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Games: Superbowl Sunday


SUMMARY: The tenth in the ongoing saga of Scully and Brett. They make up the rules as they go along, and in this world, knowledge can be deadly.


"Are you sure this is a good idea?" A cool voice that belied the rapid beat of her heart.  Still, she was strangely reluctant to open the door further. 

"Why not?" An innocent reply that begged the question. Settling the bag of food and wine against one hip, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe, she waited. And hoped. *It's always been your call, don't you know that? I'm just putting the ball up -- you can take it or pass* 

Scully stared at the snow-dusted, leather-jacketed blond standing in her doorway, looking as nonchalant as if they met every day. Instead of precipitously falling into one another's arms for a few breathless hours every now and then. No strings. No plans, no promises -- no future either.  It had been fine for the first few times -- until the absence started to hurt, and the longing started an ache that never quite disappeared. Then it was a distraction -- a disruption that tilted the order of things, which threatened a fortress she had so fiercely constructed, and so closely guarded.   

Why not, indeed? 

*Oh, any number of reasons.  My apartment is hardly a discreet location if someone is looking for you.  I hunger for you and I don't even know your last name. Or where you live, or who it is -- exactly -- that you work for. Because the last time I saw you, you had a hole in your chest* 

"What if I'm expecting someone?" Scully asked, irritated at the goddamned arrogance of the woman. *Does she think I'll just be here waiting?* 

"Then I'll leave."  

And she would, Scully knew. No protests, no recriminations. And she'd come back if Scully contacted her -- wouldn't she? If the anonymous email relays didn't change -- if someone didn't kill her in the meantime. If tomorrow actually materialized -- for either of them. *What am I waiting for? A proposal? A promise I wouldn't believe? Who am I trying to kid?* 

She swung the door wide, hooked her hand under the waistband of Brett's jeans, and yanked her inside.  "What's in the bag?" 

Brett slipped her free arm around Scully's waist, pulled her close, and covered those luscious lips with her mouth. Through the heat she tasted peppermint, and a hint of coffee. It was like nothing she had ever felt before -- sweet, dark, welcoming, dangerous. She was in deep, deep trouble. She raised her head when she had exhausted every molecule of air in her lungs, knowing she was drowning and not caring. "Pre-game delicacies," she gasped. 

Scully stared, her eyes slightly cloudy -- a sky just before the rain, hazy and heavy. "Game," she murmured from the depths of her throat. "Super Bowl." She slid both hands up under the leather, stroking Brett's back through the worn cotton of her shirt. She rocked gently against Brett's pelvis, nudging at the space between Brett's thighs with her leg. She pressed a little harder until Brett's breath caught in her throat and she trembled. "You .. came.. to .. watch.. football?" 

Brett edged close enough to a table to set her package down, then used both hands to spin Scully against the counter between the kitchen and dining area. She leaned her length along Scully's body and kissed her again. She didn't stop until both of them were panting. "Uh huh --" she murmured, her lips brushing Scully's neck. "It's the game of the year. Can't .." 

Scully pushed her away with both hands, the loss of contact leaving her aching. "No sex before a big game," she said seriously. *Every time I see you I want you more. Damn you* 

Brett grinned, turning to unpack her parcels. Wine -- Pinot Noir; foccacia; soft cheese; chocolate.  

Scully peered over Brett's shoulder, one hand on Brett's muscled butt. She needed the connection. She squeezed absently as she perused the offerings. "Mmm -- appetizers," she observed. 

Brett turned, grabbed Scully's hand, and dragged her toward the bedroom. "Nope. Dessert." 


Scully was naked, lying on her back, watching Brett undress. It was impossible not to admire the sleek muscles of her torso, even though the golden skin was marred forever by the surgical incision slanting above her right breast. *If they kill you, I'll never know. You'll just be gone*  

She wondered how long it would take her to forget Brett's face, with that slow easy grin. Or her deep throaty voice. Or the touch of her hand, or the softness of her kisses, or the hard demanding pressure of those fingers filling her. Too long -- way, way too long. "I'm not going to be able to do this forever, you know." 

Brett stopped, her hands poised on her fly. She looked at Scully, saw the turmoil in her eyes, heard the slight tremor in her voice. "Do what?" But she knew. Had known for a while and had hoped there would be more time. 

"Keep fucking like we were strangers." 

Brett looked away, swallowed hard. "Do you want me to go?" 

Scully sighed, and waited until Brett met her gaze. "No. I want you to give me something to hold onto when you leave." 

Brett hesitated, then pulled the zipper down, pushed the material from her hips, stepped out of the jeans. She knew what she was being asked. "First name Brett -- last name Halsted, no middle initial." 

She put her right knee on the bed, swung her other leg over Scully's body, settled on her, straddling Scully's waist. She was wet, and she knew Scully could feel it. She leaned forward, took Scully's wrists, one in each hand, and pinned then to the bed next to Scully's head.  Her face was close to Scully's ear, and she licked it slowly. "Okay?" 

Scully didn't struggle, her arms yielding in Brett's grasp. But she turned her head, caught Brett's lower lip in her teeth, dragged it into her mouth, chewed on it -- hard enough to make Brett wince. Then her tongue was soothing the hurt, sucking gently. She matched the rhythm of her tongue with a subtle rise and fall of her hips, sliding against Brett's crotch. She knew damn well that would make Brett wetter still. Abruptly, she pulled her mouth away and stopped moving. "Uh uh. Not good enough." 

Brett groaned in protest. She lowered her head, caught Scully's nipple, worked it with her lips and teeth. She was hot -- had been since she climbed the stairs and rang the bell. Hell, she'd been damp inside her jeans since she got on the Metro, through three train changes and two reversals of direction to make sure she wasn't followed. "Home base -- New York City." 

Scully worked one hand free, ran her nails slowly down Brett's back, almost but not quite leaving marks. She pressed Brett's face harder to her breast, closing her eyes as Brett sucked. "Oh yeah -- that's so nice," she whispered. She pulled her other arm free, then rolled Brett over with one upward surge of her hips. She reversed the pin effortlessly, trapping Brett's hands by her sides. She thrust one leg between Brett's and stretched out on top of her, smiling down at Brett's astonished face. 

"Phone number?" Scully murmured. She pumped her hips slowly, dragging her thigh over the hot, moist swollen tissues between Brett's legs. 

"Oh shit --" Brett gasped, her nerve endings sizzling. She rotated her pelvis, hoping to create enough friction to relieve the terrible, agonizingly wonderful pressure in her clit. Dimly, she heard Scully's insistent voice. "Wha-- what?" she croaked. 

"Phone number?" Scully repeated, punctuating each syllable with another thrust. She kissed her neck while she waited. 

"212- uh - 5...55 oh man 77...12," Brett managed. "I' anything --uh god ..later," she rasped. 

Scully released Brett's arms, but kept her pinned by the weight of her body. She started licking the sweat-slick skin of Brett's abdomen, long slow strokes punctuated by small nips. "Now." 

Brett arched her back, trying to nudge Scully's face lower, desperately hoping to feel that warm wet tongue..."Oh please.." 

"What's the number for?" Scully continued, deaf to Brett's pleas. She slipped both hands between Brett's legs, opening her. But she did not touch the sensitive areas within.  

"Contact ... number," Brett answered. She managed to insinuate her hand along their bodies, and felt Scully's wetness on her fingers. Brett groaned, pierced by the sweetness of it. She squeezed the hot hardness of her and Scully moaned. *Good. Two can play at this* 

Scully refused to be distracted by the sudden throbbing ache in her clit. "What's your --uh -- code name.." 

For the briefest moment, Brett hesitated.  When she answered, it wasn't for the sex. It was for the trust. "Maverick." 

"Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" Scully said sweetly. She let Brett fondle her a bit longer -- God, that was driving her crazy -- then she dragged herself away. Stretching out between Brett's legs, she rested her face against Brett's lower belly, nuzzling in the soft damp hair. She closed here eyes, breathed deeply, and sighed with wonder. Words, descriptors failed her. Some part of her brain millennia old registered the scent, and impulses imprinted before language surged through her. She wanted to give thanks. She wanted to weep. 

Instead, she moaned and kissed her lightly, just brushing the tip of Brett's clit with her lips. It took more resolve than she knew she had to raise her head and ask, "Who are you?" 

"I'm..," Brett struggled to find the truth, and struggled to keep from screaming. " of" 

It was Scully's turn to hesitate, torn by desire, tormented by conscience. *One of us. Avenger -- or assassin?* And then she knew it didn't matter, because none of them - her, Mulder, Brett - were innocent. 

"Oh, god -- I don't care," Scully whispered, too weary, too needful, to be righteous. She did what she had been wanting to do since she opened the door and saw her there. She took her, hard and fast and with just a hint of desperation. She slid fingers into her, circled throbbing tissues with her lips, sucked insistently until the pounding in her head was matched by the tremors in Brett's body. Even when she heard her strangled cries, felt the spasms, she continued, wanting all of it -- all of her. Here, now. Damn tomorrow. 


Scully settled the tray carefully on the end of the bed, leaned down, and kissed Brett's lips softly. 

"Kickoff in ten minutes," she whispered. 

Brett rolled over, stared up into Scully's sparkling blue eyes, and said, "What happened?" 

Scully shook her head ruefully, and handed her a glass of wine. She bit the corner off a sinful dark cream-filled chocolate, and regarded Brett thoughtfully. "I just got done ravishing you." 

Brett eased up in the bed, the sheets falling away to reveal her still-flushed neck and chest. "Oh -- that." 

"Uh huh," Scully responded. *And if you don't cover up, I may do it again* 

"I feel you took unfair advantage of me," Brett said playfully. She reached for a bit of bread and cheese. 

"Maybe," Scully answered quietly. "Maybe I had to." 

"I know," Brett replied seriously. "I'm sorry. I didn't leave you much choice." She traced a slow circle over Scully's palm, considering things she had never contemplated before. Feelings she never expected to have. "I'm afraid for you." 

"I know. I'm afraid for you," Scully responded, linking her fingers through Brett's. 

"There are things I can't change -- and things I can't tell you. Not right now." 

"Yes," Scully sighed, settling back onto the pillow next to Brett. "Someday you'll have to." 

"What do you want me to do?" Brett said. *Just please don't ask me to leave. Not right now. I couldn't bear it* 

"Watch the game." No more today -- 

Brett leaned over, kissed her for an eternity. "I'd rather make love to you." 

"Later," Scully said, a hint of a smile on her lips. "That's what half-time is for." 



DISCLAIMERS: Any characters/events introduced on the X-Files are the sole property of Chris Carter etc, and are used here without permission for entertainment, not for profit.



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