Finally

TITLE: Finally

AUTHOR: Stephanie McGee

CATEGORIZATION: UST=RST=MSR

RATING: NC-17

SPOILERS: seasons 1-6

SUMMARY: tensions build in that little basement office we all know and love...

DISCLAIMER: I don't own the x-files, Mulder, Scully, and do not mean to infringe on Christ Carter's creation.

ARCHIVE: Sure, just email me Crowcall17@aol.com

It was a normal day in the basement office, the haven for the FBI's "most unwanted". I was sitting at my non-desk working on an autopsy report that was due in a couple of days and Mulder was, well, doing Mulder things, I suppose.

He was sitting with his feet propped on his desk, leaning back in a chair that probably wasn't designed for that kind of stress. As usual Mulder wasn't working on anything in particular. God forbid he actually accomplishes some work at work, instead of during the wee hours of the morning. As he sat there, idly doing nothing, he enjoyed one of his favorite snacks: sunflower seeds.

In a confined, small, quiet space, there is nothing more annoying thing than to hear the incessant *crunch* of shells between your partner's lips for hours on end. But I'm not annoyed by the sound, oh no, what really irks me is that those seeds are getting all the attention from that mouth that I so desperately crave.

I know what you're thinking- "Dana Scully, notorious ice queen, has a sex drive?"

You bet your sweet ass, I do. I, unlike some people, try to remain somewhat professional in the workplace, but I assure you that sometimes I would like nothing more than a good fuck. Correction- a good fuck from Mulder.

Not that my insatiable sex drive is the only thing that gets off on Mulder. It's not just sex at all. I'm in love with the man. Desperately and hopelessly in love.

I am a strong woman; I'd be stupid to deny that. And I do not think it is egomaniacal of me to say it, either. After everything I've been through- my father's death, Melissa's death, Emily, the cancer, the constant ditchings and sporadic disappearances of magnificent Mulder: master magician, I think it is highly commendable of me to have come through all of that sane. For the most part, anyway.

But when it comes to Special Agent Fox Mulder, I crumble like one of my nana’s cookies. That man is my kryptonite. He somehow manages to breakthrough the layers of the invisible force-field I’ve built around myself in a matter of seconds. I'm usually pretty good about building them back up again, but sometimes...I don't know how to describe it. A certain way he speaks, or looks at me completely disables my defenses. It's pathetic, really.

But none-the-less I love the man, and sometimes it is *really* hard to share this tiny little workspace with him and not jump his bones.

And now is one of those times. Especially when you consider last week's events. I'd been summoned by Mulder to come to a remote baseball field, baseball being something I was never really interested in. My brother Bill was into it for a while, he even played on a team, but that was a sport that just didn't light my fire.

Of course Mulder would make a contradiction of me; as he was teaching me how to bat he had his hand strategically placed right on my hip. "Hips before hands, hips before hands..." quite frankly he could have been speaking Greek and I would have agreed, as long as he promised to keep his hand there. I felt so safe, so utterly protected when he was behind me, swinging the bat in unison. I was sure he would *finally* make a move that night; but alas, I was wrong. After the "poor boy" got his thirty bucks and went home we stayed in the field and talked- about baseball. I was so disappointed that night, when I was in bed alone, that I cried myself to sleep. Like I said before- pathetic.

By the next morning I was cool, calm, and collected Scully again. I went into work, pretended not to laugh at Mulder's innuendos and corny jokes, and went home again. Such is life.

But today, I don't think I can keep that nonchalant persona much longer. Usually on days like this, there's not very many, I call in sick or completely immerse myself in autopsies or files. But today I have little to keep my mind off sex. I need to be touched, seriously. I know. I'll act like my neck hurts; maybe Mulder will offer to rub my back. That would suffice, for a little while. At least until I get home.

I scrunch my shoulders and move my head from side to side, groaning slightly as I do so. Mulder looks at me from the corner of his eye but says nothing, so I do it again, this time louder.

"Something wrong, Scully?"

Play it cool, Dana.

"My neck hurts a little; I think I slept on it wrong. I'm fine." I clutch my neck and grimace for effect.
"Are you sure, Scully? I could give you a rub down..."

"Would you mind?"

Mulder's eyes glaze over for a second and his jaw drops slightly at my response. He obviously wasn't expecting that, otherwise he probably wouldn't have offered. I wince and look at him, pleading with my eyes.

"Please?"

"Uh, sure."

He slid his legs off of his desk and stood, approaching my apprehensively. I crossed my arms and buried my head in them, hoping that he'd be more inclined to touch me if he couldn't see my face. And them he was there, I could feel him standing behind me. I knew he felt awkward, but I also knew that there was nothing else he'd rather be doing right now. Well, maybe one thing, but all men would rather be doing that. I don't know what it is with me and Mulder. We both know we want each other, we have known for years. We always skirt around the sexual tension, sometimes dancing dangerously he ehe edge, but usually miles away from it.

I tensed as Mulder began massaging my shoulders. His long fingers reached my collarbone, always one of my hotspots. His thumbs pressed into the muscles right above my shoulder blades.

"How's that?" His voice was deep and rumbled from his chest, I could feel myself melting.

"Mmm, good." He'd barely touched me and I was already incapable of formulating a complete sentence. His hands left my shoulders and he smoothed his palms down my back on either side of my spine. Using his knuckles he kneaded the small of my back gently, creeping back up to my shoulders. This had to be bliss.

***


One minute I was sitting at my desk and the next I'm hovering over Scully, giving her a massage. This has to be a dream. Scully is letting me touch her. If this is a dream, the unlucky bastard who tries to wake me up is gonna get a major ass whoopin' from ol' spooky.

No, this can't be a dream, it's so real. The feel of her pliant skin beneath the fabric of her blouse, the heat permeating from her body, her fiery mane reflecting the insufficient artificial lighting of our basement office- it's too real to be a dream.

Not that I haven't had dreams about Scully so real that I wake up drenched in sweat and screaming her name; I've had plenty of those. My neighbor's complained at first, but by now they've given up.

Scully is my fantasy; my unattainable desire that I love so much I would sacrifice my life for her. Not that I would ever tell her that, though. She'd probably laugh in my face. I haven't had the best luck with women, you see. Most just don't like me. But the ones who do are usually crazy, vindictive, blood sucking psychos. And since Scully doesn't fit that description there's pretty much no chance in hell that she'd ever want to hook up with me. I know she cares about me. She may even love me, but in a strictly platonic sort of way.

God, what wouldn't give to be able touch her freely. Scully is quite possibly the most beautiful woman I've met. Now, I know what you're thinking- "what about those video vixens you beat off to, and those dirty magazines that 'aren't yours', eh foxy boy?"

Those women, although flawless, are by no means beautiful. As a matter of fact, if you really think about it, they're damn ugly. How could a woman who has had enough cosmetic surgery to frighten a military surgeon, dyed her hair such a blinding shade of blonde that your eyes bleed when you look at it, and had sex with enough men to populate a small city, ever be beautiful? The real beauty in a woman is the knowledge that she's pure and real, no enhancements. That's Scully.

The only reason I even bother looking at those kinds of girls, the fake kind, is to serve as a distraction. I have to have some kind of sexual outlet, or else I’d nail Scully every time we turned a corner. It's a way of protecting her, really. I know it sounds like an excuse to be a porn fiend, but it really does serve a function.

Ah, Scully, if only you knew. I love touching you this way, I feel so close, so intimate. The ridge of your spine feels so good under my fingertips. The fleshy skin at the small of your back, I wish I could squeeze it. Just once. The arch of your shoulders, the protrusion of your clavicle, all places I should know by heart but am merely a stranger. The nape of your neck, with its fuzzy baby hairs whisping as they are exposed, your shoulder blades, not sharp but soft and firm. The curve of your breasts, the weight of them feels so natural in my hands...THE CURVE OF YOUR BREASTS?!!?!

Oh, shit.

***


God, I am in heaven. I want to throw my head back and moan, but I'm pretty sure that would abruptly end this little session. If Mulder ever gets thrown out of the FBI, which isn't entirely impossible considering his track record, he should look in to a career as a full time masseuse. Correction- MY full time masseuse. I shudder at the thought of him touching other women they way he's touching me.

His fingers seem to know just where to press, probably because he knows me so well. I'll be so sad when this is over and I have to go back to my damned autopsy report, good things never last.

His hands are running up my sides, practically on my laitissimus dorsae. I can't help but squirm a little, he so close to my breasts I can almost feel him there.

And then I do feel him there, feather soft at first but them more firm and insistent. He squeezes my breasts and my nipples immediately come to full attention. He can feel them, even through my bra and my shirt, and rolls them between his fingers.

Not that I'm not enjoying this, but what the hell is he doing?! I freeze at first, unsure of how to react. Then I decide to go with the proverbial flow and let out an eruption of a moan that sounds something like his name.

Immediately his hands are gone and he's standing on the other side of the room, almost like he flew to get away from me. I whimper at the loss.

"Scully! I'm I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it, I s!" H!" His breath comes in harsh gasps and his face is as red as my hair, and I can feel the hear growing in my cheeks as well. I can hardly speak; I just sit there staring at him.

"Scully, please talk to me, don't hate me...I'm so, so sorry! It was an accident. It wase mye my hands had a mind of their own...I didn't even realize until it was too late!"

I've never seen him this upset, so worried that he might have shattered the already fragile relationship that we have. Of course I know he's telling the truth; Mulder would never do something like that to me intentionally. I stand on shaky legs and approach him, and he backs away as though he's afraid of me.

"Mulder..."

I burry my head in his chest and wrap my arms around his waits, hugging him tightly. I feel as though my entire world has been demolished and a new one has just begun its infancy. I feel like crying, so I do. I let out a choked sob and Mulder finally returns my embrace, pulling me closer to him than I already am. Then I realize that he is crying, too. His strong frame is shaking, every fiber of him quivering.

"Scully...please forgive me..."

I am a strong believer that actions speak louder than words. Right now I don't think any amount of verbal comforting and reassurance will soothe Mulder, so I do the one thing I've always wanted to do. The thing I've come so close to doing, the thing I dream of doing. I kiss him. I move my hands up his chest and around his neck, wiggling my fingers in his hair. He groans and accepts the kiss, returning it eagerly. Our mouths seem to open at the same time, tongues meeting like old friends. His hands travel down from the middle of my back to the small of it, squeezing the flesh there. I smile, he smiles, and we laugh in our kiss, taking in each other’s breaths. We kiss for what seems like forever, until we have to break apart just to catch our breath.

My chest heaves as I rest my head in the crook of his neck. His chin rests on top of my head, and it feels so natural. I can feel his body begin to tense and he pulls me away from him, a look of concern plaguing his face.

"Scully...this can't just be about sex...I can't..."

I smile and cup his cheek, smoothing my thumb over the tan skin of his face.

"After everything we've been through, everything we've seen and done, you really think this is just about sex?" Relief seems to wash over him as I say this and he grins like a little boy on Christmas morning. Without speaking he wraps his strong arms around me, dipping me slightly as he ravishes my mouth with another kiss. We move backwards until I'm pressed against his desk and he lifts me with ease so that I'm sitting on top of it. I wrap my legs around his waist, drawing him closer to me. I lean back until I'm lying down as his kiss moves from my lips to my ear. He tugs on the lobe lightly with his teeth and I moan his name. He responds with a low, primal growl and moves down my neck, sliding his tongue over the sensitive skin there. I arch my back, grinding myself against him.

"Oh, God..."

My skirt has hiked up and Mulder strokes the bare skin of my thighs lightly, sending shivers straight to my core.

"Scully, you feel so good."

"Mulder...I-"

RING!

***


The telephone erupted in the tiny room. After the first ring, Scully and I froze, silently praying for a disconnection. As the second ring sounded I moved from on top of her, sidestepping her to get to the phone. She sighed with frustration and stood.

"Mulder, don't answer it. It's probably a wrong number."

"Scully, I don't want to sound like nerd but we are on duty. This could be important." She sighed again and sat down in her chair, arms crossed over her chest. I gave her an apologetic look and picked up the receiver.

"Mulder."

"Agent Mulder, I need you and Agent Scully in my office A-SAP." It was Skinner, he sounded pissed.

"Yes, sir." I sighed angrily as I replied to his request.

"Is there a problem, Agent Mulder?"

"No, sir. No problem at all."

I hung up the phone, my head hanging down and shoulders slumped in defeat. Scully got up from her chair and walked over to me.

"Skinner?"

"Yep. Sir shiny-top wants us in his office 'A-SAP'." Scully shook her head and looked away.

"It's fate, Mulder."

"No, not fate," I took her by the shoulders and turned her to face me. "Just bad timing. Come on."

I led her out of the office, down the hall to the elevator. As we got on I spoke to her, trying to cheer her.

"Look, Scully, it's probably better this way. Do you really want our first time to be on my desk in that office?" She grinned at me, in a way I'd never seen her grin before.

"I don't know...It seems kind of fitting to me."

Apparently we hadn't done a cracker jack job of checking the elevator for other passengers before we spoke; a tiny, flustered voice sputtered from the corner. Scully and I both turned to see a tiny, elderly woman glaring at us from behind her cat-eye glasses. The elevator abruptly came to a halt and opened. The woman rushed past us, the click of her heels leaving a sharp reminder of our words.

"Great, that'll be all over J. Edgar Hoover lunch time." Scully said as she watched the woman through the closing elevator doors. As we began moving again I spoke to her.

"Don't worry, Scully, it's just one rumor among many. Everyone already thinks we're 'doing it' anyway."

"Yes, I'm aware of that. Mary-Anne in accounting says that I'm your love slave, and when we're not at work you keep me in shackle at your apartment." I laughed and feigned shock.

"Where? I hardly have enough room for a desk and a couch, let alone a bondage chair! Hey, according to Todd in forensics, the Lone Gunmen are all transvestites, and we participate in mass orgies on the weekends."

"Todd's a little odd."

"No kidding." The elevator stopped and we got off, moving down the hall to Skinners office. As we passed a reflective window I saw for the first time how disheveled Scully and I looked. My shirt was half un-tucked, my hair mussed. Scully's lipstick was smudged across her cheek and her hair look like she'd been standing in front of a high powered fan. There was a huge run in her pantyhose and the seam of her skirt was off center. She looked so sexy. As we approached Skinner's door Scully laughed.

"How bad do we look, Mulder?"

"We look like we've been fucking each other's brains out for three hours straight."

"Think Skinner will notice?"

"Nah."

I opened the door and Holly, looking rather embarrassed, ushered us into her superior's office.

***


This really fucking figures. Just when my prayers are *finally* answered and Mulder and I are making out like a couple of horny teenagers, A.D. Skinner decides to give us a phone call, requesting our immediate presence in his office. I didn't even have time to make myself presentable! I guess I shouldn't complain, though. It's my own fault for participating in that little game onsionsil hockey while Mulder and I were "on duty".

Skinner is waiting for us in his office. His back is to us as we enter. We seat ourselves and he turns to face Mulder and I. He opens his mouth to speak but stops. His brow furrows as he takes in our appearance, and I have to suppress the urge to giggle"Sir"Sir?" I question him, pretending like nothing is askew. Skinner blinked and shook his head, reaching for the leather chair behind his desk. He sat down and looked at us again, not seeming to meet our eyes. I didn't have to look at Mulder to know he was getting a kick out of this.

"Agents, I called you up her to request a favor. Several days ago a few of the agents from the violent crimes unit were required to attend a seminar out of town. They were supposed to be back by now, but the seminar ran long due to in climate weather." Skinner picked up a file from his desk and handed it to Mulder. "Mulder, I figured since you were familiar with the violent crimes unit, and since you don't have anything going on in the x-files right now, you wouldn't mind giving them a hand with this case."

Mulder and I exchanged glances as he began flipping through the file.

"No problem, sir. Agent Scully and I will get right on that."

"Actually, Agent Scully, there are some interns coming in today, I need you to an autopsy for them to observe."

Again we exchanged glances as I muttered my compliance. Skinner thanked us and we left, and we were standing in a hallway where we divided yet again. Mulder pulled me close so that his mouth was right next my ear.

"I'll call you." His breath was hot and I longed to kiss him again, but instead kept my fists balled firmly at my sides.

"Ok." We parted ways, and I cursed silently at our knack for encountering bad luck.

***


How easy it is to slide back into shoes you've discarded in the back of you closet for years. Shoes that are so broken into that they fit every contour of your foot, giving you a strange sense of comfort. That is the violent crimes unit for me. Though unbearably mundane at times, it was a place I knew well, it was where the x-files were born.

That's not entirely true. The x-files had its beginnings the very night that Samantha was stolen from me, that was when my insatiable lust for the truth captured my life. And now it's all I eat, sleep and dream about. Except when I'm thinking of Scully, Which is about 90% of the time. And now it seems that I'll be thinking about her a lot more, and more than just thinking, hopefully. Her barriers, her walls, they finally came down all because of my inability to keep my hands to myself. Inhibitions thrown to the wind, we *finally* freed ourselves from the prison of protocol and propriety. Of course, as this monumental moment of time took place, it was only natural for us to be interrupted. I think Scully is more upset about it than I am, justifiably so. She did make a big leap to breach the gap between us, when she could have just as easily made yet another wall instead I'm I'm in no hurry though, as uncharacteristic of me that may sound. Now that I have Scully, I know she will be there for me, and I have no more doubts in regards to where I stand with her. I feel completely at one and at peace with the universe. Call it a Zen moment, if you want.

And as I'm floating on my little piece of nirvana, I am vaguely aware of the nagging little file I hold in my hands as I approach the violent crimes sector of my home away from home, the J. Edgar Hoover building. I haven't really read it yet, but it looks like a doozy. A woman, Arlene Fimble, twenty-one, stabbed and raped in her own apartment, cut beyond recognition and displayed like a lifeless rag doll on her bed. The prime suspect her elusive ex-boyfriend, Dwight Handle twenty-eight, with a prison record the size of Tammy Faye Baker's annual cosmetic bill. Motive? An anger management problem. Evidence? Very little, save for a few prints and some DNA, things that may or may not have been there before the crime was committed and are not exactly incriminating, no witnesses to speak of. And this is where I come in, spooky Mulder who doesn't miss a beat, with my fine tooth comb in hand, ready for action.

I was greeted by Larry Shanks, an agent I had worked with several times before but didn't know very well. He was a good guy, though a bit on the dim side. He wasn't intimidated by my intensity though, and that was an admirable quality in a human.

"Hey, Fox. Thanks for coming down, we're really short handed here."

"Hey Larry, don't mention it."

"I assume A.D. Skinner gave you the case file?"

"Yeah, I got it." I waved the folder in my hand. "So, where do we start?"

"First I need you to scan the crime scene; see if you can find anything that forensics may have missed. Then we're going to do a stake out on this guy. You up for it?"

"But of course."

Taking Larry's car, we went to the crime scene, the apartment of the victim in a complex just north of Fredricksburg, Virginia. The crime itself had taken place 36 hours ago, in the early hours of the morning. The body was stored away in the local morgue, and most of the evidence gathered. The apartment was in a shambles; papers and books strewn everywhere, the floor littered with shards of broken glass, overturned furniture, holes punched into the walls. There had obviously been a struggle, any fool could see that. But I wanted more. I wanted something that would scream "This is the guy! Dwight Handle is guilty of murder!"

I started in the kitchen. A hunch told me that was where the fight began. I checked the cabinets, the fridge, the drawers, under the table. Nothing.

Moving on to front room, I pulled out the couch cushions, finding nothing more than a blue button, seventy three cents, and a two year old TV guide. I moved to the desk, rifling through all of the drawers and under the seat of the wooden chair. Then I noticed something; the victim's cell phone on the floor between the wall and the desk, a black Nokia. I picked it up and went to the call log, seeing that the last call that was made was to a voice mail service. This could be something. I called the voice mail, and was shocked at what I heard. Apparently, Miss Fimble was in the middle of creating a new voice mail message when Dwight busted into her apartment.

"Hi, you've reached Arlene, I can't take your call right now but,-"

Arlene pauses as she listens to three deafening knocks coming from what I assume to be the door.

"Arlene! Open the fucking door!

Arlene gasps and there's and audible thud as she drops the e.
e.

"Damn it, Dwight! Just leave me alone!"

"Like hell I'll leave you alone!"

Arlene screams as Dwight breaks down her door. I can hear him in the room now, his breathing heavy and ragged, like an enraged animal.

"You fucking slut! You fucked Alex, didn't you!

"What, Dwight, no, no! I don't know what you're talking about! Are you high again?"

"Shut up, Bitch! Don't you fucking lie to me!"

There's the sound of skin hitting skin and Arlenoansoans, the sound of her body falling to the floor.

"Now, I'll ask you again. Did. You. *Fuck*. Alex?

Arlene is crying.

"Yes! Yes, I'm sorry! Please, Dwight, don't-"

"Bitch! Let me show you what I do to cheating sluts, Arlene! Let me show you!"

Generic struggle sounds ensue, with a plethora of screams from Arlene and slurs from Dwight. He continues to beat her and stab her until the screaming stops.

"Shit...oh shit. Arlene? Shit Arlene, wake up! Wake up, bitch! Damn!"

And then there is a silence, a long, chilling silence and I can almost hear the blood running out of Arlene. Larry, who had been in the bedroom, came up to me.

"Fox, did you find something?" Without speaking I hand him the cell phone and replay the message for him. His face goes pale as he listens, until he hands the phone back to me and nods solemnly.

"We got him, now let’s go get him.

***


The autopsy I had to perform was of a bloated elderly man who died of a heart attack several days ago. The interns, there were four of them, were attentive and easy to work in front of but my heart just wasn't in it. Which would you rather be thinking about; making love to your partner of six years or cutting open a cold, rigormortis ridden dead body? I managed to get through the procedure, though, and was so relieved when the interns left, heading for the forensics department. I sterilized my instruments, wrapped the body, filled out the appropriate paperwork, and returned to the basement.

By that time it was nearly four o'clock. I still hadn't heard from Mulder, and found myself pacing anxiously back and forth. I was practically beating my head on the wall when the sound of my cell phone rang from my purse. I rushed to it, holding it to my ear eagerly.

"Scully."

"Hey, me. me."

"Mulder, where are you calling from?" I sat down in hisir, ir, propping myself on my elbows.

"I'm at a payphone. I should be back soon; we're doing a stake out on this guy, Dwight Handle. He killed his girlfriend and managed to elude the cops from being arrested. We're stationed outside of a club where he was seen last night, and most likely will return tonight."

"Who's 'we'?"

"Larry Shanks, a guy I used to work with in violent crimes. Listen, Scully, I'm really sorry about this morning, let me make it up to you. Let’s go out to dinner after all of this is over, someplace nice." I laughed and picked up a pen that was lying on his desk. It was one of those slidey pens with a moveable image inside. This one was of Betty Page. Tilt her one way and she's in a bathing suit, tilt her the other way and she's naked. Typical Mulder accessory.

"Mulder, by 'nice' do you mean Denny's?" Mulder gasped into the phone, feigning shock.

"Scully! You wound me!"

"Kidding, I'm kidding. Anyway, don't worry about it. I'd rather just spend the evening alone with you than at a fancy restaurant."

"Scully, I don't want this to be a 'wam, bam, thank you ma'am' kind of thing! I'd at least like to go out on an actual date with you before we, you know, consummate."

"Fine Mulder, I'll humor you. Just let me know when and where."

"Ok. I gotta go Scully, I think Larry sees something. I'll call you again tonight."

"Alright. Be careful."

"I will. Oh, and Scully?"

"Hm
"
"I love you."

I was stunned. I honestly didn't expect that. I probably should have, considering the events of this morning, but Mulder caught me completely off guard. I couldn't even respond.

"Scully? Did I say something wrong? Scully-"

"No, no Mulder, I'm fine. I just, I guess I'm not used to hearing you say that. I love you too."

"Well, get used to it, because it's going to become a common occurrence. Bye."

"Bye." I smiled as I clicked my cell phone off, unable to stop the grin that was tugging at the corners of my lips.

***


I smiled as I hung up the phone, unable to stop the grin that was tugging at the corners of my mouth. Scully loved me! She actually said so! I felt like skipping back to the car, but I thought that might slightly emasculate me in the eyes of Larry, who was signaling for me to hurry up, anyway. I was still giddy, though, and there was a slight spring in my step that Shanks picked up on.

"What are you so happy about, Fox? Did you win the lottery or something?"

"Nah. It's nothing. Did you see something?"

"Yeah, we got our man. He just entered the club with a blonde."

"Ooh, a blonde. Yowza."

"He was wearing a pretty heavy trench, we'd better be careful. He's probably packing heat."

"Most likely. So do you wanna go after him now or wait 'til he comes out?"

"Let's wait. This guy is obviously not of a rational mind, he could hurt some innocent by-standers."

So we waited and made small talk until freak-boy emerged from the club. In the meantime I got a good look at his file. His mother was a drug addict; his father abandoned the family when Dwight was an infant. Dwight himself was a prize of a man; 6'2, 246lbs, his head completely shaven with more tattoos than all of the members of Metallica put together. And then the man himself appeared alone, minus one blonde. He stepped out of the club, lit a smoke, and began walking to his car. Larry and I exchanged a look and got out of the car, weapons drawn.

"Dwight! Put your hands in the air, we're federal agents!" I yelled as we cornered him. His eyes went wide like a deer caught in the gleam on an oncoming semi's head lights. He stopped moving but didn't put his hands in the air.

"You're under arrest for the rape and murder of Arlene Fimble, Dwight," Larry said calmly, trying to subdue the wild man.

"Fuck you! That bitch deserved to die!"

Dwight reached inside his trench and pulled out a 38.

"Put the gun down, Dwight!"

Dwight aimed his gun at Larry, who froze.

"Larry, get down!" I rushed toward Larry, using my weight to force him to the ground, leaving me in his place. I didn't even have time to duck before the bullet left Dwight's gun.