If there is a more uncomfortable situation for a man
to be in, I can't think of what it might be right at
the moment. Working as the third partner with two
other partners who have worked together for years and
obviously resent your presence in their division would be a bad thing. For a single man to have to spend the majority of his waking hours with a couple who communicate mostly with silent smiles, gestures and mumbled words would not be a good thing. For me,
Special Agent John Doggett, having to work with these
two is pure torture.

Special Agent Fox Mulder returned two weeks ago. From
where, he couldn't - or wouldn't - say. At least not
officially. Not to me or A.D. Kersh. If he remembers
anything, I'm sure he told his wife.

Yeah, his wife. For all my extensive digging into
Mulder's background when I was assigned to head up the investigation into his disappearance, I managed to miss one glaringly obvious fact. The day before he
disappeared in an Oregon forest, Fox William Mulder
had married his longtime partner, Dr. Dana Katherine
Scully, in a church in suburban Maryland . She somehow managed to omit this detail of their partnership during all the months we worked together while he was gone. It got to the point where she had to tell me she was pregnant; I know the basic facts of life and I'd noticed she was beginning to put on weight.

The funny thing is, their public relationship doesn't
have the passionate sexual intensity I'd figured it
would. Maybe they just keep that part private. Or
maybe, despite the fact that their actual, legal
marriage occurred only a few months ago, they've been
"together" for so long that they've long since passed
out of the honeymoon phase.

It's late and we reach an impasse in our
investigation, so we check into the local motel.
Adjoining rooms, one for me and one for them. They
mumble goodnight and close the door.

As soon as I settle down on my bed and open my laptop, I realize I can hear them. Part of me thinks the gentlemanly thing to do would be bang on the wall and holler out, "I can hear everything you two are
saying", but I don't. What if they are discussing the
case, sharing insights with each other that they've
withheld from me? Actually, though, they're mostly
doing the kind of idle domestic chatter most married
couples engage in at the end of a long, hard day.
First she says she's tired; then he tells her she
shouldn't be working so hard, since she's pregnant;
then she tell him the same thing, except she says
"since you just got back". My ears prick up a bit at
that, wondering if I'll hear more about his mysterious disappearance, but apparently they are going to sleep now. I hear some sleepy mumbles, too low and slurred for me to understand, then there is silence.

Again, I'm struck by the seeming lack of passion in
their relationship. As far as I could tell from my
eavesdropping - hey, I'm willing to call a spade a
spade - they didn't even bother to kiss each other
good night. There was a certain level of tenderness
and concern in their conversation, of course, but
still. . .I shrug and turn off the light. A lot of
things about these two are my business. Their sex
life, or lack thereof, isn't.

***

A few hours later, I'm awakened by a muffled moan.
Hers. My first thought, with my brain still fogged
with sleep, is that she's gone into labor. Unless
something is very wrong, that's unlikely; she's barely into her third trimester.

I hear Agent Mulder ask the question that's on my
mind. "Scully? What's the matter?"

"Leg cramp."

"Where?"

"Here." There is a rustling sound while she,
presumably, guides his hand to the spot on her leg
that's hurting. I grin in silent amusement at the fact that, even alone in bed together, they use last names.

She gives another moan, but softer; he must be rubbing her leg. After a few minutes, he asks, "Better?"

"Mmm! Much, much better," she says, but her voice is
almost unrecognizable. It is a husky purr that I have
never heard her use in the four months we have been
working together.

"Scul-lee!" he murmurs - his voice, too, is different, teasing and amused rather than ultra- serious. "I thought you wanted us to be good while we're on assignment."

"Screw being good," she pants, and my eyebrow goes up
in amazement. I've never heard her use a swear word
harsher than damn. "Oh! Yeah, Mulder! Do that some
more! Please!"

I really, really ought to do something to let them
know I'm awake over here. I realize that. I ought to
get up, turn on the water in the sink, turn on the TV. . .something. But I'm rooted to my spot by the wall, mesmerized by what's going on in the other room.

"Like that?" he asks, in the tone of smug certaintly
used only by men who are completely aware they're
driving a woman to the brink of sexual frenzy.

Her only answer is to moan again, but this time
there's no question it's one of ecstasy rather than
agony. Then there's a sudden silence and I'm trying to figure out why, until I hear the wet, smacking sound of a kiss being ended. Then she murmurs, "Kiss me again."

I hear a rustling sound, as of bed covers being shoved aside. I'm confused and hear her say, "What are you doing?"

"Gee, Scully," he says, again in that teasing tone I
would have never expected from the king of soberness,
"you didn't say *WHERE* you wanted me to kiss you."

Then she starts with the moans again, louder this
time. Jesus! Either he must be really good or she must love him an awful lot, or maybe both. I have never in my life caused a woman to make a sound like that.

Finally, the moans cease. "Mulder! Don't stop," she
whimpers. Yeah, whimpers. Wouldn't have expected it of her.

"Hand me a pillow," he mutters.

Then I hear mutual, mingled groans and guess that
they've moved from foreplay to the main event. He
murmurs something with the word "baby" in it, too low
for me to make out. I have no idea if it's a term of
endearment directed at her or if he's asking a
question relating to their actual baby within her
womb. I hear her reply, a breathy, "No, it's fine."

Then the moans start again. Apparently they've passed
the point of coherent conversation, because all I hear for the next few minute are moans and an occasional "Oh, yeah!" or "More" from one or the other.

Then, suddenly, I hear her scream out, so loudly that
it's probably woken up half the motel. At first I
think she said, "Fuck!" but then I realize it was
"Fox!" - his given name. First time I've ever heard
her use it. He gives a harsh, guttural groan at the
same moment.

I've heard about simultaneous orgasm. Mostly what I've heard is that, for the most part, it's a myth.
Apparently not for these two. But then, they seem to
excel and proving the reality of things other relegate to mythology.

"Damn, Dana!" he says a moment later, the teasing tone mixed with a hint of awe, "I think you drew blood."

"Sorry," she murmurs, sounding sleepy and not
particularly contrite.

"'S okay," he replies his voice beginning to slur.

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

All is quiet again.

***

A few hours later, just before dawn, I am once again
awakened by a moan. This time it's him.

Oh my God. Are they at it *AGAIN*??

"Scully?" he says, his voice thick with sleep. "What
are you doing?"

I hear her laugh softly. "Come on, Mulder! You weren't in outer space *THAT* long! What  does it feel like I'm doing?"

"It seems you're having breakfast in - Oh, God! Yeah!
- breakfast in bed," he pants out.

There's no reply and I realize she's giving him a
blow job. Without even being asked. That surprises me. In my experience - and I'm no Don Juan, but I'm not a priest, either - women will do this only if asked. Sometimes not even then.

After a few minutes of moaning and slurping sounds -
yes, I realize I'm a pervert for sitting here and
listening to this, but I can't stop myself - he says,
"Enough."

"I want on top this time," she says.

"With pleasure," he replies.

Then the moaning and the grunting starts again. I've
caught onto something here. Last night, while they
both undoubtedly had fun, was more about him pleasing
her. This morning is about her pleasing him, although
from the timber of the sounds she seems to be enjoying herself as well. Makes sense, I suppose. It's the same way they work together. Instead of one or the other jockeying to be "in charge", they take turns.

Their climaxes aren't quite simultaneous this time.
Hers is first and his follows a few moments later.
Then I hear more kissing. Playful and exuberant this
time.

"Come on, we've got to get moving," he says. "I'll go
start the shower."

As soon as I hear the shower start in the other room,
I get up and start my own. I'm feeling pretty
disgusted with myself, actually. I violated their
privacy in a very fundamental way. They had no way of
knowing the walls in this motel are tissue-paper thin
or that I've got exceptionally good hearing. Or, for
that matter, that I'm perverted enough to sit there
and listen instead of turning on the TV or doing
something else to drown out the sounds they were
making.

When the three of us meet for coffee an hour later,
I'm surprised at how calm they seem. I don't know what I expected - a guilty flush maybe. Although why the hell they should feel guilty, I don't know. They're adults, for God's sake, and were only engaging in acceptable and normal activities for two people in love. I'm the one who's done something despicable.

We finish up the case late that afternoon. "Did you
want to try to catch a flight this evening or wait
'til first thing tomorrow morning?" Mulder asks.

Although his question is obviously directed at Scully
- probably in deference to her pregnancy - I jump in
and answer before she can get a word in. "Let's head
back to Washington." God knows, I can't stand another
night like last night with these two. First thing
tomorrow morning, I'm going to Kersh and telling him I want out of the X-Files division. For all I care, he can fire my ass and I'll go back to walking a beat in New York City. I can't work with them any more.