He could hear the demon snarling at him from inside the bag. "Saccum patefac, pedicator!"

"I'm not opening the bag," Mr. Kopeck panted. "And stop calling me a buttfucker."

He had left his car parked in an empty lot, where the falling leaves were collecting on the hood and against the hubcaps. Now, as he approached the edge of the high ridge that overlooked the woods far below, it seemed to him that the gym bag grew heavier with every step.

"Huius te paenitebit," hissed the demon -- you will regret this.

Mr. Kopeck stumbled to the edge of the ridge, and paused for a moment on the precipice. Before him, the forested hills and mountains of Vermont's Northeast Kingdom stretched out for miles in all directions. The early October colors in the valley below might have taken his breath away, if he hadn't already been breathless from lugging the cursing demon up the slope.

"The only thing I regret," Mr. Kopeck said, lifting the gym bag over his head, "is stupidly summoning you in the first place."

With that, he heaved the Nike bag out into the valley beneath him. It sailed out, spiraling down, down, down, until finally the dark blue tote disappeared from view in the thick treetops far below.

"Thank God," whispered Mr. Kopeck under his breath. Perhaps someday a cross-country skier or a hiker might find the bag, but Mr. Kopeck rather doubted it. The countryside was remote enough, and the winter snow-cover constant enough, that no one was likely to discover one little demon in a zippered bag. Mr. Kopeck dusted off his hands, and turned back toward the village for the trudge to his car.

His heart was light -- well, at least lighter -- as he drove past the Common with its white steepled church and baseball diamond, past the high school and the library and the village post office. This might be the most boring town in New England, he thought, but right now boring was exactly what he needed.

As he slowed his Camry at the quiet intersection, he spied the two FBI agents from the high school that afternoon, emerging from the diner. He stuck his arm out the car window to give them a cheery little wave. The redhead was damned attractive, he thought, craning his neck to watch her walking away; it was nice to see a woman dressed in something other than corduroy and flannel.

That was the problem with Craftsbury Common, he thought, making the turn toward his house -- well, one of the many problems. All of the good-looking women moved away as soon as they were old enough to afford a ticket out of town. That left only the strapping androgynous women who'd graduated from the local college with a degree in Forestry, women who could fell a spruce with two or three chops of their mighty arms; or, on the other end of the spectrum, the little blue-haired old ladies who kept bed and breakfasts for the tourists. Was it any wonder he had a hard time keeping his eyes off his high school students?

Well, he'd worry about that, and about his little problem with Principal Waters, some other time. Right now he was just going to enjoy the feeling of having rid himself of the demon. With satisfaction he pushed the button on his garage door opener, and pulled slowly into his garage. With satisfaction he got out of the car and slammed the door soundly behind him. Free -- he was free.

It was such a good feeling that, even after he stepped inside the house and switched on the kitchen light, it took him a minute to realize that something about the room was different.

The gym bag was sitting on his kitchen table.

****

The four-poster in Scully's room was big, one of those colonial-style affairs that stood high off the floor, so high that the furniture included a pair of mahogany steps for climbing into bed. Mulder restrained himself from making a joke about Scully's little legs, and closed the door to her room quietly behind them.

She was already removing her jacket and toeing off her pumps. He might be past his prime, Mulder thought with a slight shake of his head, but Scully was pretty obviously entering hers. These days she was apt to get down to business without so much as a preliminary glance. Sometimes he even found it a little disturbing.

He started unbuttoning his shirt while she efficiently shed her clothes. In no time she was nude. She climbed up and sat on the bed, watching him with a smile while he finished undressing.

Her frank curiosity seemed out of place amid the picturesque old-fashioned furnishings. The room didn't even have a television, for God's sake. He turned his back to her to peel off his socks, feeling slightly ridiculous as he hopped naked on one foot.

Ridiculous, but turned on. He might be pushing forty, but a nude Scully still worked like magic on his system. That tumbled red hair, those bee-stung lips, those firm breasts with their rosy nipples, those sleek legs -- even on a day like today, just the thought of her could get his motor running.

He went to stand before her, and she scooted to the edge of the bed to greet him. "You're slowing down, Mulder," she teased, her small hand closing around his cock. "It used to be that you'd have your clothes completely off before I could even step out of my shoes." She tilted her face up for his kiss.

He cradled the back of her head as their tongues twined. After a moment his hand strayed from her soft hair to her breast, where it lingered for a few moments, his fingers lightly circling her nipple, evoking a sigh. Then his hand dipped lower, to find her already slippery and hot.

She spread her knees a little wider. The mattress was high enough that, though she was sitting on the edge of the bed and he was standing before her, their hips were at the same height. Her hand, which had been stroking up and down his cock, tugged him closer. He positioned himself against her. She broke off their kiss and watched as he eased slowly inside her body.

"Mmmmm..." she sighed.

He'd been watching, too. "Lie back, Scully," he said, a little hoarsely.

She did. There was something about the sight of Scully, lying flushed and passionate on the rumpled bed, that sent his pulse into overdrive. Standing at the edge of the bed this way, he had both his hands free. He reached out and caressed one of her breasts with his left hand, while with his right he found her clit, already silky and wet from his earlier explorations. He began fucking her slowly while his hands played over her.

"Mulder..."

"Yes?" he said huskily, hoping she was getting ready to talk dirty.

"Why were you so interested in whether the history teacher could read Latin?"

Mulder felt his hopes plummet like an anvil shoved from a balcony. "What?"

"Latin. Mr. Kopeck. Oh, yeah, right there..."

"Like this?"

"Like that," she gasped. "Just like that. Yeah. What about the Latin?"

"Could we focus, here?"

"I'm focused," she answered, "extremely foc -- oh, focused. Now explain the Latin."

"I wanted to know because," he said, punctuating every couple of syllables by stroking firmly into her, "historically in the West, rites of summoning and exorcism have usually been in Latin."

"Summoning and exorcism? But that's -- oh god." Scully wiggled her hips closer to intensify the contact. "But that's only because Latin was the language of the early Church, and not" -- she gasped as he thrust harder -- "not because there's anything intrinsically magical in the language. And what's it got to do with...with...oh..."

He didn't answer, too intent on the slick plunge of his body into hers. Scully's hands clutched the sheets. "Did you know Mr. Kopeck was sweating today when he came by his classroom?"

Speaking of sweat, Mulder felt a trickle inching its way down between his shoulder blades. "Really?" he said, hooking a hand under her right knee and lifting it higher.

"Mmmmm-hmmm."

Mulder was beginning to pant, his chest rising and falling with each impassioned breath.

"That was an odd look Principal Waters gave him, too," Scully added thoughtfully.

Mulder frowned. Damn, when was she ever going to stop talking? Wasn't this doing anything for her at all?

"Maybe it wouldn't hurt if we checked him out," Scully said.

He'd once been afraid that the sex might interfere with the work; it had never occurred to him that, in fact, it might be the other way around. "Am I keeping you awake?"

She smiled up at him. "I'd just like to ask him if -- ohhh, Mulder, that's good just like that -- "

Finally, Mulder thought with gratitude. He'd been starting to wonder if she even realized they were having sex.

"Oh, yes, oh -- " Scully moaned, a blissful expression dawning on her face.

She looked like a goddess on the bed before him, Mulder thought: her red hair spread over the ivory coverlet, her eyes heavy-lidded, her breasts bouncing slightly with his exertions. God, she was beautiful. Suddenly he, too, wished she could have known him when he was in his prime. Then maybe she wouldn't have been able to do this and talk work at the same time. One of these days he was going to find it difficult to keep up with her...

That day wasn't quite here yet, though. He still had a few good years left in him. A perverse desire seized him to outdo Scully at sexual multitasking.

"So...you think we should interview the teacher?" he asked, thrusting firmly into her.

She opened one eye and looked at him in surprise. "Yes," she gasped.

He rubbed her swollen clit. "So you're beginning to think the deaths might be more than mere anomalies?"

She sank her teeth into her bottom lip and nodded.

"You think it might even be an X-File?" he demanded, fucking her with pure determination.

She bunched the bedcovers in her fists. "Yes," she panted. "Oh -- yes!"

Her back arched. She squeezed her eyes closed and came, moaning his name in a long, shuddering sigh.

Mulder watched the whole thing with a surge of satisfaction. "Jesus, Scully," he said. He could still feel the tremors rippling through her.

He figured he'd proved his point.

She smiled, slowly opened sleepy eyes, and stretched her arms out in an invitation. He covered her body with his. As he kissed her hungrily she lifted her legs higher, wrapping them around his back.

He went a little crazy then, thrusting into her, still half-standing, his toes digging into the Oriental carpet for purchase. Oh God, oh God, oh my God, he thought, his brain whirling feverishly. He was not too old for this, he would never be too old for this, he'd show her just how many good years he had left --

He groaned, and spilled into her.

He was dizzy afterward -- he was always dizzy afterward -- so dizzy that he even forgot for a moment where he was, and why he was half-on, half-off an enormous four-poster bed. Gradually, however, with the slowing of his heartbeat, lucidity returned. He realized that Scully was speaking to him.

He looked down.

"We should probably ask Mr. Kopeck about Kandee," she was saying matter-of-factly underneath him, in perfect FBI Agent mode, "and if he had any reason to want Mrs. Chernoff out of the way..."

***************

End 03/10

Plausible Deniability & Amanda Wilde (MaybeAmanda)
Address: pdeniability@hotmail.com / maybe_a@rocketmail.com