Visitation number 2

8.55 pm, August 18th 2001,

Bennett Avenue 67,

Washington, D.C.,

my apartment.

It has been two weeks since Dana's visitation. I am sitting on my still very new couch, the first glass of scotch in my hand, low New jazz from Nu' Orlins playing in the background, when I realize that. It's Friday and it has been two weeks since Dana's visit, and four days since we caught the symbol-carver.

It turns out it wasn't an X-file after all, surprise, but a rather interesting non-mother-hating serial-killer case. A former medical student who failing his internship due to a malpractice that resulted in death went down the wrong path and got involved in some death-is-life cult born out of a smaller Christian college nearby. The rest of the cult-followers, obviously less educated, and unscrupulous, but most of all scalpel-less, were split into two groups, one encouraging and helping the killer, carving, nonsensical messages, meant for some higher power, no god, mind you, but a god-devil-incarnation, while the other half, not knowing about the killer and carver among them, worshipped each new victim, taking them as a sign, that finally death-and-life aligned in some cosmic way, are becoming one in a pre-apocalyptic time, or something like that, as they drew blood and salt symbols on whatever surface the victim happened to appear, making it impossible for us to figure out post-mortem, and post-worship signs on victims and scenes. I need to try to remember what being in college felt like and what being in the academy, potentially failing, though I wasn't, would have meant to a young me. Or maybe not. I have to figure out what it all means, obviously. I wonder if the Scotch will help and take a sip.

Naturally, the crime scene investigation teams were the real heroes here, coming up with differentiations that neither John nor me could see. And naturally, Agent Scully, medical doctor by training and Catholic by upbringing but not nighttime behavior, as I just found out, was of great assistance in more ways than one.

Soon after her first and so far only visit to my place, she showed up at J. Edgar Hoover's to meet me and Agent Doggett. I recognized her before I saw her. I saw her hand on the door handle, streaks of read swing in, but made no effort to meet her eyes. Since that morning's polite good-bye smile I had been wondering what it would be like to finally run into her. Surely it would be awkward, it must be. We couldn't find a single word to say to each other since we have fallen into bed together. I felt terrible, having neither called nor shown up at her place. Actually, the morning that she came by I saw a missed call from her, on my phone, ignored it and went to work, only to see her there a couple hours later. I didn't mean to ignore her, to not call her for two days, to have things change between us… But really what would I say? "Hey how are you doing? Are you still heart-broken. And, by the way, are you still thinking about me, like I do about you. Naked and beneath me? Or if you want to on top." Not really an option now is it. But honestly in my frame of mind surely the best I would have come up with. Really she is boiling just beneath my surface.

I would have loved to call her up, to hear her voice, I noticed when I heard her speak: "Morning Agents". "Agent Scully! What a surprise… to what do we owe your visit", says Doggett, he has been walking on eggshells around her just like me ever since William has been gone.

"Actually, Agent Reyes here, mentioned the other day that you would appreciate my help on the not-an-X-files case you're working on". Doggett's face snaps in my direction, he must be wondering why the hell I would ask a mother who hast lost her child, and partner/lover/whatever-that-is-between-them, to come and help us with something that we wouldn't necessarily have to be involved in anyways. Not-an-X-File anyhow. And I can't blame him. I wonder, too. Actually, I know, just want to see her, maybe, selfishly. To get her out too. "Do you want me to take a look at the body, the carving?" she asks. And my dear John is smarter than me not rambling on about how we didn't need her to do that, in "her situation". No rambling whatsoever, just a polite: "Agent Scully, your expertise would be much appreciated indeed" and a "Should we head to the morgue right away? I'm sure you're busy." Gotcha. The three of us head over to where the latest bodies are held, without me having spoken a single word to her. The walk is longer than it needs to be. For reasons of temperature or the general comfort of people the morgue is located in the basement as well though not of this wing but the Eastern Annex, so we have to take the elevator up, walk though some halls on the first floor or the second and take the elevator or stairs down to the morgue. This promises to be a quiet and quite uncomfortable walk. She is next to me but I can only see her profile. In the elevator we turn the same way, we stand next to each other we both reach for the button and hesitate. She pushes it and I withdraw. I feel like thirteen, like I am standing next to my favorite teacher, who just happens to be the prettiest girl in school and the head cheerleader. This has to stop. I clear my throat. This emphasizes the silence.

Apparently, I have nothing to say. "How have you been? Still heart-broken, surely, but do you think about me?" This is still not an option. As we leave the elevator, me nearly bumping into her out of sheer nervousness, thankfully, my dear dear John finally starts to speak: "You know it is so nice that you came over. But I'm not sure this is worth any of our time. I have no idea why they assigned us as advisor's for this case. If you ask me, it is not an X-file at all… But it appears to be some kind of... busy work… ". "Or maybe distraction," she cuts in. I smile and have a warm feeling rush over me. No need to be nervous here, Monica, the three of us, we are all on the same side. John and me are both nodding, though he has no idea why exactly I do.

In the morgue we are back to the work-place routine, John takes a call, I ask the mortician to bring out the last three victims and Scully changes into a light blue medical gown, and sheer latex gloves. I have never noticed how the medical gown brings out the blue of her eyes and I am not sure one should. When have I seen her wear scrubs, and what the "f" am I thinking. Once she has fastened the lab coat behind her back she turns to me. "These are the last two victims". She meets my eyes, she seems surprised that I am talking. And I can't blame her. I am just surprised that my voice doesn't waver. C'mon Monica. "The first is female, her name is Eliza Schneider, 27, student, found on August 5th, 7.00 am on the basketball court adjacent to the Birch Residence Hall of Wesley Theological Seminary, Washington D.C. The second was found just this morning. At 7.45 am near a body of water in Glover-Archbold Park. Dr. Ken Arinoff, M.D., 37. The body appears not to have suffered changes due to exposure to water." "Thank you, Monica". I think about my name on her lips, as she moves purposefully over to me, stretches her arm out toward me, her hand reaching. And she takes: the files. "But I think I'd like to have a look at the autopsy findings myself". I am thankful that she does, as her reading them gives me time to compose myself. She is a colleague and a friend. I am a grown woman and not a teenage girl with a crush. I am a friggin Special Agent, Special Agent Monica Reyes. Discussing a case with a fellow agent, who I have asked over.

Agent Doggett comes over and lets us know that he would like to join Agent Frederick leading the investigation as he interviews potential witnesses and the first person on the scene. He cannot shake the feeling that this "messy butchery" that the bodies endured will not lead us anywhere. He considers police basics, talking to people, to be "our best shot". Thank you Agent Scully for coming, I guess. But she doesn't seem disturbed by his evaluation at all. But smiles, again politely as he leaves.

The doors to the morgue close with a squeak. "I haven't seen or heard from you in a while," she keeps her head still bowed her hands busy aligning dangerous instruments. "Oh," is the only answer I can give her "really?". She looks up quickly, shortly – in confusion. "I guess I must have missed your calls", she says, quietly. "Oh you know…, I have been busy with the case", I lie. I'm sorry, Dana. I didn't know, what to say. I still don't. She holds the gaze for more than a couple of moments and nods. Then looks down again. "Oh but than I'm glad I am here. Aren't you?" She sees right through my bullshit. No answer required. But I am.

She starts to work right away; strips them of their protective sheets, inspecting the bodies, taking a look at the report, walking around the body, looking at the report, looking at a body, looking at a report. The reports are unusually thick as they include 3 to 4 pages or so of transcribed symbols each, and pictures thereof. I figure she is checking, for mistakes, and eventually for the transcription. I just look at her. She is soo in her element. It is beautiful to watch really, except for the brutal fact of the mutilated bodies. While I notice all her movements, the space her body inhabits, she does not appear to be aware of me. No raised eyebrow no word in my direction. Either the ball is in my court or she is simply so focused on work that accusing me doesn't come to mind right now. Maybe nothing but the work does. I can see how this, how working might be good for her – just to get out of her mind. And I am happy to see her, watch her even. My fascination with her hand has not vanished since that night, but now I also seem to stare at her soft cheek, her sharp profile, and her butt, whenever she bends over this and then that silver stretcher. Magnifying glass attached to her hand as she leans down to the body, she only has to bend slightly, because she is just so small. I do get a good view anyways.

"Interesting". I walk over in big strides until I am right next to her. I lean on in and over the body with her. I've seen this all before, no clue what it means. "Can you hand me the report again, Monica". Here to serve. "There you go," I hand it to her. She is checking out the transcription as I assumed. I am left with a view of her back. Somehow I haven't really looked at it before. I have a memory of touching her naked shoulder blades and feeling its form, cupping one, but really that is it. Missed chances... What I really want to do is run my hands up and down her spine. Or maybe just one tenderly until I reach the back of her neck, stroke it gently, and then tangle my hand in her hair. I wish her hair was open now, but she put it in a ponytail just before putting on the gloves. "Hm". And maybe after that I would run both of my hands down her back, less tenderly, feeling her skin, her bones and her muscles, and then I would grab her tiny waist… "hm"… and push her into me…"aha".. push her closely to me...

"Hm" she comments even louder, breaking me out of the… let's say…observer stance. "You have determined the murder weapon to be a surgical scalpel. And I must say I agree." No way can I keep fantasizing when she tries to have a conversation. "Yes," I say "Dr. Surviet has noticed the difference in fringe, and concluded differences in force, angle or possibly time of infliction". She is going somewhere with this: "yes, but?". "No, but. That might all be true, however, I think it's two weapons. Based on all these differences in tear. But also just the distribution of signs. You see, the satanic symbols can all be found on the outer epidermis, the eyelid, the skin around the chest cavity and the flesh of the heart, the lines and witchcrafty signs, or whatever you called those, are on the intestines, liver and spleen, softer tissue. The later cuts were made with a less precise knife of a bigger diameter. I'm guessing something similar to a carpenter's knife or a razor blade. While angle and time could contribute to the observed differences, I come to the conclusion that the major cause is the difference in blade and selected tissue. It was was an amateur doing the later hieroglyphs". Great! She is so smart. "You are right. So maybe we should stop focusing on medical personnel". I smile at her, visibly excited. "Oh no I wouldn't. Since the inner injuries must obviously have been performed after the outer ones, your killer most certainly is the former, a person who knows how to use a surgical scalpel and do Y-incisions, for example, while the person is still alive I would add, sending the victims into a fatal traumatic shock," she points to the report. "Or in other words. He who cut first killed her", I add. "Yep" is her answer and she is already peeling her hands out of the gloves.

This might be the break we needed. Or not. But it sure is a very clever conclusion. "Great, Agent Scully. Thank you. That took you what, five minutes?" I compliment her. She really is very smart. She actually looks up at the clock above the door as she takes off those scrubs. "More like fifteen". Ok. I guess time flies when you fantasize. Needless to say, I made sure to keep up with my check-in calls after her visit, though they have turned into case-update calls: One question about her, one about me, then case talk.

It has been two long weeks. Two long weeks, of nervous check-in calls, and hallway encounter, one awkward but enticing autopsy and one interesting elevator meeting. The other day John and me had to pick something up at Quantico, where she teaches. When I entered the building my first thought was her. It was like I was more aware of the periphery of my vision looking for her. We went to a lab where some evidence was tested, grabbed the torn liver and headed out. No sign of the opiate residue, that is common to this sect's ritual (animal) sacrifice, but you gotta keep the body parts together. Dana is teaching here somewhere, surely. Or she is in her office. Or a teaching lab just like this. As John and me came with two different cars, me from a potential witness, who saw nothing, he from the crime scene, I has the opportunity to send him off: " We'll meet in the office okay, just getta say "Hello" to Dana, .. ah, Agent Scully… Dana." It really would be impolite not to say "Hi". He paused for only second: "Sure,…I'll meet you later".

There the nervousness is again. Why? I am just going to go down to her office and knock and say "Hi". That's definitely normal colleague behavior. Or if she's teaching I'll just stay a while, maybe watch her for a while, or the rest of the lesson. Normal.

Suddenly the door opens and in comes Dana, She Is taking off a white lab coat. "Oh. Hi Monica. what are you doing here." Well.. coming to see you?" "I was just picking something up for a case…" She looks down. She is still mad at me for how the night has affected our friendship. Or rather my behavior. Not mad, she really looks sad. " And now I was just on the way down to your office. To say "hello". But here you are.". She is not buying it, but it's true. "I'm glad I ran into you". I am making it worse. "Oh, jah?". And then she just breathes, as if she is giving up. Surely nothing I can say will change that, so I take her hand. I stroke my thumb over the back of her hand immediately. She breathes in a totally different way. She is relieved, hopeful. So am I. So I can give her a real smile. And she returns it and searches my eyes. When the door opens it's her floor, her office. Now I have done what I came for and we are on okay place, there is no reason to follow her. Our arms stretch playfully as she exits the elevator, hands still clasped. "Hi…," she says and returns the smile. I smiled like a school girl "bye", and watched her walk away.

I take a sip from my scotch, remembering the look on her face. It has been two days since we met in the elevator and two weeks since that beautiful just-one-night night, that I still think about every now and then, constantly. I have been playing the scenes like a film, though it is fragmented, a multi-sensory 16 mm film broken and stitched. In slow motion: her smile, hands touching, the kiss, her voice…Needless to say the movie runs in loop. I look at the kitchen clock it's nine thirty something, and I've been sitting here thinking about her for what , one hour? I guess time flies when you fantasize. I take another sip of my drink. It is almost empty, while I get up to put on different music, I hear a knock. Someone is at the door. I walk over and peep through. It's her. Dana. I open the door. "Hi". "Hi". I stare at her. I stand frozen in the doorway. I don't know what she wants.

"Can I come in?". She is still just standing there. I am still standing.

I search her eyes for just a second, as she does mine. Her question still hangs heavy between us. She doesn't need help. There is no emergency. She is not here for X-files talk. She is not here to say "Hi". It's something else she wants at it is in her eyes. I grab her by the arm and almost, kind of, pull her in. I close the door behind her. She looks shocked but I think she is not entirely unhappy with my reaction. We all but jump each other: lips meeting, her in my arms, tongues touching. It's pure passion.

She is clutching my shoulders and back in a way that lets me know that it is something primal she is looking for. Of course it is sex. But it is something more. I cannot figure it out. I cannot figure her out. But she is so endearing. I kiss her. Hard. Her body is so strong and powerful, but also so small in my arms. I cradle it in them. I all but engulf her. I push her even more into me. I find such a strange passion in me. A passion that is just for her and that I have never known before. My mouth is wide open, my tongue forceful and deep. I hope she likes it because I wouldn't know how to dial it down if I tried to. Her hands find her way into my hair. She doesn't want to break the kiss. We breathe only shortly and meet again. She moans. Our bodies are touching all over. Her hand moves up on my scalp, going up and down with how we move. She puts her nails down and scratches me just lightly. I moan. And in the same movement, I pin her against the now closed door. She is surprised. I push my hips against her middle and she whimpers. I repeat this and she moans. I am on fire. Or drugs. Or something. Her. She wraps one leg around me, either to incite me to move against her again or to hold me closer - I cannot know which, I oblige. I wouldn't let go for the life of me

Her hands have left my head, and I am only able to understand what she is doing when my shirt and her hands are below my chin. We break so she can get it off of me. She is dressed in a blouse and tight pencil skirt, as I now stand in front of her in leather pants and black bra, bare feet to her high heels. I see her heaving breaths and catch her staring at my chest. At first she looks unabashedly, the wildness still in her eyes, but once she notices me watching, her expression changes. She looks almost shy meeting my eyes. It puzzles me. Holding the eye contact she reaches for my breast and cups me. This is so sexy. Her other hand brings my face down to meet her again. As we kiss, Dana kneads first one breast firmly, then moves to unfasten my bra, than kneads both. I am in heaven. One leg finds its way around mine. As I half lean her half hold her against the door so we come to even height. My hips keep moving against her instinctively. Her breathing let's me know she likes this. Then she breaks the kiss. For one word only "bedroom". I nod "yes".

For a second it's funny walking as all muscles just a moment ago had all been so tense, so intent on keeping each other close, that they feel loose now. She guides me by the hand and I feel a little wobbly on my feet. This might be anticipation. She leads me to the bedroom and I can see us from above from a disembodied point of view. Her hands guide me through the door as we stop before the bed. I swing her around so that she stands in front of it facing me, skirt out of place blouse open, lips red maybe swollen or lipstick smeared, hair tousled. She is gorgeous. And I know what I must look like: leather pants on, but bare-chested, breathing heavily, eyes aflame, I've been told, almost black. I must look like wild animal about to jump her. And honestly its not so far from what I am feeling.

I wonder if my passion scares her. She holds the eye contact she licks her lips. She must like it because she not only sits down on the mattress but slowly scoots inwards towards the middle of the mattress, holding my glance, waiting for me. for my attack. But instead I prowl, following her onto the bed, crawling on my hands and leather-clad knees, always right above her always looking into her eyes. And I am doing it slow. Until she is lying on the mattress with me above her. We both breath heavily. It is as if I'm caging in my passion, reveling in it. I could let go, and totally lose control, but instead I help her out of her blouse, slowly, as I almost sit on her hips. Uncuffing it. hand by hand, side after side. She is so gorgeous and from the looks of it so turned on. But her eyes are wide now as if she has become scared after all. Her breathing is heavy, audible, and I try to remain as calm as I can as I unzip her pencil skirt and pull it down her legs leaning on my arms. Scully, Dana Scully in lacey underwear laying beneath me. It will soon boil over, whatever animal we made will break free. I have removed her shoes and panty hose. Then I softly touch the sides of her breast feeling the lace and then softly bite into the upper part of her breast that is spilling out of that beautiful bra. She shudders as I soothe her skin with open kisses and my tongue. I let my hands glide down her sides to the top of her panties link my fingers through them and swiftly pull them down. I slowly lower myself so we our whole bodies are touching, skin to skin, skin to lace and, and leather to skin. We both moan and kiss and moans as I gyrate against her middle. She feels hot. And I am pretty sure this is doing it for her. But I need to feel more skin. We lose her bra and both deliberately enjoy the first contact of my naked breast against hers. As I am lowering myself into her slightly. I find a good angle, and she finds the right rhythm. Her eyes are often closed, her breath speeds up. I might be not-so-dry-humping her into orgasm. But I need more.

Before she starts on a path she cannot be stopped from, I stop my movements and hold her still. I change my angle, her eyes open. They close when I feel her wetness on my fingers. And I whimper. She is so wet. Dana is so wet for me. And deliciously hot. The passion overtakes me and I am in her before I can think twice. Shortly exploring than pumping. Slowly. She becomes vocal. With my hands between us, my hips moving, and me leaning on my one elbow, head hanging almost into her chest, I can give her exactly what she needs. I begin a rhythm, feel the pressure of her leg between mine, my strokes speed up. She becomes louder. No breathier. And she is becoming immobile, one hand clutching the sheets, her back arching. First her mouth is opening and closing and opening, then her breath comes rhythmically, hitched. I am all but fucking Dana Scully and It feels like I have never seen anything more beautiful, done anything more profound. This is more than compensation to bear the strain in my arms. And I am close as well, coming down hard on her leg Then her face changes, muscles contorted, her whole body tenses, her back leaves the mattress completely, her mouth opens wide but slowly, as she comes, with a breathy long "ah", I keep moving in her, ride her waves, even a moment after she falls limp back onto the bed, then slowly ease down.

I feel totally shattered, yet I am still so hungry. For my wet and desperate release. She is limp, a muscle mush, So much so that she doesn't remove the strand of hair that has fallen completely over her face, so I do. She is sweaty. This is so great. I lean against her, kiss her shoulder, stroke her chin. She makes content sounds. She hasn't opened her eyes since her orgasm. I fear she might be falling asleep. That would be beautiful, but I have a fire burning between my legs. My hand is in her hair, damp beautiful, soft hair. she opens her eyes and smiles. A real world almost open Dana-Scully-smile. I am floored. We kiss but without focus sloppily. She is still on her way back to her body. But her hand still finds her way to my middle. I stop it , hold her wrist.

While she looks surprised I turn her over. I need to take this chance, explore her back. I stroke and kiss her back, and every once in a while move against her with my crotch. She has turned her head sideways watching me. I tenderly stroke up and down her spine. I fell her shoulder blades. I kiss a place between them. I grab her waist. I kiss her neck. I smell her hair. I grab her shoulders. I thrust against her round backside, more and more . I feel a little bit like using her, finding my pleasure against her but I cant stop. Her eyelids are half ways down. her pupils. I need not feel bad, she enjoys this. I feel relieved. I slowly build a rhythm against her perfect butt. I moan. She watches me. I move my hand over hers, which is laying by her side. My weight is on us both. And then she pushes back. And I immediately moan again. I am so close. She watches. I move, we both move. For only very few moments and I come. I ride my orgasm against her leaning on my hurting arms... On her leg, her ass… I come! hard and long. Quietly. whimpering, shuddering. and let myself drop on her back slowly.

When I catch my breath I'm in her arms. But I am not done with her. No missed chances. I start moving down her body, and kiss her flat stomach. I can see her muscles and feel the softest skin. I can smell her. I am not done with her. She Is surprised. I kiss, lick and bite going south. The animal is still lose. Or maybe I think the longer we sleep with each other the longer she'll be here. And there is a simple logic to it. But in the morning she is gone.