder, you will not believe the shit we have been collecting for you."

That from Langley, of course. And he was right, as it turned out, I
didn't believe him.

"So what you're saying… is that you've found sightings, stretching
across the US, of a motorcyclist with remarkable healing powers? And the
x-files here is? I mean, come on guys, how often have we investigated
mystical healers and come up with nothing?"

Byers leans forward, poking the photo in front of me. 

"But you have to admit, the resemblance is remarkable."

"Yes," I agree. "He does look like the King. But even I have come to
believe that the King is dead, boys. And if he is alive, he ain't
twenty-five years old again."

"I know," Byers says. "But the resemblance… he could be Elvis during his
Teddy Bear period."

"No, no," Frohike adds. "It's the Blue Hawaii look."

The two men stare at each other for a moment and then Frohike turns
away.

"At any rate," Byers continues, "are you trying to say this doesn't
intrigue you, Mulder? A man who looks exactly like Elvis rides into town
on a 1958 Harley Sportster, heals a guy stabbed in a bar fight and then
when everyone starts looking around for our hero, no one can find him.
This happens at least five times in the last six months. Sound at all
familiar?"

"You're saying he's an alien? Jeremiah Smith with better hair?"

Byers shrugs.

"I'm not saying anything, Mulder. Just that this could be your excuse to
get Scully into leather hot pants and thigh-high boots."

I snort in disgust, though the image is… interesting.

"Plus," Frohike interjects. "She's already got the tattoo."

********

Scully, of course, was opposed to the idea from the start.

"Mulder, I can't even begin to tell you how ridiculous this sounds."

"Of course you can, Scully, and no doubt you will. But in the meantime,
why don't you go home and drum up your best black leather jacket and
menacing motorcycle-babe sneer."

"I don't have a motorcycle-babe sneer, Mulder, because I don't ride
motorcycles."

This, I think, is one of those facts about Scully that ought to be
obvious to everyone. And just as clear is that fact that she needs to,
soon.

"Come on, Scully, you aren't at all interested in a week-long scenic
tour of mid-western byways by bike?"

She shakes her head, but accepts the folder I have been holding out for
the last ten minutes.

"I'll go," she says. "But I can't promise I'll like it."

No kidding.

*********

The bureau actually approved our flight to Kansas City and from there,
it was a short hop to Harley Heaven. Scully is taking it all fairly
well, considering we had enough turbulence on the way down to sink the
Titanic. I only received one "die, Mulder, die" look the entire time and
that was when we hit an air pocket big enough to leave our drinks
hovering somewhere just below the air vents in the 747.

She looks… damn, I have to say it. She looks fine. As in Fine. Trust
Scully to already own an entirely black ensemble. She looks more like
she's about to do some funky poaching than that she's hell bent for
leather, but still… tight black jeans, cropped black baby t-shirt (and
one of her trademark push-up bras that really are a wonder of modern
undergarment engineering), little black boots with zippers and last but
not at all least, a richly black leather jacket that has just the right
amount of wear around the edges… I am so worshipping this woman right
now. 

We are picking out the bike we wish to ride for the next week. Or I
should say, I am picking it out. Scully is looking with distaste at the
fake tattoo Langley talked me into ("won't wash off for a month, man.
Blue ink, just like you were in prison!"). It reads, and this is the
great irony, "Jill forever." You see, we're undercover, and Scully got
to pick the names.

Jack and Jill Hill.

I think she hates me already. I tried to talk her into getting a little
"J hearts J" on her ass, but never got beyond the word "hearts". 

"I already have a tattoo on my… lower back, Mulder, and one is plenty."

That'll shut me up. The very mention of that damn thing and my blood
starts to boil faster than you can say "ergot-induced hallucinations." I
know, logically, that she must have wanted the damn thing. But all I can
think is: Scully got drunk, fucked some guy she barely knew and got a
tattoo. Of a snake. Eating itself. How am I supposed to deal with that?
Eating ITSELF. 

I select a brand new hog, some model number or other. All I know is it's
black and the guy behind the counter assures me it's got street cred,
it's not some pussy set of wheels. We pick out matching black helmets
and I insist on getting the kind where you can actually talk to one
another. Not that we'd ever use the microphones to discuss anything of
any real importance, but I'd like to know when she has to go to the

bathroom.

"So," the guy behind the counter whispers conspiratally. It drives
people crazy to know we're undercover. "How'd you end up with Ice Queen
over there? She doesn't look FBI."

Does she have it written on her forehead in pale blue ink? I don't get
it, I really don't. I've never, not even for a day, thought of her as
icy. Fiery is definitely more like it.

"She's my partner," I say stupidly. "We were assigned."

Yeah, teacher made us do lab experiments together and she's so gross.
God, how idiotic.

It's just a preface to the rest of the trip.

*******

I think I'm in heaven. Hog heaven, if you know what I mean. The wind in
our… well, rushing over our helmets, Scully's arms wrapped tight around
my waist, her chest pressed up against my back. I'd be hard as a rock if
these black jeans weren't so damn tight. Who knew I'd thickened in the
last two years? I guess everyone but me. But aside from the fact that I
will soon be castrated by my own pants, life is splendid.

Kansas is thick with heat, and buzzing with insects. Perhaps the helmet
laws were a good thing in more ways then one, because I can't stop
smiling and I know I'd be chewing bug gum if it weren't for my visor.
Scully hasn't said a word to me since we left Harley Heaven and headed
over into Kansas. Not one word. I try out the mic experimentally.

"Hey Scully, you hear me ok back there?"

Her arms tighten around me. 

"I hear you." It's like having her whisper in my ear. I'm enthralled.

"You realize the possibilities for dirty talk with these things are
staggering?"

No answer.

"Scully, what are you wearing?"

That elicits a small chuckle. "Black leather."

I sigh. "Buttery black leather?"

"Very buttery."

"Panties?"

Her thighs tighten around me.

"No Mulder, my panties are pale blue satin."

Ok… That we haven't crashed headlong into a ditch (this is Kansas, it's
flat) is a friggin' miracle.

"Jesus, Scully."

"You asked."

"Hey, I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours."

We have degenerated to this. 

"Mulder…" Even in my head, I can hear the warning tone. This from a
woman who just told me the exact color and texture of her underwear.
"It's going to be a long week. Let's save some sexual banter for later,
ok?"

*******

We spend our first two days traveling, searching for sightings of our
mystery man, backtracking along a logical route to the spot where he was
last spotted.

I'll admit, I'm enjoying it. I know Scully is annoyed by the endless
days of flat little roads, the heat and the bad food. I think she may
even be a little annoyed with me. But I'm trying to pretend all's well,
scrambling for some sign that this is as fun for her as it is for me.
I'm not picking much up.

At least the hotels have been decent, even if the bars haven't been. We
already agreed to play undercover the whole way, sleeping with great
feigned platonic non-enjoyment on opposite edges of the king beds,
politely changing in the bathroom… hell, I've even put the toilet seat
down, once or twice. I would give anything to hear her laugh at a
late-night sitcom, or even hit me with a pillow. Sometimes when we've
slept in the same bed, I've woken to find us curled around one another,
but each morning of this trip she is already up and showered by the time
I groggily lift my head. It's like she can't get far enough away from me
at night to make up for having to be so close all day.

And then we climb back onto the motorcycle and head, rumbling, for the
next town. This is where I relax, despite my partner, and sometimes I
feel Scully give into the feeling of the shuddering machine beneath us.
She'll slide her hands, cold from the wind, up under my jacket and rest
them on the edge of my jeans, balancing on the button. I rev the engine
and she tightens around me like a sleeping child. God, I want her.

But mostly she leaves her hands on my hips, the barest of touches just
to keep her from falling off, to allow her to react to the curves of the
road. She leans back against the passenger bar and stares off into the
distance. In my mirrors I can see her stoic face, shaded gray and
silent. I just wish she'd let herself go a bit, ease into life.

I try humming "Born to be Wild" into the mic, but all I receive in reply
is a tight smile. "Bad to the Bone" doesn't do it either. I give us both
up to the wind.

We stop finally at a gloriously crappy dive called "Mike's Tavern" in a
little town in central Kansas. This was the last place our mystery biker
was spotted, and the hang-out of road weary bad boys from around the US.
As we pull up in front on our gleaming new bike, I wonder if we look as
much like Yuppies as I feel. Scully takes her helmet off and shakes out
her hair. Only the very clinical Dr. Scully could avoid helmet-head.
She's so… pretty. I sigh and lead her into the lion's den.

Inside Mike's the music is blaring, boys are racking 'em up on the pool
tables and beer is freely flowing. We make our way up to the bar.

"Mul… Jack," Scully says, still testing our new names. "I have to go to
the ladies room. Ok? Behave." And then she hits me gently. I'm over the
moon with her, if only she knew.

"Scout's honor."

I settle into a stool and look like I'd enjoy making conversation with
someone, anyone. Sure enough, the woman behind the bar eases over and
wipes off the area around my beer.

"Hi there, name's Sally. What can I get you?"

"Two bottles of Bud," I say. She's your stereotypical barmaid, all
breasts and hair and eyeliner.

Setting the two bottles down, she takes my offered five and doesn't
bring me any change. I guess I've just tipped her.

"You folks just comin' into town?"

I nod. "Yep, over from Kansas City."

"Passin' through?"

"You could say that. We're looking for someone."

She eyes me critically and tosses the dirty rag onto the floor. Scully
would die, I think, a little bacteria-induced death.

"You two cops?"

Crap. We don't look like Yuppies, we look like narcs. 

"Nope, UFO enthusiasts."

That stops her. It's hard for people to get around the fact that you'd
actually admit to being a massive geek.

"Really? No shit." She nods. We're ok now. Weird, but ok. "You lookin'
for that Elvis kid?"

"We are. We've heard he's a healer from the stars."

For just a moment, I think she's going to laugh, but to her credit, she
doesn't.

"See that guy over there playin' pool with the blond chick?" She motions
to a rather imposing-looking man with tight blue jeans and a magnificent
mullet. I nod. "He's the guy got healed. Name's Dirk. Go ask him about
it."

Thanking her, I start to take our beers and head over to the pool table
where Dirk and… Mrs. Dirk, I suppose, are leaning into their game.
Scully emerges from the bathroom about this time and frowns. 

"Getting friendly with the locals, Jack?"

"Just getting to know the hired help. Her name's Sally, in case you
wanted to know."

"I didn't," she answers, but she follows me deeper into the bar.

We hang out, real friendly-like, for a few minutes, hovering near the
table. Scully doesn't even ask me why we're standing near a pool table
watching two bikers play drunkenly. 

"Hey, you folks wanna play?" the blond finally asks.

"We'd love to," I say and see Scully's eyes roll. I haven't asked if she
plays pool. 

"Great. We're about to finish up."

"No, no," I say. "You can keep going. You up to some friendly
competition?"

Dirk smiles and nods. "Sure. What do we call you?"

I extend my hand and see Scully extend hers, rather mechanically.

"Jack and Jill Hill," I say, seeing the immediate twinkle of mirth in
their eyes. I'm gonna take her down for this. It is so much worse than
Rob and Laura Petrie.

"Dirk Ronnenberg and Missy Cline."

We exchange pleasantries. This is very strange. I'd really pictured
something akin to Road Warrior, not nice people and a little pool. I
wonder what Scully is thinking, but don't dare ask.

"So Jill," Missy begins. She is tall and blond and a little trashy in
her ancient Metalica t-shirt and black Adidas. She looks like the kind
of woman who likes beer, kids and big dogs. I like her already. "…
where're you two headed?"

Scully smiles, for once on this long trip, and accepts the pool cue Dirk
has in an outstretched hand.

"We're just cruising, you know? Seeing the sights. Jack loves to travel
in the summer. We take a few months off every year and go chase down
something new."

We do? This was not in the personal history we developed. I like to hear
these things about my alter ego. I imagine the two of us doing exactly
that and it hits me where it hurts.

"Oh really?" Missy racks up the next game. "What do y'all do?"

Scully gracefully applies chalk to the end of her stick and eyes the
assembled balls. 

"Jack's a psychologist and I teach."

"What grade?"

Without hesitating a minute, she says: "Kindergarten." And then executes
a damn fine break.

This wasn't in our mock-up, either. My heart shifts in my chest.
Kindergarten. Do we have three beautiful kids staying at their grandma's
and a dog, Scully? Please say we do. 

"You're a psychologist?" Dirk asks. "A shrink?"

"No, I study people from afar," I say. "I try to avoid actually talking
to any of them."

This gets a laugh from the pool table. Well, from most of the pool
table. Scully moves around in front of me and bends over to get the
shot. Her little ass is aimed at me like a guided missile. Her tattoo is
visible just above the edge of her jeans. I blush just looking at her.
She sinks the six and three in one go. That analytical mind, processing
angles of attack.

"And you two?" Scully asks. "What do you two do?" Then she sinks the
four.

"I haul for UPS. Missy hangs out and raises the kids," Dirk replies.
"Hey there Jill, you gonna let us play at all?"

Scully pushes her hair back from her eyes and glances at me before
answering.

"Sorry, there Dirk. I can get a little competitive."

"I'm only kidding," he chastises her. "You're doing real good. It's only
a game anyway. Not like we're playing for cash."

Scully nods, but I notice she just barely misses the next shot. Missy
steps up and gives a little push of the stick, missing everything and
sending the cue ball flying off the table.

"Oops!" she says, and grins at me before bending over to retrieve it.
It's a flirty gesture, but not too much.

Scully comes to stand beside me, small and fiercely possessive. What is
it about us that leads us to this place, pissed off and jealous as hell
of nothing? Well, usually nothing. Tonight nothing. I see Diana for a
moment, heaving above me, bouncing and groaning and basically using me
to jack-off as my head buzzes with a thousand voices and only my body
reacts to her. "Aren't you ever going to come?" she growls. I shake my
head. "Not to you," I answer. "Fuck you," she whispers and climbs off.
Don't think I'll tell Scully about that little encounter, or that that's
why I ended up being checked into the loony bin. Because I wouldn't come
for Diana. Or maybe I should tell her about it, sometime… and explain
why I didn't come. 

"Your turn," Dirk says, pleasant as ever.

I take a look at the table and try to make up my mind what to do here.
Sink one ball, I decide, then miss. I pick the two and send it into the
upper-right-hand pocket. Dirk is chatting with Scully about kids.

"We got three. Bobby, Davey and Dirk Jr., but we call him Mike 'cause if
you call him Dirk he'll clobber you. He's five, Davey's seven and
Bobby's nine. 'Bout you two?"

Scully sees me staring at her, begging her to go easy on me. She is
merciless.

"We've got a son, Walter. He's three. And my daughter… Emmy, from
another relationship."

Angrily I turn and sink another ball without really thinking about it.
The seven. Then I purposely miss the five. My whole body is burning.
>From another relationship. Why not show them the fucking tattoo again,
Scully, and tell them how you got it?

"That's cool," Dirk says. "Here we go…" and then he proceeds to begin
ending the game. 

I stand across from Scully, leaning against the back of a booth, hating
her with my eyes. She ignores me, talking to Missy.

"We left them with my mom. Jack's mom doesn't really get that involved,
you know? But my mom loves the kids. And they love being with her."

My mom doesn't get that involved. Why doesn't she just say it? Here
Mulder, I will punish you for everything you've ever done wrong and let
you smile right through it.

"Jill, Sweetie," I call. "Want another beer?"

She smiles that devastating Scully smile, but I see the hardness behind
it.

"You know," Missy says, "we were just gonna get a bottle of tequila. You
two up for some?"

"Sure," Scully says instantly. "Jack loves tequila."

This time I actually glare. Tequila makes me sick as a dog and Scully
knows it. For a moment, I see remorse in her eyes, then the hardness
again, a wall.

Missy nods and disappears toward the bar. Dirk continues to sink shot
after shot. Scully and I stare at each other across the table. Then I
pull out the final stop. I lower my eyes and look away, as miserable as
I can look. 

When I hazard another glance in her direction, she is already moving to
stand next to me. Dirk heads around to the other side to send the eight
ball to it's final destination.

"I'm sorry, Mulder." 

I can barely hear it, but it's there.

"Forget it," I say. "I'm sorry for dragging you out here."

Neither of us is entirely telling the truth. We leave it at that.

********

"He was… well, I don't want to sound like a fudge-packin' weenie, but he
was beautiful."

Dirk and Missy are sitting across from us, one unit. Missy is draped
across his lap, drinking her tequila in little sips as if it were
steaming hot. Dirk is telling us, after only three shots, what we have
come here to hear.

"So start from the beginning, Dirk," Scully says. "You were stabbed?"

"I was having an… altercation, you know? Missy was there, she heard it.
The guy was an asshole. He kept talkin' about how he could kick the shit
out of every guy in the bar. You know how that is. Finally, he picks a
fight with some little weenie boy half his size and starts punchin' the
kid up. I can't stand that shit. So I dive right in, ya know? I figure
we'll just have a little fist fight. Then he pulls a knife, jabs it inna
my chest and runs off."

I feel Scully shudder next to me. We are both on our first shot glasses
of tequila, hesitating to get drunk.

"So I'm lying there, and I can feel this thing in my heart. Actually
feel it. And Missy's screamin' and a bunch of guys from the bar are
beatin' the shit out of the guy who stabbed me and suddenly the doors
open and in he comes. Like fuckin' Jesus or something. But he looks
exactly like… well, you know, like Elvis. He's even got the hair. And he
comes over, parting those fucks at the bar like they're the Red fuckin'
Sea, you know, and pulls the knife right out of my chest before I can
say 'What the hell are you doin' so far from Memphis?' And he says:
'Son, just relax, 'cause I'm here to ease your pain.' I ain't kidding.
It was beautiful."

Missy smiles as Dirk wipes away a tequila- and Elvis-induced tear.

"And then he put his hand on my chest and all the pain just stopped. I
could see my own skin sealin' up, feel the wound closin', and then it
was over and I was healed. When I looked up to thank him, he was gone.
Vanished like a ghost."

"Really," Scully says. "No one saw him leave?"

"Nope. I tell ya, I ain't a religious man, but I think I had a visit
from beyond, you know? That's what I think."

We are all silent for a moment, pondering this, when Missy speaks up.

"You two ever do body poppers?"

Scully and I are staring, in rapt fascination, as Dirk dribbles a bit of
fresh lime juice onto his girlfriend's cleavage. She giggles and adds
some salt. Then, without embarrassment or hesitation, he sucks the juice
from her skin and quickly downs the shot.

"That's real good," he says.

I have no idea what to do. I should get up, leave, take Scully with me
and run. So instead I sit here, waiting to see what we will do, how far
we will go.

Scully downs her second shot of the night in one gulp. Her eyes have
never left the display going on in front of us. If these two invited us
back to their hotel rooms, I wonder what she'd say?

"Your turn," Dirk tells Missy. 

Giggling, she pushes his head back and squeezes juice into the hollow of
his collarbone. A pinch of sprinkled salt and she's sucking his skin.

Scully shifts next to me and for the first time since they offered to
demonstrate this little ritual, I am aware of how dangerous this could
be for us. Not just in the sense that we have never allowed ourselves to
suck each other anywhere, but in the sense that we could be forced to
deal with the consequences of this night and I'm not sure how we'll do,
considering we never talk about anything.

"Next?" Dirk says and passes me the bottle. 

It's now or never. I look at Scully and see her flushed face and bright
eyes. She's a little drunk already. Without hesitation, she pulls her
v-necked t-shirt down and offers up her cleavage. I am sure I'm going to
die before I can actually taste her. The sky will open up, the alien
invasion will begin, and Fox Mulder, Savior of the Universe, will be
sitting in a bar in Nowhere, Kansas, eyeing Dana Scully's cleavage like
a teenager.

Dirk hands me a lime, grinning.

I hold it over her breasts, seeing their fullness, the soft goosebumps
on her skin. Oh Scully, I want to beg her, not like this. I look again
at her face and she knows what I am feeling. She sees my desperation and
she is moving forward anyway. I had not realized how resentful she was
until now.

So I squeeze the lime.

And watch as the pale yellow juice drips onto her luscious curves and
into the hollow space where her bra draws her breasts together. I add
the pinch of salt and then look one last time into her face. I want her
to know that this is not about her breasts or her anger or her
resentment or her sexuality. This is because I love her too much to
resist. And at the last moment, she sees it. I know she does because as
my lips hit her skin she jumps and hisses like a cat. 

What does she taste like? I don't know. I only taste lime and salt and
then the tequila, burning away my disgust with both of us, trailing down
into my stomach and dying there. Quickly.

She can't look at me, or she won't, I don't know. But she pours herself
a glass and quickly selects her lime wedge. I feel her hand pull my
shirt neck down and the room-warm juice pool before my clavicle. The
salt should be imperceptible as she sprinkles it, but to me it is an
earthquake, an avalanche. I can feel nothing but the small warm triangle
of skin waiting for her mouth.

She bends her head and then I feel her lips hit my skin. But instead of
sucking, she is kissing there, closed-mouthed and gentle. Only I know
that most of the juice is sliding down my chest. Only I know that she
has loved me back.

Drinking the tequila quickly, she wipes her mouth with the back of her
hand and stares at me.

"I think we'd better get going," she says.

It doesn't matter. Dirk and Missy are making out across from us,
blissfully unaware that the end of the world had nearly come in the red
nagahyde bench across from them.

*******

We shouldn't have driven to the motel. It was breaking every rule in the
book. But I couldn't for the life of me figure out how the hell else to
get us from Nowhere to Nothing, Kansas without that bike. It didn't
matter in the end, we never saw another car.

Scully waits while I check us in, trying through my drunken haze to
remember our license number. She stands outside the door, swaying
gently. I nearly fall into her trying to open the door. It would feel
wonderful if I actually did.

"Mulder…" she slurs gently as I stumble inside. "Go take your shower and
come to bed. You can barely stand."

"You're a fine one to talk," I tell her. "You're staggering. I thought
the Irish had stomachs of iron."

"They do," she says. "But I'm not all Irish."

We are standing inches from each other. She's radiating heat. All I can
think is: she's drunk. She's drunk. It keeps me from snatching her up

and tossing her onto the bed to let her lick off the lime juice caught
in my chest hair.

She takes a step forward and lifts my shirt up over my swimming head.

"Mulder," she whispers, "your clothes smell like smoke. You should take
them all off."

And that's when I do it, as usual. I fuck everything up.

"So Scully," I whisper back. "Does this mean you're going to get another
tattoo?"

She stares at me for a moment and then takes a step back. Her drunken
cuteness is gone, replaced by a hurt so deep it floors me, almost
literally.

"Mulder," she whispers, "why is it that you'll make love to Diana at the
drop of a hat, but all I ever get is fucked?"

*******

And that's how we ended up here, on the highway with nothing around us
for miles, twenty minutes from the nearest gas station, all of us empty:
Harley, Scully and me. Riding all day through the blinding heat without
exchanging one civil word. Her hands gripping the back of the bike,
rather than touch me.

I've never known her to be this angry with me. Even when she thought I'd
betrayed her, she didn't look at me like she wanted to skin me and stick
me on the nearest fence pole as a warning to future partners. 

"In a court of law, I don't think chasing around motorcycle-riding,
shape-shifting, Elvis hair-do sporting aliens would hold up either."

She stomps over to her discarded helmet and picks it up to brush it off.

"Scully, I'm sorry I brought you out here. It was a mistake." I sound
bitter and nasty, even for me.

"Damn right," she shouts. "Just one in a series of many."

That hurts. Funny how the accurate arrows always feel the worst. I give
up and wander back to the bike. It sits like a crouching panther, black
and ominous. I kick the shit out of the tire. Scully doesn't even turn
around to see why I'm cursing.

Finally, though the motorcycle is barely wounded, I give up and open up
the saddle bag to retrieve a water bottle.

Scully is still staring out at the blank Kansas landscape, wordless and
fuming.

"I'm going to go hike back to town."

She turns then, spitting like the snake wound tightly on her back.

"In this heat? You're insane."

"Scully," I say, keeping my voice as low as possible. "What the hell do
you want to do then? Sit here and just wait for the one car a day to
come down this road?"

"Jesus Christ, Mulder, I don't know! I just know I don't want you
walking twenty miles in ninety degree heat with one little bottle of
water."

"Gee, Scully," I answer. "Didn't know you cared."

"Of course I care." She turns back to the fields. "Just because I want
to kill you…" She runs a hand through her hair and sighs loudly enough
to be heard from the road. "God, Mulder, what the hell were you
thinking?"

And for once in my life, I decide to live up to my mantra about Truth
setting me free.

"I guess I just wanted to spend a week alone with you."

We are both stunned, I think. She stands with her arms crossed, her
mouth open. I have admitted to my longing in the hot light of day and
neither of us knows what to do next.

>From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of something distant and
moving, shimmering in the heat. Scully sees it too.

"It's another car, Mulder. Stop them!"

*******

But it isn't another car. 

The 1958 Harley Sportster pulls up beside us in a sweeping cloud of
earth and heat. It shimmers and shifts on the steaming road like a
Picasso, showing us many sides and nothing at all in the same moment.

Scully's jaw is now dislocated and lying on the concrete. She will never
recover from this, I'm sure. And probably, neither will I.

Because Elvis Aaron Presley, or a very good facsimile, is now
dismounting smoothly from his bike. He's dressed entirely in white
leather, or maybe pleather if he's really Elvis, with none of the garish
rhinestones of his later years. He looks… magnificent, like a young
tiger.

"You folks look like you could use some assistance," he says, in that
beautiful Southern drawl like the soft call of a lonely tom cat.

Since Scully has been rendered incapable of speech, I force myself to
close my own mouth long enough to moisten my tongue.

"We're out of gas," I say.

He looks at me, a bit sadly, and then he grins.

"No you aren't," he says.

"Yes, we are," Scully interjects. "We're completely empty. Used up."

Elvis -- and I can't call him anything else, regardless of what he may
actually be -- crosses languidly over to the waiting cycle. Straddling
it, he looks for the keys.

"Son?" he says, despite the fact that I'm probably older than he looks.

I toss him the keys, throwing caution to the wind.

"See now," he begins, inserting the key into the ignition, "you folks
weren't ever actually out of gas. You were just in a real long stall."

And then he revs the engine. Scully grins, so help me God, and I feel
like the sun has finally come out on this endlessly hot trip.

"Next time you folks think you can't get anywhere, you just think about
how far you've come," he shouts over the roaring engine. "'Cause ain't
nothin' predestined in this life. Everything you're trying to find is
right here." He pats the seat as he climbs off, leaving the machine
chuckling on the pavement.

"Are you trying to tell us that the secret of life is a motorcycle?"
Cynical Mulder slips out before I can clobber him back.

"No Son," he says, stepping up to us both. "There ain't no secret to
life. The future is a long and open road. Don't need to fight it to get
where you need to go."

Then he leans over and kisses Scully on her cheek.

"You got a real perty way about you, Miss Scully," he says. "Don't spoil
it by being contrary."

She shakes her head, blushing a beautiful bright pink.

"And you…" He steps forward and shakes my hand firmly. "You ain't such a
sorry sonofabitch as you might think."

I have nothing to say to that.

He nods at us both and climbs back onto his waiting bike. I hear it
shift beneath his weight, substantial and real. 

"You folks have a real nice day now, you hear?"

And with that, he starts the Harley and pulls away.

********

I have no idea how long we stood there afterward, watching the
retreating dot of silver on the horizon. But eventually, Scully turns to
me.

"You didn't believe it either, until he showed up."

She's right, I realize. I never really thought he existed.

"Well, that explains one or two National Enquirer headlines," I reply.

She smiles. At me.

"Mulder, I'm sorry for…" but I stop her by pulling her into my arms.

"No more apologies," I assert to her soft red head. "We could apologize
our whole lives and still be angry. Let's just call off the hounds, ok?"

I feel her tighten her grip around my waist and slide her cool hands up
under my t-shirt to feel the damp skin of my back.

"You sound just like the King," she whispers.

I have no smart reply, so I just nuzzle into her hair.

"So Scully, are you ready to head back?"

She is perfectly still for a moment, nestled against me. Then she shakes
her head.

"I don't think we have enough evidence," she says firmly. "We need
proof."

"Of what?"

Smiling, she lets me go and heads back toward the bike.

"I don't know, Mulder. Just go with me here, ok?"

So I do.

*********

Scully and I are playing pool. We have followed our alien Elvis, or
rather sightings of him, all the way through to Nebraska. Skinner has
threatened twice to put our asses in slings, but we are wise enough to
ignore him.

I lean back against the smooth fake wood paneling of the latest dive and
sip my beer thoughtfully. Scully is beating me, soundly, dropping balls
into pockets like fat, round rain.

And each time she leans over, I see the colorful edges of her tattoo. A
well-hidden side of Scully I am just discovering. I watch the eight ball
sail into the corner pocket and see her smile at me, winning once again.
As if I'd ever let her lose.

I slept the whole of last night with Scully in my arms, her warm stomach
fluttering beneath my hand. We have not made love. We haven't actually
even kissed. But I feel we are finally approaching a destination.

She stretches luxuriously and comes to stand beside me, making quite a
show of reaching around me to get her beer.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks.

"I was just wondering," I tell her, "where all this will lead?"

She sips her Bud thoughtfully and then slips one hand in mine. It's warm
and soft and indescribably comforting, like hot chocolate or tomato
soup. I rub her palm with my thumb and think about tonight, and whether
I will let my hand wander up or down from her abdomen. I can't decide
which is more appealing. Maybe it doesn't really matter where I end up,
after all.

"I don't know, Mulder," she says at last. "But I hear the future is a
long and open road."

end

TITLE: Hog Heaven 2: Return of the Alien Elvis 
AUTHOR: Jess EMAIL ADDRESS: jessica@amazon.com
Email me, I have a pathological need for attention.

Mulder is sliding one warm languid hand up my body as if he were
casually reaching for a glass of water balanced on my right breast.

We have been arriving at this place for several days, and like sliding
into first base, it's a mostly showy gesture. In fact we have already
been here for months, maybe years, but just haven't admitted it to
anyone, including ourselves.

I am pondering, as I try to continue breathing through his ascent,
exactly when I realized that Mulder had the power to do this to me. And
by this, I do not mean make me pant like a dog on a sunny patch of
lawn.  I am wondering when he developed the ability to completely
destroy me with a single look.

I have, of course, been in love before. I loved Jack. Maybe I even loved
people before Jack, I don't know. But none of them, no matter how long
they stayed with me, had this kind of control. Oh, Jack broke my heart,
don't get me wrong. When I realized we were never going to go anywhere
substantial, I cried for days. Then I picked myself up and went on my
merry little career-oriented way. But Mulder. Mulder has the power not
just to break my heart -- he can completely obliterate it. Shatter it
into ten thousand pieces like something dipped into liquid nitrogen.

I know this because he's done it. Or at least, come close. The moment
when he stood with me in the gunmen's office, listening with his arms
crossed and mind closed. when he had the audacity to accuse me. accuse
me, for God's sake, not talk to me, not argue with me, but accuse me of
making it personal. As if that were a bad thing. Ping. My heart
shatters. 

So here I am, lying in bed with him, feeling the rough pads of his
fingertips on my sternum, his moist breath on my neck, and I'm
frantically scrambling to pick up a few pieces before he does it again.
Just let me gather a handful of my feelings, Mulder, before you assault
me.

He groans and I'm instantly swimming in moisture. My body, I remind it,
my body. Not his. He thrusts slightly against my rear end and then his
index finger begins to circle my nipple.

Ok, that's it. I can't do it. I thought I could, I wanted to, but oh
Mulder. it is too late and I can't do it.

I gently put his wandering hand back on his own thigh where it belongs.
He lies there, panting and hurt, unable to figure it out.

"Scully?" he whispers. "What's wrong?"

I am silent. How do I explain it to him? I don't trust him enough to
give him this last bit of me. I love him, I want him, but love and need
and trust are all separate tonight and I can't take any one of them
without the others.

"Scully," He rolls away, lying on his back and I know, staring bitterly
at the ceiling. "Why is it that you'll fuck a perfect stranger, but you
won't make love to me?"

********

In the morning, we are distant from one another. I wait by the window,
peering out at the hot Kansas pavement and the bike, crouched on the
dirt, waiting. Mulder pulls his boots on, shirtless. It is his way of
hating me, showing his body to me at a time when he knows I will not
act. Like in the decontamination shower. Here, Scully, look at what you
didn't want. 

But I do want it, and he has a lovely body. He is heavier than he used
to be. Not in a bad way, but Mulder used to have a graceful body, like a
dancer. Now he looks more like he used to play a lot of football in
college. I don't know if this is a new workout routine, or if his
approach to forty has slowed him. It really doesn't matter. I love
Mulder's body because it is his, because the changes in it have come
during my watch, so to speak. 

He finishes and stands up, sliding a gray t-shirt over his head and
running a hand through his hair. How many of those gray shirts does he
own, I wonder? I think of him in Arcadia, wearing pink. It definitely
didn't suit him, though I think my little twin-sets suited me. Mulder
was born to ride and I was born to. wear embroidered wool, I suppose.

We mount the bike. Motorcycles are so monumentally phallic it's almost
difficult not to laugh. I am not angry at Mulder, though I think he is
with me, so I put my hands on his hips in a completely unfair move. He
cannot rid himself of me as easily as I can disentangle myself from him.
We both know this.

"I need to go to a bank," Mulder says into the microphone in his helmet.
I can't get used to hearing him this way, echoing around my head. I
wonder if this is what it was like for him in the sanitarium, a million
voices beamed straight to his brain.

"Fine," I say.

Boy, we are masters of communication.

Does this mean he is preparing to return to DC? That we will finally
admit we are failures at the romance of the open road? I don't know, but
in my own way, I will be sorry when this journey ends. I have never been
so close to him, despite our mental distance, and the physical
permission to touch and hold is intoxicating. 

********

We pull into the next small town, trailing dust like a comet. Kansas is
as hot as a desert, but then that's what the great plains would be if it
weren't for the massive aquifer beneath us. I can't imagine that vast
expanse of water, though I know it doesn't work that way. In my mind I
see a glimmering dark lake, but in reality it exists as moisture in a
sponge, seeping into the cracks and holes of the earth. The road
shimmers as we pull to a stop in front of the only bank in town.

A small line has formed at the ATM, sweaty and peeved. As soon as we
stop moving, the heat is around us like a wool blanket, smothering. I
follow Mulder off the bike, hoping he will go inside. He takes off his
helmet and stands behind the last person in the line. Of course he can't
go inside. It isn't his bank. I grow feverish in my black leather and
denim, frantic for relief.

"Scully," he says softly. "Stop sweating and go stand inside the bank.
It'll be air-conditioned."

I feel like a guilty child stepping into the chilly marble interior as
Mulder sweats outside. First I refuse to make love to him, now I let my
body cool without him. I am no one's partner today. The bank is quiet
and still, with deep green potted palms and aspidistras trailing from
the counters like an Italianate oasis. The lone teller leans out from
behind the counter and smiles.

"Can I help you, Miss?"

I am over thirty and they still call me Miss. Is my complete lack of a
husband written in bright ink across my chest?

"No, no. I'm just waiting while my. friend uses the ATM."

She nods and goes back to counting money. I hunt down the air vent and
stand under it, letting it ruffle my hair. In the corner, a young man
with the sort of face no one ever notices sits fanning himself. I wonder
if he is her boyfriend? My shirt sticks to me, the clerk's hands make a
soft swishing as she works, the palm next to me shivers in the invisible
breeze.

And then the door opens.

*******

I don't know why he terrifies me, but he does. I have immediate
flashbacks to the robbery last fall, and to strange visions of things
that didn't happen: my hand on Mulder's chest as he pumps blood onto the
floor; my own body shot through. a flash of light. I am hyperventilating
and this man is just crossing the tiles to stand between the velvet
ropes and wait for the teller to look up. She does and smiles at him.

He pulls a gun. 

My body sinks with the feeling of inevitability, like being told you are
going to die when you can see the tumor on the side of your head.

"This is a robbery," he says, as if people pull guns in banks for any
other reason. I watch the teller's face whiten, her body go stiff. Her
hands are frozen on the money she is counting. She has not pressed an
emergency button, as far as I can tell.

"You," he says to me, pointing the gun at my chest. "Lock the door."

That's when it hits me fully. This is more than a robbery. Something
truly awful is about to happen. I glance at the boy across the room, but
he is motionless, his face a mask. Is he with this man? I don't know.

Walking slowly to the door, I pause at the glass and look for Mulder. He
is one person from the ATM. Glancing up, he smiles at me until he sees
me slide the deadbolt into place and raise my hands in the universal
sign of submission. As I turn from the door, I know he will come for me
and it makes me even more frightened, though I can't say why.

"Ok, back behind the counter. All of you."

The three of us, hostages together, move to stand next to one another.
The boy, the teller and the FBI agent, caught without her gun. I feel as
naked as a showgirl.

The great metal vault rises behind us, it's old-fashioned spinning
handle like a ship's wheel against my back. It is open. The clerk is
sniffling.

"You, put the money in the bag," he says to her and she starts loading
the cash from the counter into a dufflebag he has brought. My head is
pounding.

"You two, into the vault."

And the panic subsides a bit. He is not, I think, going to rape me. He
is probably not going to shoot me. He is going to lock me in the vault
with this kid. I size the boy up. yes, I could take him if I had to.
Mulder will find the combination and we will be let out. It is so simple
and easy, there is no bomb, there is no blood. Just the cool marble
walls of the bank and the metal interior of the vault.

I open the giant door all the way, marveling at the easy slide of its
weight on castors or ball bearings. The boy and I hesitate in the
doorway, waiting. The girl is choking back sobs as she eases the money
into the bag, her shuddering like shouting in the silent room.

********

I don't think he meant to shoot me.  

He was just pointing the gun at us, ordering us into the vault when the
door shattered and about ten people streamed through. The sound of the
breaking glass made us all jump, swathed as we were in the cotton
interior of the old bank. I heard the gun fire just as I saw Mulder run
in, his face red with heat and fear.

The first time you are shot, it feels like someone passed an electrical
wire through your body and you keep looking around for the live line.
But this time I know the sensation, as familiar through memory as a
grandparent's long-dead voice. I find myself looking down at the blood
shooting from my chest like a little garden fountain and then up at
Mulder's stricken eyes. He looks as if he'd shot me himself.

Then the boy grabs for me and the robber shoves the door to the vault
closed in one slow movement. I feel myself falling and see Mulder
running forward across the tiled floor toward my collapsing body.

Then only the cold metal back of the door and the silent darkness of the
vault. 

A soft ticking of the locks turning, sealing us in and the boy's hands
on my chest, searching for the wound.

"You can't do anything," I whisper to him. "I'm a doctor, so I know."

I want to tell him to give Mulder a message, but I can't. Brightness
creeps around my eyes and the room seems to light up like a summer day.

I'm dying, I'm sure of it. I close my weary eyes and offer a prayer to
Ahab for Mulder's soul.

"Dana," a thick Southern voice is saying. "Open your eyes."

No, I think. I don't want to see heaven. I had it, for a moment, in my
arms and I don't want this version of it.

"Come on, Dana, open 'em up and take a look around. It ain't so bad."

I give in. Why does God have a Southern accent?

I am lying in the vault. Only it is bright here, like day. Ok, that's
because someone has turned on a light overhead, a bare bulb. And where
is the boy? 

All I know is that Elvis is leaning gently over me, stroking the hair
back from my forehead. 

"I didn't know you were an angel," I manage to croak out, "though I
think Mulder always thought you were."

He smiles, his hand on my chest. I know without looking that the wound
is gone, though I am lying in a massive pool of my own blood.

"Hush, now, sweet thing. You're weak."

How can I hush? I am alive, and soon the door will open and Mulder will
know.

"Who are you?" I ask.

"Ah Dana, ever the skeptic," he drawls and lifts his bloody hand from my
open shirt. "You know who I am."

I nod. Of course I do. Like I know who winds Big Ben. I mean, someone
does it, but I never think about exactly who it is.

"Why are you here? How did you know?"

"I just know," he says quietly. "I've been waiting for you. You needed
me."

"I needed Elvis?"

That draws a smile. "You sure needed someone."

We both stare at one another for a moment.

"So," I say, conversational as I'm aware of a warmth beneath my body. I
think he is drawing some of my blood back in through my skin. "Why
aren't you a horrible beast, like the others?"

That draws a laugh and he passes one fleshy hand over my clavicle. The
warmth beneath me increases, as if trying to rise through my body to
meet his hand.

"Think of it this way. are you related to the man who shot you?"

"God no," I answer, feeling suddenly warm and chatty.

"But you are, aren't you? In a brotherhood-of-man sort of way. That's
how it is with me and the rest of 'em. We're all cut from the same
cloth, but we ain't brothers, if you know what I mean."

I nod. Sure I know. An alien Elvis is explaining himself to me and I am
listening with perfect acceptance. I am dead, I know it. If I'm not,
Mulder's going to drive me to the brink of suicide with teasing later.
Mulder. I sigh. Outside he is frantic, I can feel it, like a pin lodged
in my chest. 

"Dana," the Elvis alien says softly. "In a few moments, he'll open the
door. Before then, I'd like to ask you a question, and I want an honest
answer."

"Ok," I whisper, picturing only Mulder's joy to keep myself from
sobbing.

"How many times do you have to die before you'll decide to live?"

*******

Of course you can imagine how long it takes me to answer that.

I can only come up with a lame: "What do you mean?"

He leans back, powerful and sexy like young Elvis, but with a wisdom the
real thing never completely realized.

"Well, you know how they say love is blind?"

I nod, feeling light-headed.

"Dana, the only thing that blinds you to the truth is your jealousy,
your anger and your fear. Your lack of love. I told you before, back on
that lonely highway, that the answers you both sought were there. You
thought I meant the answers existed at the end of the search, didn't
you?"

"Yes, of course."

He smiles and strokes the sweat- and blood-soaked hair back from my
forehead.

"The answers which you and Fox seek are not on the back of a motorcycle
or in the asphalt of an empty road. They already exist within you, in
the things you've seen, in the places you have gone together, in the
places you have yet to go. When you are ready to let go of the fear and
restriction, when you see that in trusting no one, you have failed to
trust yourselves, it will all become as clear as water."

"Funny," I whisper, "you don't sound like Elvis anymore."

"Elvis had a little drug problem. Sometimes I have to go beyond The King
in order to reach enlightenment, if you know what I mean."

"I do," I say, and then I hear the gentle clicking of the lock, twisting
into place. 

Trying to stand, I feel the world sway. I have been overwhelmed, I
think. Elvis smiles at me as he lowers me back down onto the vault
floor.

"Close your eyes, Dana. When you open them, you'll see everything in a
new light."

********

The first thing I see is Mulder.

Tears streaming down his face, he is looking at me as if I am a water
sprite, risen from the deep.

"Hi," I whisper, unable to think of anything more profound and realizing
just how deep we really are.

He is gasping, laughing and crying at the same time, unashamed at his
own outpouring of emotion. I clutch at him, thinking of the psychic
surgeon, only this time I have my own hands wrapped tight around my
heart.

"Jesus, Scully." he whispers. 

"Elvis," I answer. "It was Elvis."

Mulder leans back enough to look at me. "What are you talking about?"

Ever the investigator.

"It was the Elvis alien, Mulder. He healed me. Oh God, he put his hand
on my chest and healed me. It was marvelous. Where did he go?"

Mulder looks around and then back down at my chest, for once not hoping
for an eyeful.

"He's gone," he says softly. "The boy. he. he just walked out."

"Of course he did." I pat Mulder's hand gently. "That's the way it's
supposed to be."

Mulder sighs and strokes my hair. I am suspended in his arms, hovering
above the floor and my own dark blood.

"I thought you were dead," he says and his voice chokes.

"Oh no," I reassure him, giddy and wonderful. "I just had my eyes
closed."

********

The policeman sighs.

"So, let me get this straight. Elvis," and he says the name with a scorn
bordering on homicidal, "put his hand on the bullet wound you received
from a nine millimeter automatic weapon and it just sorta closed right
up?"

I nod. Mulder sits on the guest chair next to me, examining his hands
and peering under his nails. I recognize this as a sign he is trying not
to laugh. My God, I want to say, kid, if you'd seen what we've seen, a
motorcycle-riding, shape-shifting, Elvis hair-do sporting alien wouldn't
even make you blink.

"All right, then, Miss Scully. I guess that about sums it up."

There is a knock on the door and the doctor enters, carrying a chart and
looking about as enthused as the police kid.

Mulder rises to leave, but I catch his hand. "Stay," I say and open the
buttons on my shirt. He stares at the revealed whole skin and I know he
is relieved and grateful.

"I don't understand it," the doctor sighs. "But I can see no evidence
that you were ever shot." His warm hands poke at the spot just above my
left breast where my heart beats steadily.

"It's a miracle," I drawl in a slow Elvis imitation. The doctor glares
and Mulder grins widely. I have never been so flippant, so free of bonds
and fears. I have come back from death before, but never had a visit
from a rock 'n' roll angel to set me back upon my path.

They send me home, or rather, back to the hotel, in a squad car with
Mulder. Like criminals. I lean over and slide his hand into mine. 

"Partners in crime," I whisper in his ear and he leans into my voice as
if it could support him. And perhaps it could.

Outside our room, we hesitate, not wanting to open the door and face the
reality of showers and clean clothes and a wide single bed. Mulder
gently jambs one finger through the singed hole in my shirt, touching
the exact spot on my sternum he reached the night before.

"Do you think we'll ever see him again?" he asks.

"Not if I can help it," I reply. He is so large and solid in front of
me, a wall of Mulder. I am suddenly exhausted and aware of my loss of
blood. How easy it would be to end up in his arms tonight, how
comforting and honest.

The road just beyond the parking lot is a busy one, with trucks and the
cars of weary travelers passing by in a steady whoosh of sound.

Someone honks their horn and shouts "get a room!" into the warm night
air.

"We have one," Mulder whispers just as I lean up to kiss him on the
lips.

He is warmer than the night, than the blaze of a campfire. I could toast
myself in him. At last he draws back, hands still supporting my head,
holding me up.

"Scully," he says, looking me in the eye for the first time in what
seems like our entire lives together. "Do you remember what he said that
last time? That life was a long and open road?"

I nod, hands on his waist as if we were still riding and I am steadying
myself against the turns of the highway.

"I think I just found a road map," he says, and opens the door to our
room.

end