Character: Dana Scully
Fandom: The X-files
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1162
Prompt: Cold, Hard Bitch, Wk 27
Setting: First Season Episode: "Fire"
AN: I don't own…else I would have more episodes of Mulder in black, silk boxers.
She had to admit, it was a bit of a compromising position.
Phoebe Green, striking and exquisite in her evening gown stopped, opened mouthed, in the doorway of her own hotel room, amusement warring with confusion as she stared at the tableau before her. Her former lover passed out from smoke inhalation on her bed, mostly undressed, as his current FBI partner kneeled over him on the bed, trying to wiggle free his belt buckle while he lay motionless on the white comforter. Scully looked completely unapologetic at Phoebe's startled reaction.
"Good evening, Inspector Green, care to assist me," she didn't even blush as her small fingers finally managed to undo the leather enough to slip it from the buckle, and finally free up the front of Mulder's trousers, enough that she could finally unbutton them and slip them off. She had teased Mulder not so long ago that she would get to see him in his underwear sometime soon, given his propensity for doing all manner of dangerous things.
She didn't think she'd have such an incredulous and amused audience.
"Is this something you have to do with Fox regularly, or am I just in for a one time showing," Phoebe voice dripped with positively amused delight. She glided across the carpet to grab Mulder's left hand trouser leg, as Scully scooted herself off the end of the bed and made for his right. Together the two women eased the fabric from off his hips and down his legs, letting them fall to the floor in a crumpled heap. Scully moved to roll Mulder's lanky but still heavy body over just enough to manage to pull the covers over him lightly.
"Will he be all right then," Phoebe watched her work, a slight frown creasing between her eyes, the first sign of concern for Mulder that Scully had seen out of the woman since he had passed out in the hallway below.
"Fine, though I still believe we should have let the paramedics take him to the hospital. Smoke inhalation is nothing minor." As a doctor, Scully had been indignant when Phoebe had over-ridden her and demanded that Mulder be taken upstairs. As his partner she had been outraged. Yet Phoebe had blithely turned to her when she lodged her protests, and said, "But you are a doctor, aren't you? There's no need for all that fuss, besides you know Fox would only crawl out of a hospital the first chance he was given."
She was beginning to see what Mulder meant when he told her that Phoebe was fire. She was a woman that consumed everything in her path, leaving destruction in her wake. It was only later that she ever stopped to consider just what her actions cost her and those around her.
"I figured you would have him right as rain again," she leaned briefly against the tall bedpost, sounding as if Mulder had simply skinned his knee or had been clipped in the shoulder by a stray bullet. "He mentioned you were a doctor, you know. I thought it was convenient."
"Convenient for who," Scully's eyebrows flew to her hairline, as her eyes caught Mulder's all-too-familiar overnight bag sitting on one of the bedroom chairs, covered with the suit she knew he had been wearing earlier.
Phoebe clearly saw the direction of her gaze. She chose to say nothing, instead allowing a Cheshire smile to spread slowly on her face.
"I think Mulder will need his rest," Scully murmured in tones as dry as powdery sand. "Have you learned anything further on who started the fire downstairs."
No matter what games Phoebe Green liked to play, she was at her core interested in the truth, as she turned from vixen to business in the batting of one, mascara-covered eyelash. "The Boston Fire Department is already looking into the cause of the fire, they should have a report for me in the morning. In the meantime," she twirled suddenly from the bedpost a few paces to an elegant wardrobe, reaching inside to pull out a much more functional pantsuit. "I am seeing to his lordship and family, they are talking about returning home tonight and making for London in the morning."
"But they've only been here days," the news surprised Scully. "It's hardly been long enough to justify the expense."
"What's the point of coming to America if our murder just followed them here," Phoebe pointed out, not incorrectly. "Lady Marsden is keen on getting the boys home again, back in familiar surroundings. They are heading back to Cape Cod today to get things packed and the house closed up." Something akin to regret fluttered for a moment in her dark eyes, an almost real human emotion, as she turned slightly on thin, stiletto heels to regard Mulder. He laid so still that not even his eyelids fluttered in unconsciousness.
"Well, so much for reliving ones glory days, eh? I suppose Conan Doyle will just have wait." Her eyes cut up to Scully's, wolfish glimmers above that slow, broad smile again. "Of course, not that he's particularly lonely it seems."
The suggestion was so utterly flabbergasting to Scully; she couldn't formulate words or thoughts. She felt her throat strangle itself on the outrage that welled out of her, but all her mouth could physically manage was to hang open uselessly, a cry of protest unable to articulate itself.
"Not his type, usually," Phoebe mused as she swung her clothing on one arm, cocking her head towards one bare shoulder as if scrutinizing Scully with the same sort of eye she would use on a terrorist. "Fox usually goes for the tall, brunette, leggy type, with devastating wit and more than a bit of self-confidence. But then, you are a doctor, I suppose you can't be totally off the mark." She laughed as if to say, "what do I know."
"Anyway, I shall have to hurry up and change, the Marsdens are downstairs waiting," as if they had just been discussing the weather she turned towards the restroom, business once again, her free hand working at one of her expensive looking earrings. "Keep an eye on Fox won't you, he's horrible when he gets so much as a sniffle." She winked as she shut the door to a red-faced Scully who stood by her prostrate partner, arms crossed so tightly in front her shoulders ached.
"That fucking bitch," Scully breathed in barely controlled tones. She spun to glare Mulder, who was still blissfully unaware, and remembered his words about Phoebe, his cautions to stay away from her and her mind games. She had thought it was his effort to be alone with her, and to keep her out of the picture.
"I hate to admit it, Mulder," she breathed irritably as she reached across him for another pillow to place under his head. "But on this one I think you were right."
