TITLE: Hog Heaven (1/3) 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. ******* end 1 of 3 TITLE: Hog Heaven (2/3) AUTHOR: Jess EMAIL ADDRESS: jessica@amazon.com 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?" ******** end part 2 of 3 TITLE: Hog Heaven (3/3) AUTHOR: Jess EMAIL ADDRESS: jessica@amazon.com 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 part 3 of 3 Email me now, oh gentle reader.