This was inspired by Drovar's story "Under my Skin", a tale that made me want to take a second look at Special Agent Jeff Spender. Note to readers: This is taking place in an Alternate Universe to the one I created for the original Grace and Damien. This Grace Pachelli has no relationship at all with AD Skinner here.


   

" . . . And so by signing this you have agreed to participate in this study, with all resulting data to be compiled and used by the FBI labs in determining the overall effectiveness of the Ryehader 500 polygraph. Blah, blah blah-- Any questions?"

"That's your job."

"Very funny. Are you ready?"

"Depends on just what you mean." Mulder commented back, watching the preparations with guarded interest. After sticking the last of the wires onto Mulder's forearm, the big man looked down at him and gently smiled.

"Are you ready to tell the truth for about forty minutes, Mulder?" Special Agent Damien Kanahoe picked up a clip board and gave it a cursory glance. "I know that might be too much for you, but I have to ask." Mulder grimaced, and shot a glance of his own at the mirrored window on the far wall knowing that Scully was back there, probably smirking at his discomfiture. He could see nothing beyond his own unhappy reflection, and that of the huge, beaming Kanahoe.

He hated this. But they all had to do it--the Ryehader was on the verge of becoming the polygraph standard, and according to the higher-ups, the sooner all field agents got familiar with it, the better. He and Scully had managed to avoid it so far, but after their last run-in with the new AD, Kersch finally rounded them up and send them down to the lab--

"Fire away, Damien." came his reply. The detector's sensor wires itched where the adhesive stuck to his skin. He sighed. Damien peered at the clipboard once more, ran a hand through his dark glossy hair, and began.

"Your name is Fox Mulder."

"Yes."

"You work for the Federal government."

"Yes." The soft scratching sound of the detector pens filled the spaces between the questions and answers. Mulder shifted his feet.

"Your partner is a woman."

"You bet."

"Just yes or no, agent Mulder." Damien didn't smile but his voice did.

"Yes."

"You enjoy torturing animals." The pens stayed steady.

"No."

"You live in the Washington area," he rumbled.

"Yes."

"You know where Jimmy Hoffa is."

"Yes." The pens veered back and forth in vehement denial. Mulder and Damien grinned at each other briefly.

"Your partner's name is Dana Scully."

"Yes."

"Special Agent Scully is by training a pathologist."

"Yes."

"You enjoy vivid sexual fantasies about your partner."

Once again the pens did a wild St. Vitus' dance across the graph.

 "No."

 Damien suppressed a chuckle, and turned away from the mirrored wall, his body builder's frame blocking Mulder's face from view there.

"Oh naugh-ty naugh-ty, Spooky."

"Below the belt, Kanahoe--That question wasn't on the form." Mulder snapped under his breath, his face slightly red. Damien gave him a mischievous look.

"Didn't you read the instructions?"

"No." The pens were  now quietly rolling on the paper.

"Mulder, we get to create the non-control questions--makes the sample study a little more varied. Don't worry--Scully will never know what my questions are, okay?"

"Really?" Damien noticed with amusement how very relieved Mulder looked.

"Really. Only the question numbers indicate which ones are non-control. Now let's just get this over with."

After a half an hour more of the risque and the routine, Damien switched the polygraph off and nodded to Mulder, who began to peel the adhesive patches off of his arm. As he was doing so, the doorknob rattled, and Scully walked in, followed by Grace Pachelli. Both of them wore catlike smiles.

"I really want to know what that ninth question was-- you look like you'd been severely goosed, Mulder." Grace smirked.

"Well, Damien wanted to know if I loved him," Mulder muttered, "and the unexpectedness of the question brought out all my latent desires and tendencies." He unfastened the forehead band and looked up at his partner, who stood with arms crossed, a smile on her red lips.

"I'm sorry Scully, but it's over--Kanahoe here is now the feverish object of my many sordid desires."

 "I'll sob to sleep every night." she reassured him blandly. He rose, rolling his left sleeve down and fastening the button with a graceful economy of motion as Damien coiled the wires and tossed the used patches into the garbage can under the table.

"Maybe I'll let you buy a pizza and talk me out of this mad obsession." Mulder pointed out. "Something with a stuffed crust and extra cheese."

"Two-timing slut." Damien mock-growled over his shoulder as he signed off the clipboard and attached the folded graph paper to it. "I bet she throws in hot wings too, just to get you back."

"Probably." Scully admitted. "I don't play fair when it comes to food-induced loyalty. Join us?"

"Grace?" Damien looked at his partner. She shook her head and pointed with her chin to the machine.

"I got drafted to do one more of these tonight. You guys go on without me."

"We'll  try to save you a few slices--mushrooms no meat, right?" Mulder asked.  Grace made an affirmative sound, and picked up another clipboard as the others filed out.

        **          **         **

 After fifteen minutes, she checked her watch again and paced around the interrogation room, wishing that whoever was due to show up, would. Pausing in front of the mirrored wall, she absently checked her teeth and made a face at her reflection. The other sloe-eyed woman there, also a curvy brunette with neatly chignoned hair, returned the grimace.

She heard footsteps. Spinning around she looked up at the man entering the room and for a second they both stopped short, surprise mirrored on their expressions. He recovered first.

"*You.*" Came his sneer of identification. "God, I should have known. It's already been a crappy day, and all it needed was a nice heavy dollop of irony to cap it off." Special Agent Jeff Spender shook his head and angrily tossed the raincoat he'd been carrying on his arm to the nearest chair.

"As if it's going to make *my* day to do you any favors." Grace growled back. "Oh *please*--" she stalked over to the far side of the lie detector, keeping the machine between them. He moved into the room and looked down at it, ignoring her as he touched the paper, studied the electrode wires. Neither of them said anything more for a few minutes as they struggled to adjust to the
unpleasant situation. Finally Spender gave an annoyed sigh and began pulling the cuff link out of his left shirt sleeve.

"Alright, let's just get it done."

"No problem here." Grace replied tightly. She pointed to the chair on the right side of the lie detector. "Sit."

"Arf." came his sardonic reply. Cautiously he lowered himself into the seat, rolling his sleeve up to the elbow, exposing a pale arm unexpectedly corded with rangy muscle.

"Put these on." She tossed the electrode leads at his face; he shot his right hand up and caught them before they hit his chin.

"Javohl, mein Fuhrette."

"Bastard."

"Bitch."

Having gotten these pleasantries out of the way, Spender peeled the adhesive patches and planted them at intervals along his arm while Grace wrapped the other monitor bands around his chest. Distastefully she picked up the forehead strap.

"I just don't know if it will fit a head that swollen--"

"Hysterical. Have you been on Leno yet?" Spender muttered, plugging the leads into the patches one at a time. "Grace give it a rest--if these results get skewed and I have to take this thing over again, I'll personally write your home phone number and E-mail address in every men's room stall in this building."

"Like old times." Grace spat out. "You already *did* that, Jeffy boy. *Had* to tell folks about my summer job, *had* to let everybody know I was Miss March 1988--do you have any *clue* how much that set me back?" She wrapped the forehead strap around his skull, tightening it with sharp impatient tugs. "All that good work I'd done on seminal fluid analysis suddenly became one long nasty in-joke around here. Two years worth of work down the drain all because you talked to AD Cox."

"He specifically asked." Spender muttered between gritted teeth. "I answered. End of story."

"Bullshit! You were just pissed off because I was asked to do the show and you weren't."

"Excuse me?" He glared up at her and even though his arm was resting on the table, his fist was clenching and unclenching. "Jesus H. Christ, Grace, you were about to make a complete idiot of yourself on television--do you have *any* idea what the media would do with the concept of a former Playboy bunny being presented as the FBI's resident expert on semen? Jeez, if you thought your life was hell in the Hoover building, think of what the public at large would have inflicted on you!"

There was a frustrated pause, a mental re- evaluation as Grace pursed her pretty lips. She refused to concede.

"I'm a big girl--I could have handled it."

"Uh huh." Spender drily agreed. "Whatever. Let's get this damned thing over with." He rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder in an attempt to relax. Grace picked up her clip board and the look on her face suggested that a desire to whack him over the head with it had crossed her thoughts. Her fingers tightened around the edge.

"You signed the release?"

"It's on my desk in the out box."

"You read the directions?"

"Yes." Impatience tinged his voice. "Get started."

"Oooooh. The voice of authority." She flicked the switches and adjusted the flow of graph paper with a steady hand. A quick glance at her watch and she added a time notation to the clip board.

"Your name is Jeffery Spender."

"Yes."

"You are right-handed."

"Yes."

"You are a vegetarian."

"No."

"You are an only child."

"Yes." his answers had taken on a bored mechanical tone.

"You love liver and onions."

"Yes." Grace glanced at the steady pens and make a moue.

"Ecccch. I *knew* you were weird."

He refused to rise to the bait and looked at her calmly, dispassionately waiting for the next statement. Grace could see the steady beat of his pulse recording on the graph paper. She got an idea.

"You work for the Federal government."

"Yes."

"You haven't had sex with anyone in quite a while." It was a shot in the dark, but when the pulse line began bouncing, she smiled. Spender paused.

"Yes." his voice was dark with warning. She blithely ignored it.

"You carry a sidearm."

"Yes."

"You know where Jimmy Hoffa is."

"No."

“You have sexual fantasies involving me."

"No." The pens went berserk, wobbling madly across the scrolling paper in a wide arc. Grace savored the moment as Spender shot her a glare of pure hatred.

"Gotcha, Jeffy boy. Testicles never lie."

"I suppose you've collected enough of them to know." he retorted. She shrugged.

"Your eye color is blue."

"Yes."

"You've met Director Louis Freeh in person."

"Yes."

"You want me to give you a long, slow, blowjob."

"Sure." his left hand clenched into a fist so tight that his knuckles stood out in paper white contrast against his flushed skin. "Ooohhhh, sure. And by all means let's have old Louis watch while you're at it."

The pens rolled on quietly.

"Just yes or no, Spender--we wouldn't want to have to do this *all* over again, now, would we?" Grace stood back and flashed a smile of amusement and unwilling admiration, acknowledging that he was tougher than she'd thought. She cleared her throat and continued.

"Your partner Diana Fowler is a woman."

"Yes."

"You ate breakfast this morning."

"No."

Grace licked her lips and whispered, "You would love to hear about *my* sexual fantasies involving you."

He struggled. Spender's jaw shifted back and forth; she could hear his teeth grinding in the room's stillness. Finally dragged out of the depths of him came his reluctant reply:

"Yes."

The pens continued rolling calmly, but the pulse line accelerated the row of arcs per minute. Grace felt a shiver of pleasure run down her spine and giggled in self-awareness of it's implications.

"God, I am *such* a bitch."

"Oh yes." Came Spender's heartfelt hiss. "Yes in-deedy." He looked ready to bite the heads off tenpenny nails. "Got *that* one right."

"You have traveled out of state." She moved closer to him, her thighs pressing the side of his right shoulder. He deliberately turned his head to the left.

"Yes."

"You know who Elvis was."

"Yes."

"You want me to bounce up and down on that aching lap of yours."

"Jesus Grace, you're really getting off on this, aren't you?" Spender accused in a frustrated whine. The words barely left his mouth before she pressed a firm hand on his lips for a second, hushing him. Bending closer she touched her nose to his and reminded him huskily, "Just yes or no, Special Agent Spender."

Their breath mingled; he could feel the heat of a blush on his fair skin. He chewed the inside of his lips. The pens danced in a spastic jitterbug for a few seconds until he grumbled.

"Yes."

She nodded approvingly.

"All right--" And settled herself down sideways on his lap ignoring his agitated glare. He made no protest. She could feel the lean strength of his thighs, and an intriguing ridge that nestled against the hollow just under her buttocks. Grace pretended to study her clipboard for a long moment. His cologne smelled wonderful. Spender made a discreet attempt to get his breathing under control.

"You possess a valid driver's license."

"Yes." Each answer came in rapid response, almost on the tail of the question asked. Spender refused to look at her.

"You like to torture small animals."

"No."

"You voted in the last presidential election." Grace clenched her knees together, hoping the heat she felt between her thighs wasn't too apparent.

"Yes."

"At this moment, I am sexually harassing you."

"Yes!"  He blurted through his thin lips.
   
"You are going to file a report on me." Grace shifted her weight slightly, feeling his already taut stomach muscles contract. His erection throbbed. She watched his Adam's apple bob once as he swallowed hard.

"No." The answer came out strained, but in a matter-of-fact tone. "Who the hell would believe it anyway?"

"Good answer." she nodded. "Pragmatic." Grace reached up above the forehead band and tugged on one curly lock of his hair. It was not a cruel or hard tug; it had the look of a caress. He shot her a wary, puzzled look.

"Used to drive me nuts. Does it ever get out of place? Do you ever wake up with bed hair, Jeffery Spender?"

"Yes." The pens dutifully recorded the truth. Grace grinned, and let her fingers twirl around one lock, drawing it out and letting it go, watching it bounce back.

"Do you know how much I want to just *muss* your hair?"

"No." Came his sardonic, surprised reply. She squirmed in his lap again, forcing him to inhale sharply.

"A lot. Every morning, rain or shine, wind or snow you'd come in to the building perfectly tidy, completely composed. Not a hair out of place." She reached up and let her own curls come tumbling down. "It was enough to send me off the deep end after a while. No sagging socks, no wrinkled ties, no mismatched cuff links. A regular Mister FBI GQ. So I started fantasizing about
messing you up a bit. Wanna hear about it?"

He shrugged, but the Adam's apple bounced again. "Yes."

"I wanted to--" her free hand slid to his throat, "--loosen that Macy's special for starters." Her fingers managed to hook under the backside of the knot and the watered silk tie slid down as she tugged. Spender moved his right hand to grab it, but Grace brought the clipboard up, blocking his reach.

"Ah-ah," she warned him. Uncertainly he let the hand drop again. Grace pulled the tie free and tossed it over her shoulder. Spender winced as if to protest, but she beat him to it.

"Does that annoy you?"

"Yes."

"Fair enough." Shifting quickly, she rose, turned and straddled him, looking up into his face: tiny beads of sweat were forming on his brow and upper lip. Grace trembled a little herself; her balance was precarious in several ways and the heat of their touching bodies alone was making her giddy. Now she could see the hard thrum of pulse at his throat and feel the hard throb of his prick underneath her.

"Do you think . . . I'm wearing panties?" she breathed into his thin, flushed face.

"I'm not . . . s-s-sure." Jeffery Spender was almost stuttering. Lust and panic swirled in his blue eyes and only a fraction of his cool, untouchable personality remained. The sight of his confusion drew a whimper from Grace. Dry-mouthed she whispered.

"Would you like . . . to slide a hand under my skirt  . . . and find out?"

"Yesssss---" Spender was biting his lips hard enough to draw blood; his nostrils flared. "Yes, I damned well would."

"Go ahead--" as the words left her mouth she felt his cold fingers blindly glide up her right thigh, hurriedly bunching her skirt.

"Grace . . ."

He'd found the answer.

"Jeff . . ." Her clipboard dropped to the floor with a loud wooden clatter. "You look a little . . . mussed up."

"No  . . . shit,” came his strangled reply. Grace pushed herself forward, sliding her hands down between them, reaching for his belt. After a few seconds of frantic struggling, she managed to free his cock, guiding it out of his fly with gentle fingers. He had his eyes closed, out of embarrassment or passion, she couldn't tell, but when she rose up, his hands held her hips with a grip strong enough to leave a bruise.

"Will you kiss me first?"

His eyes snapped open; he nodded once and leaned forward. Grace pressed her mouth to his at the same moment she lazily dropped her hips, taking him into her with one slow wet glide. Spender groaned against her lips, his fingers digging in, his arms pulling her down.

She groaned in return, her body wriggling against his, pumping up and down in an ever increasing rhythm that sent waves of pleasure washing through her frame. Tiny snaps and pops announced that the wires had become unattached to the lie detector, but neither Spender nor Grace noticed as they continued. Grace clutched his shoulders, dug her nails in, and spasmed.

"OhGodohGodohGOD----" she shrieked at a pitch high enough to shatter glass. Spender shuddered violently, his face buried in a wave of her dark cascading hair, his hands locked around her waist. They slumped back in the chair, Grace over him still, her forehead just under his chin. She sighed. She gave a happy groan. She giggled against his shirt front.

"Oh Jeffery Spender, you stud . . . I can't believe that we . . . I mean you know, you and I, right here . . . but that was fantastic . . . Jeff? Jeff?"

She sat up and looked down into his face. He was completely unconscious, head sagging back, mouth hanging open, a thin line of drool trickling from one corner.

"Oh shit!"

Quickly she poked a hand to his carotid artery; the strong pulse there stopped the panic attack that threatened to overwhelm her. She looked down at him more carefully. A smile crept over her face as she brushed the tousled hair back from his forehead. She patted his face. No response. She flicked a finger against his nose. He never moved.

"Jeff?" Grace bit her lip to keep from laughing.

"Well studmuffin, I guess this means the test is over--" Stickily, stiffly she climbed off of him and smoothed her rumpled skirt down. She picked up the clipboard, checked the pile of graph paper spilling over the end of the table and made a notation. Carefully, Grace clipped the paper to the clipboard. Swiftly, she picked up Spender's raincoat and went back to him. She draped it over his unconscious form and pressed a soft kiss to his slack cheek. Then without looking back, she went to the door, turned out the lights and left the room.


On the other side of the mirrored wall, a hand rubbed across a forehead. A harsh sigh escaped, and a cigarette was dropped and ground out on the tile floor.
 

END