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Summary
Fox laid on the bed, feeling—something. He couldn’t quite define it. He was fidgety and overly warm, even though he had turned the shitty motel air conditioning on as high as he could crank it. There was a veritable blizzard both outside and pouring out of the noisy machine under the windows, but he was still stripped down to his undershirt. If the windows had been able to open, he would have had them thrown wide, snow be damned. He tried closing his eyes but was immediately back up, pacing uncomfortably around the room. Fox kept having—urges. Thoughts. About things (and people. Okay, maybe just one person) he definitely, definitely shouldn’t be thinking about.
(Or: Mulder and Scully get exposed to a massive dose of pheromones and have to fuck.)