Team Spirit
by leiascully

Email: leiascully@gmail.com
Rating: PG-13
                    
Summary:  "Scully, what are you wearing?" he asks.

Author's Notes: Timeline: 10.03 "Mulder and Scully Meet The
Were-Monster."  My take on the fabled Knicks t-shirt.

Disclaimer: The X-Files and all related characters are the
property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and Fox Studios.
No profit is made from this work and no infringement is
intended.


Scully doesn't argue when Mulder tells her they have to leave
the motel. She doesn't even ask questions. She just slides out
of bed and reaches for her suitcase. Mulder isn't looking at her
bare legs as she bends over, of course he's not (okay, maybe he
is, but she knows what to expect by now), but as her nightshirt
rides up her bare thighs, he catches a glimpse of blue and
orange.

"Scully, what are you wearing?" he asks.

She straightens up. "It's commonly known as a nightshirt,
Mulder. Sometimes pajamas just seem too fussy to pack." 

"Not the shirt," he says. "Under the shirt."

She crossed her arms over her chest and raises one eyebrow at
him. "Are you trying to consort with me while on assignment,
Agent? Because that seems like a personal question." She licks
her lips, which doesn't at all hide her smile. 

"I'm a trained investigator," he says. "And I can't help but
notice that you appear to be wearing New York Knicks boxers,
Agent Scully."

"Do you have jurisdiction over my undergarments?" she teases. 

"We've crossed state lines together," he says. "That makes this
a matter of federal interest."

"Federal interest," she murmurs in a warm, husky voice. "I
see."

"I don't recall you being a New York Knicks fan, Scully," he
says. "I do recall personally owning a pair of New York Knicks
boxers, which I now can't remember having seen in the
last...while."

"You'd think such a passionate fan would keep better track of
his merchandise," Scully tells him, turning away. This time
when she bends to pick up a pair of shoes, she's definitely
taking no pains to stop her shirt from hitching up and showing
the hem of his Knicks boxers.

He reaches out to tug at her shirt and she playfully pushes his
hand away. "Not without a warrant, Agent," she says, her smile
almost a grin. 

"You're having fun with this, aren't you?" he asks.

"I certainly am," she says. 

"What if I were to demand that you take those off right now?"
he asks. 

"I'd tell you you need a better line than that to get me out of my
clothes," she says with a wink.

"My clothes," he grumbles. 

"I don't seem to recall this kind of resistance when I wore your
Knicks t-shirt," she says, stepping closer to him. She's so short
in her bare feet. He has to tilt his head to gaze down at her.

"That was different," he says.

"Was it," she says. "For what reason, I wonder. Maybe because
your Knicks t-shirt was worn so thin it was almost
transparent?"

"Maybe," he says.

"Or was it because you had the privilege of taking the Knicks t-
shirt off of me on several occasions?" she says, pretending to
be thoughtful even as her fingers graze the hem of his
decidedly non-Knicks shirt. Scully's always had a knack for
hands-on learning. 

"Might be that," he allows, his mind starting to wander further
and further south. "Maybe it's just that we weren't on a case."

"We were that one time," she says, and the shiver in her voice
runs up and down his spine. 

"Oh," he says, and has to clear his throat. "Yeah. Just that one
time."

"But I suppose," she says, "if you really want them back...."
She's almost pressed against him, her fingers splayed over his
belly. Her shoulders tilt oddly, and it takes him a moment to
realize that her free hand has slipped under her nightshirt to tug
at the boxers. They fall to the carpet at her feet with a little
whooshing noise. She steps neatly out of them, leaving them on
the floor in front of him. 

"There you are," she says. 

"You know what," he says, "I'll get those back from you later."

"Whatever you want, Mulder," she says, smirking at her
suitcase. 

He hesitates, then picks up the boxers and drapes them over the
eyes of the fox on the wall. "How long's it take to get a warrant
in this town, Scully?" he asks. "I ask as a professional
investigator, just in case I uncover any other mysteries within
my jurisdiction."

"Depends on who's asking," she tells him. "But I think you've
got a good shot."

"I'll check back," he says. "After we've checked out."

"I'll try not to skip town before you have the chance to
conclude your investigation," she tells him, and it's like the
time they spent apart was only the blink of an eye. 

"See that you don't," he says.

"Give me ten minutes," she tells him, hooking a pair of
impractical-looking lace-trimmed underwear out of her
suitcase. "Although I have to say this seedy motel is bringing
back some memories."

"Good ones?" he asks.

She licks her lips again as she studies him. "Good enough."

"Ten minutes," he says. "We'll find a slightly less suspect
dump. It'll feel just like home." 

He walks out of her room and closes the door behind himself.
"Just like the old days," he murmurs to himself. "For better or
for worse."