From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: Thu, 28 Jun 2012 15:52:17 -0500 (CDT)
Subject: Bite Size Love 1/6 by Malibusunset
Source: direct
Reply To: malibusunset88@gmail.com
Title: Bite Size Love (Prequel to the Terra Firma
series)
Author: Malibu Sunset
Email: malibusunset88@gmail.com
Category: MSR, first time, angst
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Everything through Season 7.
Summary: Season 7 MSR story. This is a prequel to
my Terra Firma series, but it can be read as its
own separate entity for those who don't care for
family fic. This piece was written after I
completed all five parts of Terra Firma.
Disclaimer: Not mine, all theirs, but I love
them like they were my own.
Author's Note: Only in 1013 World can a woman be
pregnant for an entire year. I decided to stick
with canon and have Scully conceive between
April-May, 2000, but I took the liberty of moving
Requiem to June because it fit better in my
story. In Terra Firma, William is born in May,
2001, also according to canon. This is completely
schizophrenic, I do realize. Don't blame me; I
did the best I could with what they gave me
(palms up and shoulders shrugging).
Thanks: To all fans of Terra Firma who encouraged
this piece. Your feedback and kind words mean
more than you know. To Tanya, for cheering me on
and for being a friend. I hope we get to meet
someday.
New Year's Day, 2000
She had eaten two scrambled eggs and rye toast
with real butter this morning, without even
stopping once to consider her cholesterol, which
was, let's face it, far below normal anyway.
Still, it was borderline living-on-the-edge for
her. Then she had stepped into the shower and
left the dirty dishes in the sink, unscraped and
unrinsed, which seriously challenged her OCD in
some tantalizing ways. She could've even left the
crusty egg plate on the table instead of
bothering to carry it to the sink, but that might
have been a little too much. She knew her limits
and could only embrace irresponsibility in
increments.
"Good things come to those who wait, Dana," her
mother had always said. She pondered this while
massaging shampoo into her scalp. When she was
eight-years-old, it had meant waiting for
Christmas or her birthday to get the things on
her wish list -- a pair of metal rollerskates that
clamped onto her sneakers or a new bicycle with a
flowered basket on the front and pink streamers
on the handlebars. When she was sweet sixteen, it
had meant waiting until she and David Markley had
been dating at least a month before she let him
feel her up underneath her shirt, even though he
had already kissed her dozens of times, several
with tongue. As it turned out, David had been an
especially worthy opponent against bra clasps,
something she found out before month two.
When she was in her twenties, waiting meant
putting her personal goals on the back burner in
order to pursue her career -- medicine, then the
Bureau. She was a traditional girl at heart. The
American Dream held appeal for her. She wanted it
all -- a stable and happy marriage, smart and
talented kids, annual vacations to exotic
destinations, a house with curb appeal and a
manicured lawn. But good things come to those who
wait, so she had waited. And waited. And waited.
And now she was tired of waiting and was ready
for her good things to come.
The problem was, she wasn't entirely sure if the
good things she wanted now were the same good
things she used to want. After all she had
experienced, all she had seen in the last several
years, she was no longer the same person. At
times, the desire for an ordinary life was still
there; other times, it seemed ridiculously
simplistic and meaningless.
And then there was Mulder. Somewhere along the
way, her existence had become intertwined with
his and she no longer really knew who she was
apart from him. She was sensing, especially
lately, that the ground beneath them was
shifting, aligning, becoming. But what it was
becoming was the real question. There was love,
of course. There had been for a long time. And
desire, despite years of trying to talk herself
out of that one too.
Last night he had kissed her. It had been the
kind of kiss that had left her with more
questions than answers. They hadn't discussed it
afterward, but since when did they really talk
about anything? What she really had to figure out
was whether that spinning feeling she got was
from the kiss or from thirty-six hours with no
sleep and a bad diner meal.
When she turned off the shower, her phone was
ringing and she made a run for it, grabbing a
towel from the rack and dripping her way to the
nightstand in her bedroom. Her wet feet left
perfect five-toed footprints on the plush carpet.
"Hello." She cradled the receiver between her ear
and shoulder while she wrapped and tucked the
towel. Her hair dripped tributaries between her
shoulder blades.
A hoarse voice struggled on the other end. "Hi,
Honey."
"Mom? Mom, you sound awful. What's wrong?"
"Oh, just a nasty cold, nothing to worry about.
I'm afraid I wouldn't be very good company today,
though. I think we'd better reschedule."
She and her mom had a standing New Year's Day
arrangement. Old movies and comfort food. She had
been due at her mother's house in another hour.
"Are you running a fever? Why don't I stop over
anyway and take a look at you?"
"Dana, that's completely unnecessary. I think I
can diagnose the common cold in myself. It's
nothing some rest won't take care of. I'll call
you tomorrow."
"If you're sure. Let me know if you need
anything, okay?"
The call ended and Scully stood there dripping on
the carpet, contemplating how to pass a New
Year's Day by herself.
*************************************************
************************************
The next time her phone rang, Scully was removing
a second hot cookie sheet from the oven. She
fumbled for the receiver with an oven mitt on,
trying to pick up before the fifth ring when the
answering machine would kick in.
The edge of her pinky finger grazed the corner of
one scalding cookie sheet just as she was hitting
the "talk" button on the phone. "Ow, damn,
hello."
Silence for a beat, then, "Scully? Bad time?"
"Hi. No, I'm just taking hot cookies out of the
oven and I accidentally touched a cookie sheet."
She switched the phone to her left hand and
sucked on her right pinky finger. "Mm, that
smarts."
"Do you need me to kiss it and make it better?"
he asked.
"You're offering to drive all the way over here
to kiss my finger?" She smiled at this common
repartee between them.
"Depends. What kind of cookies?"
"Oatmeal raisin."
A sigh. "Why not chocolate chip?"
She could almost visualize his little boy pout.
"First of all, I didn't have any chocolate, and
second of all, beggars can't be choosers."
"First of all, since when does a woman not have
any chocolate around, and second of all, since
when do you bake, Scully?"
"I bake. Sometimes. You don't know everything
about me, Mulder."
"Clearly. So what -- you're just going to bake
cookies and eat them all by yourself on New
Year's Day? What happened to the movie marathon
with your mom?"
"She's not feeling well. And how did you know I
was planning to watch movies with my mother?"
"You were talking about it on the phone with her
in the office last week. And that's what you
always do on New Year's Day."
How did he remember these things when she could
barely recall what she ate for dinner last night?
Oh yeah, bad diner food. She should've known
better than to order anything off a menu in a
place that proudly advertised itself as "Home of
the Garbage Plate." She could tell Mulder had
been tempted.
"So is that why you called? To find out how I'm
spending my holiday?"
"No, actually, I was sitting here filling out the
expense report and I wondered if the receipt for
my rental car might be comingling in a dark
folder with yours? I can't find it."
She transferred cookies onto a baking rack with a
spatula, smooshing one in the process. She broke
off a corner and popped it into her mouth because
the unspoken rule was that any cookies damaged in
the baking process should be eaten immediately,
without guilt. "You're doing an expense report on
your day off, Mulder? How is that possible when
you can't even manage to do them when we're in
the office?"
"Well, I already ran six miles, did my laundry,
and the Dr. Who marathon doesn't start until
three."
"I'm a little afraid to ask, but why the sudden
burst in productivity?"
"It's a new year, Scully. Resolutions and all
that nonsense. I have high expectations for the
year 2000."
A sudden flashback of his lips connecting with
hers and that jumpy feeling in her stomach, like
she'd swallowed a tadpole, sashayed through her
brain. She wondered if his high expectations had
any kind of personal agenda to them, or if he was
speaking strictly professionally.
"Hang on. Let me check on the car receipt." She
carried the rest of her uneaten cookie with her
to the desk and sifted through some work files on
top. "Um, yes. I have two Hertz receipts. Do you
need it now or can it wait until tomorrow?
Because I'm fully committed to avoiding work at
all costs today, Mulder. Even if it's just to eat
oatmeal cookies and clean my apartment."
He chuckled. "It can wait. Enjoy your day off,
Scully. I'll see you tomorrow."
She hung up and looked at the two dozen freshly
baked cookies on her kitchen counter. Why did she
bother? She'd never allow herself to eat more
than a couple anyway. She should have invited him
over for cookies, but somehow it sounded weird or
desperate or something. She could hear it now --
"Mulder, do you want to come over and eat my
cookies?" She snorted out loud. Mulder didn't
have the market cornered on suggestive innuendo;
he was just the only one who said them out loud.
Sometimes she could actually make herself blush
at the things that would float through her head
when she was around him.
The cookies cooled on the counter, filling her
apartment with a very uncharacteristically homey
smell. She grabbed a bucket of cleaning supplies
and rubber gloves from under the kitchen sink and
headed for her bathroom, making a detour through
the living room to crank up the stereo a few
notches.
*************************************************
************************************
The entire contents of her refrigerator were
littered across her countertop when there was a
knock at the door. Scully rose from where she had
been kneeling and scrubbing out the crisper
drawers. She blew a loose tendril of sweaty hair
from in front of her eyes and glanced at the
clock on the microwave, which she suddenly
realized could probably stand to be cleaned as
well. 5:25 p.m.
It wouldn't be, would it? She trotted to the door
and glanced through the peephole. Good God,
really? She sighed, taking in her reflection in
the mirror that hung over the small table by the
door. Black drawstring workout pants, bare feet,
her grey fitted Navy T-shirt with no bra on
underneath, and yellow rubber gloves to top off
the look. She swung the door open.
"Hi, Mulder. Why aren't you wearing your sling?"
She gestured toward his arm, her mouth pursed in
disapproval.
"Happy New Year to you too, and because it's a
pain in the ass."
His eyes made a quick pass over her, stalling a
beat on the T-shirt. She needed to go put a bra
on, pronto. "Did I catch you at a bad time?" He
was smiling and clutching a brown paper bag in
his good arm. She eyed it curiously.
"No, come on in. I was just cleaning out my
refrigerator."
He followed her inside and closed the door behind
him. "Don't throw anything out until I look at
it," he said. "Your standards regarding what's
still edible and mine differ widely, and I
haven't eaten since breakfast."
She rolled her eyes and walked back into the
kitchen with him trailing her. "What's with the
bag?" she asked, gesturing to his arms. He handed
it to her and she unrolled the top cautiously.
Her brows took a hike. "DVDs and..." she pulled
out a blue and yellow box, "Kraft Macaroni and
Cheese, Mulder?"
He smiled, smugly. "It's comfort food, Scully. To
go with the movies."
"It's college food, Mulder. Which movies did you
bring?" She couldn't imagine what he would've
picked. Or maybe she could and that was what
really scared her. She pulled out a stack of
three DVDs in plastic cases.
"Sleepless in Seattle, The Wedding Singer, and
When Harry Met Sally?" She smirked. "Um...okay.
Who died and bequeathed their entire chick flick
collection to you?"
"Those are movies girls like, right?" He searched
her face for approval and his expression made him
look like he was about fifteen and hoping he had
gotten the right corsage to match his date's
dress.
"Some girls, I guess."
He looked stricken.
She manufactured a warm smile, becoming aware
that this was obviously more important to him
than she originally realized. "I've actually
never seen The Wedding Singer."
He beamed, his attention quickly diverting to the
plate of oatmeal cookies on the counter. "Then
we'll start with that one." He began shoveling
cookies into his mouth.
"Help yourself," she said, brows raised.
He munched happily. "Mm, theesh're really goo,
Shcully."
"They're even better when you chew them," she
said, transferring items back into her clean
refrigerator. She took the top off a Tupperware
container and held the contents over the garbage
disposal.
"Whoa, whoa, hang on with that. What is it?" he
asked, a third cookie perched between his
fingers. "Maybe I want it."
"It's four-day-old chicken salad."
He took the container from her and raised it to
his nose. "Looks fine. Smells even better. Grab
me a fork, will ya?"
She handed him one, warily. "How have you
survived this long, Mulder?"
"There is a series of complicated answers to that
question, Scully." He smiled through a forkful of
food.
"I'm going to go get cleaned up and change my
clothes," she said. "I'd tell you make yourself
at home, but I guess we're beyond that." She
scrunched her nose, watching him clean out her
Tupperware container.
"What's wrong with what you're wearing? I think
the T-shirt's especially... nice." He smiled.
Her cheeks pinked and she studied her bare feet.
He cleared his throat. "Hey, I can make the mac
and cheese for us while you're changing."
"Knock yourself out. Pans are in the cupboard
below the coffee maker, colander in the next one
over."
She closed her bedroom door and stripped off her
clothes quickly. A concentrated sniff of herself
told her that a second shower wasn't necessary.
She hadn't broken much of a sweat while cleaning.
But wait. Crap, had she bothered to shave her
legs recently. She ran a palm over one calf.
Passable. And Jesus, why did it matter? They were
only going to be watching movies. It wasn't like
she was going to jump into bed with him.
Absolutely, positively not. Yet anyway.
She armed herself with a solid reapplication of
deodorant, brushed her teeth, combed her hair,
and slipped into practical cotton underwear,
because anything else would have been
presumptuous and maybe, just maybe, a tempt of
fate. Her favorite well-worn jeans and light
blue, button-front sweater rounded things out.
She looked in the mirror and smoothed her hair
behind her ears. Not bad. Maybe just a touch of
makeup. She opened the top drawer of the bathroom
vanity and pulled out her cosmetic bag, then
applied a very modest amount of eyeliner,
smudging it a little with the edge of her finger.
A tiny bit of eyeshadow came next, but she rubbed
it off the second after applying it because it
looked like she had put makeup on. She didn't
want to look like she had put makeup on for him.
No eyeshadow. One light swipe of mascara and a
dab of lip gloss. Best to skip the blush
altogether. She had the feeling her cheeks would
have a glow to them all on their own.
Dammit, why did one kiss have to change
everything? She felt a twinge of animosity and
resentment toward him. How dare he show up
unannounced and just assume she'd want to spend
her evening watching movies with him. She would
have been perfectly happy cleaning her apartment,
then taking a nice, long bubble bath and reading
in bed before going to sleep early.
Why should she just drop everything to entertain him?
She'd go out there right now and tell him that she
changed her mind and she'd really like the
evening to herself. They would have to do the
movie marathon another time. He'd understand.
She'd send him away with a plate of homemade
cookies and the promise of a rain check. After
all, one little chaste kiss didn't mean anything.
It didn't mean their relationship was changing at
all. And it certainly had nothing to do with the
tornado going on in her stomach, or why she had
unbuttoned and then rebuttoned the top of her
sweater three times, indecisively.
She smiled and settled on just two undone buttons
before opening the bedroom door to rejoin him.
*************************************************
************************************
They sat on the sofa together with plates
balanced on their laps. Adam Sandler crooned away
on the TV wearing a baby blue tuxedo and Mulder
licked neon orange cheese from the back of a
spoon.
"I can't believe you'd rather eat that," he
nodded, wrinkling his nose at her plate of Lean
Cuisine.
"Ditto," she replied, forking chicken and
broccoli into her mouth without taking her eyes
off the TV.
"Come on, just one bite." He held out a spoonful
to her and she eyed it suspiciously before
sinking her mouth over it.
She chewed thoughtfully. "It's so salty
and...processed."
"I know, isn't it great?" He smiled. "It's like
Twinkies. You could put them in the trunk of your
car for a year and they'd be exactly the same.
It's a culinary miracle, Scully."
"There is nothing culinary about that, Mulder.
The color of that cheese just does not exist in
the natural world." She paused, then, "Gimme
another bite." And he did, feeding her from his
spoon and it wasn't even a little bit weird.
"So where'd you get the movies? I know they're
not part of your usual collection." She set her
plate of mostly finished dinner on the coffee
table and pulled her legs up to curl under her.
"Marty and Joe. Although I had to interrupt a
very interesting New Year's party to get them.
Somebody named Cinnamon Toast answered the door.
Gender inconclusive."
Scully smiled. Marty and Joe were Mulder's gay
neighbors. They were on very friendly terms with
him and Mulder even had a standing invitation for
Sunday morning breakfast. Joe was a chef in a
prestigious restaurant and enjoyed putting on a
lavish spread for Sunday breakfast. When Mulder's
waterbed had sprung a leak awhile back, he had
even crashed on Marty and Joe's couch for a night
while his carpet dried out. The next day, Mulder
had worn a new tie to work and when Scully
complimented him on it, he had replied matter-of-
factly, "It's Marty's. The color is eggplant.
Marty and Joe think I should wear more jewel
tones."
"Two out of three of the movies have Meg Ryan in
them. Do you have a secret crush I should know
about?" she teased.
Scully got up to carry her plate to the kitchen,
but as she was walking away she could've sworn
she heard him mutter "Not on Meg Ryan" under his
breath.
The credits were rolling when she walked back
into the living room. "So what did you think of
The Wedding Singer, Scully?"
She shrugged. "It was entertaining. A little
juvenile maybe, but the music was good."
Mulder snorted. "Coming from someone whose entire
CD collection is classical music."
Scully's eyebrows lifted and she cocked her head
to the side to look at him. "What are you talking
about?"
He got up and crossed to the bookshelf where her
stereo sat and gestured to an entire row of CDs
with a sweep of his hand. "Vivaldi, Mozart, Bach,
Wagner, Brahms, Handel, Chopin,
Stravinsky...should I go on?"
"Open up the doors on the bottom shelf, Mulder."
"What?"
"There are doors that slide open on the bottom
shelf. Open them." She crossed her arms in front
of her chest and smiled.
He fingered the wood on the bottom of the
bookshelf and looked surprised to find that there
were indeed doors that slid to the side,
revealing an entire new row of CDs, numbering at
least fifty.
"Scully. You've been holding out on me." He
smoothed one finger over the plastic edges of the
CDs reading the titles. "Holy...look at all this
cool stuff. Bowie, The Stones, Red Hot Chili
Peppers, Aerosmith, The Talking Heads, Foo
Fighters, Bare Naked Ladies, Sarah MacLachlan,
Nirvana, Goo Goo Dolls ..."
"It surprises you that I have music, Mulder?"
"That you have this music."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
But he had already moved on to more CDs, pulling
a stack out and pawing through them. He turned to
her with an utterly amused expression. "Bon Jovi,
Scully?"
"Really?" She looked slightly confused. "I don't
know where that came from."
"Sure. You also have two Prince CDs, a Madonna
one, and Michael Jackson's Thriller-"
"Everybody had Thriller, Mulder."
"Had, Scully. You still have it. You also have
the soundtrack to The Rocky Horror Picture Show."
He flashed her a grin the size of Texas. "Scully,
every time I think I've got your number, you go
and do something like this."
"Like what? They're just CDs. Most of which have
been there the entire time you've known me. I'm
still the same person."
His grin widened even further, if that was
possible. "Oh, but you're not. You're like this
onion with all these layers. And now I can't help
but picture you doing The Time Warp."
She tossed a pillow from the sofa at him. "Shut
up and put in another movie, Mulder."
*************************************************
************************************
His leg felt hot against hers. There had been
space between them on the couch and now there
wasn't. When had that happened? Maybe after she
had gotten up to brew some tea and he had called
out, "Bring the cookies" to her while she was in
the kitchen. He had been stoking the fire when
she got back and she noticed that he had turned
off the lamp so the only light was the flicker of
the TV and the glow from the fireplace.
And now all she could focus on was the fact that
her thigh was on fire from his. My God, he gave
off a lot of heat. He was always hot, wore T
shirts in the dead of winter. She froze whenever
she went to his apartment.
"Can you peel an apple in one long piece?" he
asked, bringing her mind back.
"What?"
"Tom Hanks' character was just saying that his
wife used to peel an apple in one long piece. Can
you do that?" He continued looking at the screen,
but she turned to watch his face instead.
"Yes," she answered, simply.
He nodded once, satisfied.
Her bare feet were resting on the coffee table,
crossed at the ankles. His were still on the
floor. She wished he'd put them up too. She
wanted to see how far down his leg her feet
reached when they were sitting like this. Was
their height difference mostly from the waist up
or the waist down? She suspected from the waist
down. So it would stand to reason, then, that if
they were both lying down, it would be less
noticeable. But it was completely unnecessary to
ponder such things, and even a little bit
dangerous.
His good arm, the one that hadn't been mauled by
zombies twenty-four hours ago, stretched behind
her to drape across the back of the sofa. It was
an innocuous gesture and yet, for half a minute,
she didn't breathe. When she finally did, she
smelled him. Not a bad smell or anything. Just
spicy and woodsy, and masculine. His
antiperspirant, probably.
She simply could not concentrate on the movie. It
was a good thing she had seen it before so if he
tried to converse with her on it, she could
summon a reasonable response without having to
give away the fact that she had been spacing out
through the entire thing.
A decent-sized yawn gripped her and she placed
her hand over her mouth.
"Are you tired? Do you want to me to take off so
you can go to bed?" he asked, quietly.
"No, it's fine. I'm just relaxed, that's all."
"You can lie down, if you want to. I'll move
over." He tensed as if to change positions.
"No! Really, it's okay." She placed a hand firmly
on his thigh.
His eyes dropped to her hand and stayed there. He
blinked slowly. She also stared down, as if her
hand were a detached appendage with a mind all
its own. If she pulled it away, it would be even
more awkward, so she left it there and dragged
her eyes back to the TV screen where Meg Ryan
was in a closet, talking to Rosie O'Donnell on
the phone.
Innumerable moments passed. The fire crackled and
spit. Tom Hanks' on-screen kid was saying
something mildly humorous and Mulder let out a
quiet snort and the hand that he had draped
across the back of her couch flopped forward to
graze her shoulder. It was absolutely nothing and
yet something at the same time. Casual and
innocent. She's sure he had done it, probably
countless times before, and it had never even
registered with her.
Don't think about it. Pay attention to the movie
and not where his arm is or where your hand is.
It's just Mulder sitting on your couch with you,
like he's done plenty of times. She breathed
deeply and relaxed, redirecting her thoughts
toward the movie for the umpteenth time since it
started.
"It's just so unrealistic, you know?" She said,
sighing.
"What is?"
"That this woman would fly all the way across the
country, would change her life, for this man she
doesn't even know."
"You don't believe that fate can bring two people
together, Scully?"
She waited a beat before answering. "I- I don't
really know." She was suddenly hyper aware again
of his proximity to her. "I suppose it's
possible. What do you think?"
"I think love is messy." And she felt his large
hand cover hers.
*************************************************
************************************
The next thing she knew, something warm was
tickling her cheek. Her eyes fluttered open
slowly and focused on his face looking down on
hers, smiling. His thumb was caressing her cheek
gently. She was absolutely certain for a moment
that she was dreaming.
She took a deep breath and sat up. "I fell
asleep."
He nodded, an amused look on his face. "I'm used
to it."
The TV screen was black and the fire had died
down to glowing embers. She yawned and shivered,
crossing her arms to rub her own shoulders. "What
time is it?"
"Late. I'll get out of here so you can go to
bed."
"Okay." Neither of them made a move to stand.
"Thanks for letting me crash your quiet New
Year's."
She huffed out a tiny laugh, her sleepy eyelids
opening and closing lazily. "You rescued me from
my cleaning binge. I might have scoured my oven
next if you hadn't stopped by."
"Yes, I've been known for distracting people from
getting work done. It's a gift really." He stood
and offered his hand to her. She took it and he
helped her up.
"Would you like some cookies to take with you?"
she offered.
He nodded emphatically and followed her to the
kitchen where she dumped half a dozen cookies
into a Ziplok bag and then walked him back to the
door. He held up the baggie and shook it gently.
"Breakfast."
She wrinkled her nose.
"What? They're oatmeal."
"I'm afraid to ask what you usually eat for
breakfast."
He smiled. "Um. Sometimes I make a pass by
Accounting on my way to the basement. Someone
there usually brings in doughnuts."
"You should eat a balanced breakfast, Mulder.
It's the most important meal of the day."
"Thanks, Doc. Are you going to make breakfast for
me sometime?"
Her eyes widened and darted to the floor where
her toes gripped the hardwoods.
He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I didn't
mean...um, I wasn't ..." He sighed. "I'm going to
go now. It's late and you're tired and it's been
a really nice evening. Thanks, Scully."
She looked up at him, her cheeks slightly pink.
"Goodnight, Mulder."
He bent down and leaned forward and since she was
a complete idiot and had no idea what he was
doing, she leaned to the side to turn the
deadbolt on the door at the same moment that his
face made contact with hers. The sides of their
noses bumped and she gasped, then he caught the
very edge of her mouth with his and kissed her.
If you want to call it that. The both retreated
simultaneously and the whole scenario was every
bit as awkward as a prepubescent first kiss. And
she had thought last night's kiss had needed a
little work. God. Was it possible to forget how
to do this? She just might have.
He hardly looked at her again, mumbled another
quick goodnight and stumbled out the door. It
clicked closed and she leaned her forehead
against it, with an audible 'clunk.' That was two
kisses in two days and she hadn't been expecting
either one of them. Perhaps if she had advance
warning, she might be able to get with the
program. Maybe he could draft her a memo ahead of
time.
It was late, she was tired, and she couldn't be
held responsible for mediocre romance when she
was only half awake. She sighed heavily and slid
her head up from the door slowly to turn and
shuffle toward her bedroom, but she hadn't gotten
more than five paces away when a quiet knock
sounded.
What now? Then she spotted the Ziplok baggie of
cookies still sitting on the small table by the
door and shook her head, smiling. He was like a
school child who had forgotten his lunch.
Sometimes the little boy in him was every bit as
present as the man.
She retrieved it and opened her door to him once
more.
He stood there, hands clasped in front of him and
wearing a shy and tentative smile. "Um. That
sucked. Can I try again?"
She could have asked what he meant, but she
didn't need to. He was asking permission and it
was about the most endearing and contrite thing
she'd ever heard from him. Her nod was slight and
she moistened her lips in that nervous way she
always did when she felt disarmed by him.
His finger gently lifted her chin and he leaned
to brush his lips against hers. Her eyes
fluttered closed and she pressed in, tilting her
head to find the perfect angle. His mouth moved
over hers, opening just a tiny bit, just enough
to hint at more, to suggest possibilities. It was
a slow-dance-at-the-prom, perfect sunset, front
porch swing kind of kiss. And when they finally
parted, she had to steady herself with one hand
on the door frame while her breathing evened out.
He took the bag of cookies still dangling from
her grasp and smiled. "Goodnight, Scully. Sleep
tight."
"Goodnight, Mulder," she replied, her voice airy.
He was all the way to the elevator when she
finally went back inside and turned the lock. If
the first day of the year held this much promise,
how could the next three hundred and sixty-four
possibly compare?
*************************************************
************************************
Mid-January, 2000
Mulder's fingers drummed mindlessly on the
steering wheel. It was Friday and she was tired
and very tempted to reach out and still his hands
because it had stopped being distracting about
ten miles ago and was now teetering on
excruciating. As if that wasn't enough, he
couldn't seem to leave the seek button on the car
stereo alone. Usually it was sports radio or NPR,
or sometimes a little classic rock. She wasn't
prone to complaining because she mostly didn't
care and was able to tune out just about anything
and fall asleep.
But this time he had settled on something modern
and downright juvenile that was a curious
crossbreed between techno dance and just plain
stupid. Now he was bobbing his head and still
finger drumming and she couldn't help but regard
him warily. He may have lost his mind for the
third or fourth time, but she'd need more
evidence for a firm diagnosis. He braked quickly,
coming up to an intersection too fast and
catching the light. She put one hand on the
dashboard to brace herself and several things
rolled out from under the passenger seat and
bumped against her heels. Two empty plastic drink
bottles and a crumpled up fast food bag. Mulder's
car was a regular emporium of recyclables and
food has-beens.
He had been acting weird since they ended the
case earlier that day. Ever since their
conversation in the hospital with the teenager,
Tony Reed, who had been recovering from whatever
it was that had given him superhuman speed.
Something about what Mulder had asked her, about
the possibility that they were too old for their
bodies to respond to whatever mysterious force
had been at work in that dank cave. Afterward,
they had gone back to their basement office to
complete the paperwork on the case and he had
been barely dialed in the entire afternoon. It
seemed like every time she stole a glance at him,
he was slouched at his desk, tapping his
fingertips on the desk blotter or wadding up
paper and tossing it across the room toward the
waste basket or flinging sharpened pencils into
the ceiling tiles. At one point, when he returned
from the vending machines with a Yoohoo and a
straw, she had half expected him to start
launching spit balls at her. So this was what too
much contact with pubescent teenagers did to
Mulder. Good to know.
Now he was driving her back to her apartment
because they happened to have carpooled together
that morning, something that seemed to be
occurring with some frequency lately, for no
discernible reason. The song on the radio
transitioned to something even more painful and
Mulder turned it up louder. Scully reached and
turned it back down and he looked at her like she
had just taken the last brownie.
"Scully, it's Friday night." As if that explained
everything. "Do you know what people do on Friday
nights?"
A wrinkle formed between her brows. Was this a
trick question? And was he working his way up to
some kind of suggestive innuendo because yes, she
was aware of what some people did on Friday
nights. She used to be one of those people long,
long ago.
"People go out and have fun on Friday nights.
Especially single, under forty (although barely,
for one of us) people like ourselves. We don't
ever do that. Why don't we do that?"
"Do what, exactly?" she asked, warily.
"I don't know, wander around this fine city of
ours. Hit some clubs, listen to some live music,
have a cocktail or several, dance."
"You want to dance, Mulder? Do you dance?" Her
expression was doubtful, yet amused.
He waited a beat. "I think I used to."
They rode in companionable silence for several
long minutes while they both contemplated their
past lives and when they had become so dull.
"Do you want to go out, Scully?" he blurted.
By the time her head swiveled toward his he was
studying the road again with a serious and
pensive expression.
"Tonight?" Her voice sounded squeaky, even to
herself.
"Sure, why not?"
Yes, why not, Dana? Maybe because you're tired
and you just want to take a long bath and shave
your legs, and because you haven't gone clubbing
since Missy dragged you out to that place where
there was furniture bolted to the ceiling and
that guy who called himself Scram kept sending
drinks to your table. She had no idea how long
ago that was, but she was pretty sure the
Macarena had been a new dance and she had done it
after consuming too many Cosmopolitans.
"Unless you already have other plans..." he said,
the smile collapsing on his face. Jesus, how
could he really not know her well enough that he
had to ask that? Yeah, the offers are piling up
on my answering machine as we speak, Mulder.
He pulled the car up in front of her apartment
building and threw it in park. She looked at her
watch and gave a resigned sigh. "Um, okay, sure,
all right. We'll go out," she said, not really
sure she was sold on the idea, but vaguely aware
that his current demeanor suggested he may need
adult supervision tonight. "What time?"
He ran a hand through his hair and the smile
returned to his face. "Uh, I hadn't thought that
far ahead. Do you want to grab dinner first or-"
"I think I'd like to catch a nap and a bath
first, so let's skip dinner and just go out
later."
"I'll pick you up at nine then."
She nodded, unbuckling her seatbelt and throwing
open the car door to the sidewalk. She rooted
around in the side compartment of her purse for
her keys.
"So where are we going, Mulder?"
"Not sure yet. Suffice it to say I'm a bit out of
the loop. I'll have to make some phone calls."
"Can I make a request?"
He swept his right hand in a 'be my guest'
gesture.
"Live music, please. And not Langly's band
either."
His head bobbed and he reached to turn the music
back up several notches until the bass
reverberated and she was sure her neighbors must
be pulling curtains back to see what all the
ruckus was.
"I'll see what I can do, Scully. Get some rest
and I'll see you around nine."
And then Scully spent the next half hour trying
on everything in her closet because, really, what
does one wear on what may or may not be a date,
with a man who may or may not be more than just a
friend, and who she may or may not want to lick
from head to toe?
*************************************************
************************************
By 8:50, Mulder had already cruised three laps
around Scully's building and he had to pee. He
was starting to reconsider this whole idea. What
could possibly have possessed him? The only clubs
he had frequented in the last few years had more
in the way of a stage than a dance floor, and it
wasn't the patrons doing the dancing. He was
fairly sure that if he took her to one of those
fine establishments, he'd be getting a goodnight
fist instead of a goodnight kiss. It had taken
some phone book searching and a call to Langly in
order to narrow down the choices. Since Mulder
didn't want to open a can of worms by mentioning
that he was planning to go out with Scully, he
had instead told Langly that he was working a
case and needed to know where a guy might take a
woman to listen to live music. When Langly had
replied, "You mean like a classy chick, like
Scully?" Mulder suspected his cover had been
blown. But the end result was that he had a
crumpled piece of paper in his pocket with a
couple of addresses and some high hopes.
He parked in front of Scully's building and
walked around the corner down a side alley to
relieve himself. He was still early and didn't
want to make a beeline for her bathroom the
minute she opened the door. He was mid-stream
when he started giving some concerted thought to
why he was feeling the sudden urge to defy his
age. Obviously, it had something to do with their
last case. It had never bothered him until now.
Getting older. Physically, he had never been in
better shape. He was still able to knock off
several miles before work most mornings and when
he played basketball at the Y on Thursday nights,
he could match skills with guys who were ten or
fifteen years younger.
But he had recognized the looks those high school
kids had given him when he had tried to relate to
them. They had been the same looks he had once
given his own father. And why not? Mulder was
nearly old enough to have a kid in high school,
had he started down that path in life much
earlier. But he hadn't. He had chosen a different
road and for some reason, the inkling that he may
not have much to show for it was just now
starting to scratch at his brain. It wasn't
regret really. No, it was more of a fervent
desire to capture something intangible or
ephemeral that was gradually slipping through his
fingers. He had wondered if perhaps Scully felt
the same. After all, she had reacted with a pouty
bottom lip when he suggested that perhaps they
were too old to be affected by the same forces as
those teens.
And so the remainder of their day, he had
suffered a brief and very early mid-life crisis.
He couldn't concentrate on work, could nearly
feel the seconds of his life ticking away as he
contemplated yet another Friday night keeping
company with some lousy take-out and his porn
collection, which had ceased to be anything more
than perfunctory several years ago. His waning
interest in the tapes had coincided with Scully's
sleek haircuts, darker makeup, and tighter
fitting suits. Most of the time now, he didn't
even bother with porn. The images of Scully that
seemed to be running on a never-ending loop in
his brain these days, God even the PG-13 ones,
could get him off light years faster than
anything in his VCR. If he ever got to experience
the real thing, he wasn't certain he'd survive
it.
He tucked himself back in and zipped, took a deep
breath and made his way to her apartment door,
overthinking his choice of apparel the whole way.
Having no idea what people wore out these days
and not wanting to look like he was trying too
hard, he had chosen to stick with all black and
wore his black jeans, solid turtleneck and
leather jacket. He figured it left little room
for error in terms of his color-blindness, and he
could at least blend into the background if it
turned out that he really didn't have any moves,
which was probable because he was a white guy
pushing forty. Scully had it easy. No guy in a
bar or club ever judged a woman on her ability to
dance. Nope, that was most definitely not what
captured or lost their attention. Then again,
guys were admittedly far more shallow in other
ways and in that department, she had nothing to
worry about.
He knocked and looked at his watch. 9:07. This
was early for him. She had probably been
expecting him to be on 'Mulder time,' which was
at least fifteen minutes late. He didn't hear any
footsteps, so he knocked again. Then he heard her
faintly call out, "Use your key, Mulder." He did.
The door to her bedroom cracked open and he heard
her voice. "I'll be out in a minute. Make
yourself at home."
She said that to him just about every time he was
in her apartment and he always did. It typically
involved rifling through her refrigerator or
cupboards for something non-healthy to snack on,
and then flopping down on her couch with the TV
remote until she chastised him for leaving his
shoes on or eating on the furniture, like she was
housebreaking a puppy. This time, he just stood
there and waited.
And waited. Geez Scully. She was actually being a
girl about this. He hadn't waited for a woman to
get ready to go out since Dia- wait. Never mind.
He busied himself mentally cataloguing all the
titles on her bookshelf. He already knew them
all, but he looked to see if there was anything
knew each time he came over. He heard her before
he saw her -- heels clicking on the hardwood floor
behind him.
He spun to take her in. She was wearing dark
jeans and he was immediately thankful he'd done
the same. Her top was one he knew he'd definitely
never seen her wear before. It was a midnight
blue color with a three-quarter length sleeves
and a dangerously scooped neckline. Her work
blouses had gotten gradually snugger over the
last couple of years, but this shirt set a whole
new standard. It accentuated her toned abdomen
and made her breasts look perfectly rounded and
full, like ripe fruit. He realized why she never
wore it. It simply wasn't fair to the other
shirts in her closet. Mulder found himself
unconsciously flexing his hands open and closed
at his sides, as if they somehow knew they were
in close proximity to something they should be
holding.
Her cross glinted, showcased by an expanse of
bare skin. He couldn't help but ponder the
dichotomy of that particular symbol, juxtaposed
against all the sinful thoughts she would no
doubt be germinating in the minds of an
unsuspecting male population, himself included.
She cleared her throat and smoothed her hair
behind her ears nervously. "What's the matter?
You're staring. I thought maybe I should've worn
the white button-down. I can just go and-"
"No, no." He reached for her wrist and halted her
from spinning back toward her bedroom. "You
look...um," he swallowed.
She searched his face then and seemed to catch on
to his reaction because she smiled and color
flooded her cheeks.
He shook his head a little and smiled back,
recovering. "Don't change. I like this."
She grabbed a small black purse that matched her
boots, and her leather jacket and preceded him
out the door, his hand resting at the small of
her back and his eyes about ten inches below
that.
*************************************************
************************************
Mulder made his way back to their table, a glass
of red wine in one hand and a beer in the other.
He slid in across from Scully and handed her the
wine. An empty glass and another drained bottle
already littered the surface of the table. She
smiled and thanked him, although he couldn't
actually hear the words above the roar of the
music and the crowd.
Scully took two swallows of her wine close
together and he tried to recall how much he'd
ever really seen her drink before. One time they
had split a six pack in a hotel room over expense
reports and cheeseburgers and she'd been buzzed,
even though she told him she wasn't. He knew when
she had stood up from the bed and had to steady
herself with a hand on the wall before walking to
the bathroom. Beyond that, there had been
miscellaneous glasses of wine and a beer on
occasion, never more than a couple. He glanced at
his watch. It was only 10:20 and she was on her
second glass of merlot. This could get
interesting.
Her lips were moving and she was gesticulating
with her hand, but he had no idea what she was
saying. He held up one finger to pause her and
then got up and slid into the booth with her. She
moved to accommodate him.
"Say what?" he asked, leaning in toward her.
She took another sip of wine. "I was just saying
that these guys are pretty good, actually. How'd
you hear about them?"
He shrugged coyly. "I asked around."
"Langly?"
He nodded, sheepishly.
She leaned in to his ear and her lips grazed the
spot beneath his lobe, sending a tiny shiver up
his spine, despite the fact that the air in the
club was stale and warm. "I'm glad I came. I'm
having a good time."
He nodded and smiled. She did look like she was
having a good time. "How many of those before
you're dancing on tables?" he laughed, pointing
toward her wine glass.
Both brows went to her hairline and she tilted
her head, disapprovingly. "They don't have enough
wine here for that to happen."
"Maybe just the dance floor then."
She smiled and took another sip. "We'll see. I
might be getting there."
Several songs went by and the conversation went
down as easy as the alcohol. He made a third trip
to the bar while she went to the restroom. The
place was packed and there were plenty of people
dancing. The line at the bar was long and he
noticed that the women standing there were
getting waited on much quicker by the male
bartenders than the men were. No surprise there.
Maybe it made sense to have Scully get the next
round. After waiting for about ten minutes to get
served, he felt two arms wrap around his waist
from behind and his head swiveled back to find
her pressed against him. He grasped both her arms
in his and she made no move to pull away. They
waited for several more minutes before he bent
toward her ear.
"C'mere and stand in front of me."
She looked at him, curiously, but moved in front
of him, allowing his hands to rest gently on her
shoulders. He noticed that she leaned back into
him, swaying to the music.
Not more than two minutes later, he heard one of
the male bartenders call out to her, "What can I
get ya, Hon?" Mulder rolled his eyes as Scully
ordered.
*************************************************
2/6
Three glasses of wine. Three was the magic
number. She was on her feet with her hand
outstretched as she drained the last swallow.
"Come on, I love this song."
He placed his palm in hers and allowed her to
guide him through a sea of sweaty, gyrating
people to a pocket on the far edge of the dance
floor. She fell into an easy rhythm and he tried
to follow suit, standing close to her and
mirroring her movements in counterpoint. She was
actually pretty good and he had to admit to being
surprised, although he'd never tell her that.
He'd slow danced with her before, so he knew she
was a natural at that, but this was an entirely
new species.
Her face was flushed from the heat and the
alcohol, and her hips had taken on a life of
their own, swiveling dizzily to the beat. She
looked good. Really, really good. He was trying
to hold his own, but he was pretty sure his moves
had "white guy trying to get laid" written all
over them.
Her lips moved as she sang along to a pretty
decent rendition of Santana's 'Smooth.' He
couldn't hear her above the noise. It was loud
and his entire insides reverberated to the beat.
His chest thumped and he felt the music moving
through him like some kind of electrical current.
He leaned forward and she met him halfway,
grasping his elbow in her palm. "This was my
first concert," he said.
"Santana?"
He nodded. "I was seventeen and I learned the
true meaning of the term 'contact high.' You
could've cut the haze with a knife."
She laughed.
"What was yours?" he asked, but she shook her
head at him and kept dancing.
"Come on, Scully. Tell me."
"No way. Too embarrassing," she yelled into his
ear in a series of hot breaths that he felt like
he could taste.
"My second concert was Rick Springfield. It can't
be worse than that."
She grimaced.
"Worse than Rick Springfield?"
"Air Supply," she admitted and he laughed with
her.
"Why did you go to Rick Springfield?"
"A girl," he said, and she nodded,
sympathetically.
They danced through another fast song before the
music slowed and the entire atmosphere shifted
along with the people. New dancers slid in next
to them, mostly couples who molded into one
another like puzzle pieces. Mulder stood
awkwardly for a few seconds, allowing Scully to
make the decision. She closed the distance and
draped two slight arms around his neck. Even with
the heels on her boots, her head still only
reached the top of his shoulders. He circled her
tiny waist and led her in a slow and lazy sway.
She was molten hot against him, her head turned
to the side and resting. He could smell her
shampoo and was acutely aware of a fingernail
gently tracing tiny shapes on the back of his
neck, right below his hairline. Christ, did she
know she was doing that? He felt himself getting
hard and shifted his feet to try and put enough
space between them so she might not feel it. He
had succeeded for just a brief moment before she
breathed in, then out, and closed the distance
once again, this time pressing her breasts firmly
to him. He bit his lower lip enough to make
himself wince, but it did no good whatsoever. He
was officially pitching a tent in his jeans.
He saw her eyes flutter open in recognition and
felt her muscles tighten slightly. She picked her
head up from his chest and pulled back a few
inches. Her breath caught a little and her exhale
ended in a tiny shudder and a nervous swallow.
Since they were probably long past ignoring it,
he cupped the back of her hair affectionately and
gave honesty a try. "I'm sorry, Scully," he said.
"This is really embarrassing. Should we go and
sit down for awhile?"
She stretched to his ear again, causing her
breasts to press into him and he considered
telling her that it might not be the best remedy.
"Can I tell you a secret?"
He nodded once, curiously.
"I've encountered one of those before," she said,
and the edges of her mouth curved gently upward
into a teasing half-smile.
He lost it completely and laughed out loud at her
brazenness. "I have no doubt. And how did you,
um, handle it, might I ask?"
She feigned a serious look. "Very, very
carefully."
Oh man, he simply couldn't resist. "I'd like to
see that sometime," he said, as her mouth dropped
open and her head tilted, skillfully avoiding his
gaze.
He was still clutching her to him when the song
ended and another took its place. Bodies
separated on the dance floor and some left, while
others simply adapted to a faster tempo. They did
neither, seemingly caught in a moment that had
both passed and hadn't quite begun.
"Do you want to get out of here?" he asked, his
pupils locked on hers and his question layered
with meaning.
She only hesitated a beat before nodding and
allowing him to lead her off the dance floor and
through the crowd into the bitter night air.
*************************************************
************************************
Not much was said during the short trip to
Georgetown. He wasn't sure if he would've heard,
even if it was. His ears rang with a muffled
silence, a sharp contrast to where they'd just
been for the last three hours.
She picked up a piece of paper from the console
of his car and studied it, reading the address in
segments each time they passed under a street
light. It was the list of places he'd gotten from
Langly, who had, surprisingly, hit the nail on
the head with the first band. He'd have to
remember to thank him with an appropriate
offering of alcohol the next time he saw him.
He parked the car in front of her building, but
didn't cut the engine. She unbuckled, so he did
the same. It was clearly one of those 'now what'
moments he hadn't experienced in years and still
hadn't gained any insight into how to navigate
wisely. The Scully variable made it even more
unpredictable. She was harder to decipher than
James Joyce and Faulkner combined.
He realized he would've done just about anything
at that point. He didn't want the night to end,
but it was almost entirely her choice. Her
profile in the glint of the street lamps defined
the evening for him. He might be able to get by
on just that, even if she got out of his car and
walked away right now. He was desperately in love
with her. This was not news to him, although the
admission of it still incited an edge of fear in
him. He hadn't been this vulnerable to a woman
in, well maybe forever.
She cut through the awkward by claiming his hand
with her own and weaving her fingers into his,
offering him a soft smile. And without further
warning, his upper body dove across the gear
shift to capture her mouth with his. Her eyes
flew open for one instant before drifting closed
and he felt her entire body sink into the kiss.
It was a little firmer, a little more frantic
than anything they had attempted previously, but
it seemed to fit the mood of the evening and so
with three beers under his belt, he gave himself
up for lost. His lips parted just enough and he
was going to wait for her to initiate something
more invasive, but then a breathy little moan
escaped her and his self-control took a hike. His
tongue was in her mouth and his hand in her hair.
Compared to their last two and a half kisses,
this was anarchy.
Parting for air, their foreheads met and fused
together. Her chest heaved and her breasts drew
his eyes like magnets. They looked like perfect
oranges, which he always knew were just the right
size. They got lost under her suits sometimes,
but this shirt was utterly redemptive. It had the
power to make every heterosexual guy at the
Bureau, and maybe even some of the women, weep.
He might do the same if he didn't touch them
soon.
She huffed out a tiny laugh and he followed her
line of sight down to where his cock formed a
noticeable ridge inside his jeans. "Twice," she
said, lifting one brow.
More like thousands, he thought to himself. He
closed his eyes and cupped her face in both of
his hands. "Consider this a blanket apology for
the presumptive nature of all of them -- past,
present, and future," he whispered.
That must have been the right thing to say
because she nipped at the corners of his mouth
again, teasingly, until he sank his tongue back
into her and, what the hell, his hand edged up to
thumb over the center of her breast repeatedly
until he felt a distinct rising. They made out,
hot and heavy, in a web of tongues and hands and
little patches of hot skin that were suddenly
erotic for no reason other than that they
belonged to her. The inside of an elbow, a smooth
wrist, the small of her back, that little spot
above her upper lip -- all made him want to break
out into song. His head swam and he dragged his
open mouth across her jaw, panting into her ear.
"Can I come up?"
She took a deep breath and tensed slightly.
"Mulder." Her tiny soft hand covered his, which
was now pawing desperately at her breast, and she
held him still, the way one might hold a frantic
puppy during a thunderstorm.
He pulled back and ran a hand through his hair,
breathing harshly, his back against his own seat
now. "I didn't mean to push. I thought...I guess
I just-"
"It's not your fault, Mulder. I'm ...a little
confused."
He nodded, staring straight ahead out the
windshield at nothing but dark.
"What is this we're doing?" Her voice was quiet,
reserved and tentative. He had known this
conversation was coming. He had just hoped it
might hold off until he had some thoughtful
answers to offer her.
"I don't know," he said, realizing how inadequate
his response was before it was even out of his
mouth.
"I mean, what is this?" she gestured back and
forth between them with one hand.
"What do you want it to be?"
"Don't play games with me, Mulder."
"I'm not. I have no intentions of playing games
with you, Scully. I just don't know what to say.
I wish I did."
Moments passed in silence until she reached again
for his hand, clasping it in hers and holding it
against his knee. "What's between us now means
everything to me, Mulder. I'm not sure I want it
to change."
"I'm not sure we have a choice, Scully. Or at
least, given the way I've been feeling lately
when we're together, I'm not sure I do."
His admission clearly startled her and her head
turned briskly to look at him. He continued
staring ahead, unable to meet her eyes and see
what was there, or worse, what might not be.
"So what do we do now?" she asked.
He sighed deeply and squeezed her hand. "Take it
day by day, I suppose. And wait for the haze to
clear. We've been in weirder places than this,
Scully."
She arched her eyebrows and smiled, offering him
a doubtful look. He chuckled and pulled her
closer, pressing his mouth to her forehead,
thankful that even when nothing made any sense,
the bond they had was stronger than everything
else and would fight its way to the surface of
any mess.
Despite their best efforts, even they couldn't
fuck up this perfect thing between them. It was
bigger than their combined lunacy.
He regained his composure and planted a kiss on
the back of her hand. "Let me walk you to your
door?"
She nodded and smiled gently. "Okay."
So he walked her up and she never took her hand
out of his, even when she had to fish through her
purse with one hand to unearth her keys. He
kissed her goodnight outside her apartment and it
was the kind of kiss he might've gotten away with
on his date's front porch in high school with
parents waiting inside. It was sweet and
gentlemanly and it settled his soul like a warm
drink on a cold night. Wherever this thing took
them, they'd be all right.
*************************************************
************************************
Late January, 2000
She stood on the threshold of his apartment, half
in and half out, like she had literally stalled
or run out of gas. He placed her overnight bag in
his bedroom and had to come back out for her,
pulling her in by hand, gently, and locking the
door behind her. She shuffled in childlike
obedience, but her glassy, lifeless eyes were the
opposite of innocence. He couldn't know exactly
what they had seen in the last few hours, but he
was afraid if he looked too closely, he'd see the
images reflected in her pupils, like a horror
movie. She hadn't said more than five words since
they left her apartment. She still wore the grey
flannel pajamas under her wool overcoat and his
stomach lurched at a smear of blood on the cuff
of one sleeve.
"Do you want to take a shower and change?" he
offered.
A wrinkle formed between her brows and she
nodded, vacantly. "It's too warm in here. Can you
open a window?"
"Sure," he said, and crossed the room to crack
open the one above his desk. He glanced at the
thermostat. 67 degrees. She typically complained
and was wrapping a blanket around her at anything
below 72. Frigid winter air blew through the
window and swept a pile of papers off his desk
and onto the floor. The due date on his phone
bill stared up at him in bold print next to his
shoe.
"I'm going to go take a shower," she said, like
this was an entirely new idea and he nodded,
easing her coat from her hunched shoulders.
"When was the last time you ate?"
"I'm not hungry."
"That wasn't what I asked."
She shrugged. "I think I had yogurt and an orange
for lunch."
"That was breakfast."
"Okay."
"I'll heat up some soup. There are clean towels
in the bathroom."
His bathroom door clicked shut and he emptied two
cans of chicken and vegetable soup into a sauce
pan and turned on a burner. His phone rang and he
cradled it between his ear and shoulder so he
could stir.
"Yeah. Mulder."
"How is she?" Skinner.
"Uh, the jury's still out on that one. She's in
the shower."
"She staying with you tonight or her mother?"
"Here. Her mother's out of town."
"I've got you both on two days mandatory paid
leave. And don't let her go back to her apartment
tomorrow. The place is a fucking disaster. I've
got crime scene decon coming in to clean up. If
she needs anything, you get it for her."
"Okay. Thank you, Sir."
"And Agent Mulder -- this may not be open and
shut. I suspect you realize that."
"It was self-defense. I already gave my
statement. I have nothing more to add."
"Uh-huh." An exhausted sigh. "Look, I know and
you know she did what she had to do -- did the
human race a goddamn favor, in my opinion. I'll
do what I can on my end to tie this up, but I
can't promise this won't rear its ugly head when
you get back into the office. Not to mention the
press. There's a news van parked outside Scully's
apartment now. It won't take them long to figure
out she's not here and where do you think the
next logical place is they'll look?"
"How do you want me to handle it?"
"Don't let her make a statement. Not one word.
Refer any questions to me. This kind of thing
usually dies down within a day or two."
"And Mulder?"
"Yeah?"
"She'll be all right. If she needs anything, call
me, day or night."
"I will. Thank you again, Sir."
Mulder hung up the phone and turned off the
stove. He walked toward his bedroom, listening
for signs of progress. The water was still
running in the shower and he could hear her
sobbing. He couldn't remember the last time he'd
heard her cry, and maybe never like this. The
idea that someone or something could fracture her
like this gripped him with fury. It's a good
thing she had already taken the monster's life or
he would have. Mulder stood, frozen to the spot,
for at least a minute as his heart threatened to
implode.
He knocked once. She didn't say anything, but the
sobbing ceased abruptly, so he knew she'd heard
it. He cracked the bathroom door an inch and
soupy, humid air accosted him. "Scully, it's me."
Not a brilliant lead-in, perhaps.
"Mulder, don't...don't come in... here." Her
voice was broken and raw and breathy sobs
punctuated her words. The pajamas she had been
wearing lay shed on the floor by the toilet, her
underwear in a curl on top.
He clicked the door closed again and went to her
bag at the foot of his bed. He pulled out her
neatly folded blue silk pajamas and a pair of
cotton panties and went and opened the bathroom
door again. The sobs were still there, but
muffled. She was trying to hide them.
"I'm coming in, Scully."
This time no argument, just more wracked
breathing and a whimper. He laid the clean
clothes on top of the closed toilet lid and
picked up the dirty ones off the floor. When he
did, he saw they were torn at the seams in
several places. They hadn't been when she
arrived. She had ripped them apart herself. He
carried the bundle out, pausing to deposit her
underwear in his laundry hamper, then went to the
kitchen and double-bagged the offending garments
and stuffed them at the bottom of his trash can.
When he got back to the bathroom, the water had
stopped, but she was still inside the shower. The
crying had ebbed to staccato breaths and
sniffling. "I'm opening the curtain now, Scully."
He waited five seconds and there was no response,
so he did.
She stood there facing him, all pink skinned and
slight, both arms crossed in an X over the front
of her, still modest even in her misery. Her eyes
were fixed and expressionless, resting somewhere
around his knee caps. He held an open towel out
wide to her like a curtain, averting his eyes,
but she made no move to get out, so he wrapped
and carried her to his bed, stripped the blankets
back and deposited her like a wounded moth on a
leaf. She immediately went fetal. He kicked off
his shoes and folded himself behind her in a full
embrace, pushing wet hair back from her ear and
making soothing sounds until the shuddering
stopped.
The soup went cold on the kitchen stove.
*************************************************
************************************
The first time she woke up, she managed to keep
her towel mostly in place as she bolted for the
bathroom, throwing the lid open on the toilet to
scatter her unworn pajamas like a waterfall onto
the tiles while she dry heaved.
He gave her a minute, then followed her in, still
wearing all his clothes, even socks. She was
rinsing her mouth with handfuls of water from the
faucet. "I forgot my toothbrush," she said, so he
gave her a new green one in its original
packaging. It had been in his bathroom cabinet
for over a year now, purchased specifically for
her on the off-chance that she might someday
spend the night in his apartment and need one. He
had imagined it under better circumstances. More
ecstasy and unbridled passion, less splattering
of blood and brain matter. Maybe equal amounts of
nudity, he noted as her towel slipped and she
caught and retucked it in between her bare
breasts.
She brushed her teeth and went back to bed still
wearing the towel. He was beginning to wonder if
perhaps she had developed a new-found aversion to
all pajamas, not just the ones she destroyed. He
refolded the blue ones on top of his dresser in
case she changed her mind, then swapped his day
clothes for a pair of sweatpants and a T shirt,
and got back into his bed with her. His plan had
been to take the couch and put her in his bed,
but it was 2:00 a.m. and neither of them seemed
to care and he couldn't imagine being that far
away from her right now. If he could pierce her
skin and suck the pain out of her like snake
venom, he would.
*************************************************
************************************
The next time he opened his eyes, it was in
response to uncanny warmth on his stomach and
something wet by his ear. He was flat on his
back, both arms crossed at his chest like a dead
man, and maybe he was because what was happening
just wouldn't happen in any universe he was
currently a part of. A third hand, not his own,
was pressed to the bare skin of his abdomen, up
underneath his shirt.
"I feel different," she said, nuzzling and
licking his neck.
Clearly.
"Scully?"
"Mmmm..."
"What's going on?" His voice cracked like an
adolescent.
"You smell good," she purred. "I think I
need...something..."
Oh God. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. All wrong. The
opposite of right.
He was dreaming. That must be it. Any minute now,
his alarm would go off, and she would no longer
be in his bed. Disappointing, but it did happen
to him once in awhile. He closed his eyes for a
count of ten and then reopened them. He was still
in bed, staring up at the cobwebs in the corner
of his ceiling and the smoke detector hanging
open with its missing battery. Oops. Change your
clocks, change your batteries. When had he
changed the clocks? Fall sometime. That was quite
irresponsible of him. He could've died in an
apartment fire, all because he forgot to change
the batteries in his smoke detector. It seemed
ridiculous, given all the bizarre ways he had
actually come close to kicking the bucket. Smoke
inhalation in his own bed seemed so mundane,
anticlimactic really.
Where was he? Oh yeah, Scully. Poor emotionally
traumatized Scully who had wasted a serial killer
at point blank range not twelve hours ago and was
now treating his neck like it was the best ice
cream cone she'd ever encountered. This was not
her. And she would never forgive herself or him
if he did what he wanted more than anything to do
right now.
Karma sucked the big fat hairy one. How many
times had he fantasized about having her in his
bed? And here she was, wearing only a towel, with
her fingernails scraping about an inch above the
waistband of his sweatpants. Why the fuck did he
have to be a nice guy?
He retrieved her wayward hand and pulled it up to
the side of his cheek, kissing her palm. "Scully,
not like this."
She whimpered and burrowed into the pillow they
shared. He rolled to face her and matched her
crescent moon posture, yin to her yang, his lips
pecking at her tear-streaked cheekbones. Her nose
was red and sniffly and he let her wipe it on his
shirt without caring in the least. She was the
most beautiful crier he'd ever seen. He cocooned
her in the comforter because one quick glance
told him that her towel was no longer doing its
job and he was too close to seeing things he
wasn't supposed to yet. He could wait and it
would be worth it.
*************************************************
************************************
He held her hostage inside his apartment for the
next two days, but she didn't seem to mind or
even notice for that matter. She shuffled between
his bed and the couch on autopilot in her blue
pajamas, which she had finally decided to put on,
and a pair of his gym socks. They hung off the
ends of her feet like floppy bunny ears.
There was nothing to eat in his apartment. He
called out for pizza the first day, not wanting
to leave her alone for any stretch of time. All
he'd seen her eat until that point was some
peanut butter and grape jelly out of jars with a
spoon. She'd dip for a slab of peanut butter,
then for some jelly before spooning the mixture
into her mouth while watching reruns of The Andy
Griffith Show and I Love Lucy. When she was done,
there were globs of jelly in his peanut butter
jar and vice versa. It kind of grossed him out.
She slept for hours in his bed during the middle
of the day. He'd stand at the threshold of the
room and watch her sleep. Nightmares weren't just
for the nighttime. Sometimes she made mewling
sounds like a strangled kitten and he'd go and
sit at the edge of the bed and brush her hair
back with his fingers until she settled again.
Skinner called twice the first day to see how she
was. He lied and said she was fine. On the second
morning, he called to say her apartment was clean
and she could go back home whenever she wanted
to. Mulder watched her fork bird-sized bits of
scrambled egg into her mouth from under a
mountain of blankets at the corner of his couch.
Her hair needed to be washed. Tom chased Jerry on
his TV and got cold-cocked by a frying pan and
she watched, enraptured.
At about seven o'clock that evening, she went
into his bathroom and took a shower. When she
came out, she was dressed in jeans and a sweater
and her hair was blown dry. She carried her bag
to the front door and told him she was ready to
go home. He stood there with his mouth slack for
a few minutes before loading her into his car and
chauffering her back to Georgetown where, life as
they knew it, went on.
He found her inhumanly small underwear mixed in
with his whites when he went to do his laundry
the next week. He washed and folded them neatly
and placed them in a brown paper bag on top of
her desk at work.
*************************************************
************************************
Early February, 2000
"Cats or dogs?" he asked, biting at his cuticles
while steering with his other hand.
"Dogs. Cats are narcissistic and pouty."
"Your turn."
"Um, chocolate or vanilla?" she sighed.
"Chocolate," he confirmed, without missing a
beat. "The Stones or The Beatles?"
"Both."
"Nope, you have to pick."
"Who says?"
"Everyone. It's the rules."
"Fine. The Beatles then. Mulder, how much farther
and what is this place called again?"
"Blessing, Tennessee. Home of turkey-flavored
Jello. There's a map in the glove box."
Scully grimaced. "Turkey-flavored Jello?"
"Yeah," he smiled. "Apparently, it tastes just
like chicken."
She popped open the glove box and rummaged
beneath the rental car paperwork to find the map
and unfolded it onto her lap. "You can't tell me
that was the closest airport. We've been driving
for two hours."
"It's out there, Scully. The place and the
people, from the sound of it."
Her manicured fingernail followed a line across
the page. "Did we pass a place called Birden
yet?"
Mulder smiled. "So you're saying we need to pass
through Birden to get to Blessing? I think there
might be a lesson in that."
"From the looks of this sadly outdated map, we're
still about fifteen miles away, give or take."
"Then give me another one."
"Mulder, I'm tired. Can't I just rest my eyes and
you can tell me when we get there?"
"Nope. You slept all the way on the plane. You'd
said you'd play."
"Petulance doesn't become you, Mulder."
"Quiz me."
She rolled her eyes and exhaled, breathing out
through puffed cheeks.
"Spiderman or Batman?"
"No brainer. Spiderman can climb the sides of
buildings. All Batman has going for him is a cool
car."
"And Robin as a sidekick."
Mulder snickered. "Yeah, if you wanna call that
an asset."
Scully pressed her thumbs into her closed eyelids
and tipped her head back against the seat. Maybe
he wouldn't notice and she could catch just ten
minutes. She hadn't slept well last night at all.
New neighbors had moved in over the weekend, a
young couple. She had met them in the hallway as
they tried to stuff a mattress out the elevator
door. Then she had been awakened three separate
times during the night by the rhythmic thumping
of something hard, presumably a headboard, on the
other side of her bedroom wall. Three times. She
might remember vaguely what that was like. Good
God, wasn't moving usually tiring enough for most
people? Didn't they have boxes to unpack or
cupboards to disinfect or something? She had been
tempted to pound back on the wall, but she didn't
want to be *that* kind of neighbor. The subject
of scornful pillow talk. "She's just jealous
because she isn't getting any," they'd say. So
sad and so very true.
"Twizzlers or Tootsie Rolls?" His voice cut into
her thoughts and she realized she wouldn't be
getting any rest until she could lock him on the
other side of her motel room door.
"Twizzlers. Sunrise or sunset?"
"Sunset. Warm or cold?"
She frowned at him. "What warm or cold?"
"Anything."
"I can't answer that. It depends."
"Use your imagination, Scully. Just answer with
your first instinct. Warm or cold?"
"Warm. I guess. Um, Sweet or salty?"
"Salty. Long or short?" He wagged an eyebrow at
her, but she wouldn't acknowledge it.
"Why does everything have to be sexual with you?"
He feigned a look of shocked indignation. "Speak
for yourself, Scully. I could've been thinking of
hair, books, vacations..."
"Yeah, but you're not. Okay, fine, short then.
Very, very short -- downright stubby, in fact."
He shook his head slowly. "That's too bad,
Scully. That's really too bad."
Okay, if he wanted to play that way, she could
keep up. "Wet or dry?"
He kept his eyes on the road, but she saw his
Adam's apple bob once. "I think I'll go
with...wet." And she took a deep breath.
It was his turn. His pause made her tense
involuntarily. "Top or bottom?"
Her lips parted and she adjusted her posture in
her seat. "Top...to start with," she answered,
quietly, but confidently. This seemed to stall
him for a minute. One of his eyebrows twitched
and his head tilted to one side, contemplatively.
"Fast or slow?" she asked, licking her bottom lip
and cracking her window open. Damn, was it
getting stuffy in here?
"Both."
"You can't."
"Oh, but I beg to differ, Scully. I definitely
can." His smile was positively wicked.
"Not in this game, you can't. Your rules, Mulder.
Pick."
"Okay, slow then."
He would pick that, Mister I-Think-I'll-Wait-
Seven-Years-To-Kiss-You.
"Fancy restaurant dinner or romantic picnic in
the park?"
"Are you asking me out, Mulder?" She smiled
wryly.
"Maybe. I'm on a fact-finding mission."
"Picnic in the park," she said, and he looked
surprised.
"Ferris Wheel or rollercoaster?"
"Rollercoaster," he said.
They passed a battered green road sign that read
"Blessing, 5 miles" and Scully reached beneath
her seat to locate her discarded shoes and then
reapplied her lipstick in the overhead mirror.
"Atlantic or Pacific?" he asked.
"Pacific," she replied, without giving it much
thought.
"What are you doing living here then, Scully?"
She just looked at him with her tube of lipstick
twisted halfway up. 'You,' she thought. 'You dumb
idiot, you.'
*************************************************
************************************
"You're going to say I'm crazy, but I don't think
he did it," Mulder said, eyeing the second half
of her sandwich.
"You're crazy." She swiped two of his french
fries and dipped them in the blob of ketchup on
his plate. This was something they did. Shared
food without asking.
"I don't know, it's too obvious. Since when has
the obvious choice been the right one? Have those
Hitchcock marathons taught you nothing, Scully?"
"Mulder, those lab results prove that Jared Chirp
knew he wasn't the father of Gracie's baby. It
was only a matter of time before Jared would have
discovered the truth about O'Connor's incestuous
relationship with his daughter. That's motive
right there."
"Only if O'Connor really is the father. What do
we have to go on, except Reverend Mackey's
statement? What if it's not O'Connor's kid? What
if someone else is involved? Are you going to eat
that?"
She pushed her plate toward him and he picked up
the sandwich and took a huge bite.
"And I'm saying you're thinking too far outside
the box, Mulder. All the facts are there and
we're still hanging out in this one stoplight
town eating crappy diner food and talking about
snakes. I say we turn it over to the local
authorities and catch the first flight back to
civilization. We've done everything there is to
do here."
He smiled. "We haven't eaten turkey-flavored
Jello yet."
"I think I'll pass."
Mulder glanced at his watch. "One more day. It's
already after 7:30. Let's check into a motel,
question Gracie O'Connor again tomorrow, and if
it still seems cut and dried, we'll get out of
here. We can be back on your couch with two beers
in plenty of time for the Knicks game at 8:00
tomorrow night."
She eyebrowed him, slurping the last of her diet
soda through a straw. "Funny, I don't remember
inviting you over, Mulder."
He flashed her that boyish grin that pretty much
nullified all of her arguments and licked his
fingers clean, one by maddening one. She had
never wanted to be his finger so much in her
life.
*************************************************
************************************
It started with a knock, which she ignored. It
often did. Then a crack in the adjoining door and
a beam of light cutting across the carpet. "Are
you asleep?"
She concentrated on keeping her breath slow and
even. It was like when you were a kid and you
just knew that if you lay perfectly still under
the covers and count to twenty, the monsters
might bypass you. She only made it to eleven this
time. "Scully, are you sleeping?"
"Yes," she mumbled into her pillow.
The door opened further, letting in more light.
She lifted her head and squinted at the clock
radio. "Mulder, what?"
The mattress sank on the opposite side. "What're
you doing sleeping, Scully. It's barely 10:30. My
TV's doing that thing again." Earlier, they had
been reviewing the case files in his room with
CNN on in the background and the volume kept
cutting out every few minutes.
"Did you hit the side of it again?"
"Yeah, it's not helping and Alien is on the Sci
Fi channel. Sigourney Weaver, Scully." Something
crinkled loudly.
"What did you bring as an offering?"
The mattress shifted and the lamp on the bedside
table next to him came to life. "Sour Cream and
Onion," he said, shaking a green and white bag
with a hopeful smile.
She pushed herself up with her palms, plumped two
pillows behind her back, and handed him the
remote. The bag of chips rested between them as
shared bounty. Their hands tangled as they
reached in at the same time and whenever he found
a curled chip, he'd give it to her because he
knew they were her favorite. Normally she refused
his junk food overtures, but once in awhile she'd
indulge for no other reason than to share
something illicit with him.
It was a little known fact that she hated to
exercise. She was lucky; if she watched what she
ate, she didn't really need to. Sometimes she'd
come home from a week on the road with him,
having been subjected to pizza and late-night
Hershey bars and diner pie he'd made her split
with him, and she'd have to suck it in when she
zipped her pants. When that happened, she'd eat
grapefruit for breakfast, salads for lunch and
dinner, and get up early every morning to run
until she had room to spare in her size 4's
again. She kept a couple of pairs of size 6's in
her closet from when she was heavier, just for
these types of emergencies. She was just a little
bit obsessed with her weight, always had been.
When you're 5 foot 3 inches tall on a good day,
every pound shows. Her thighs were always the
first to go, then her ass. Why couldn't she ever
pack on the extra weight in her chest?
Mulder, spread-eagle on top of her motel bed, had
stopped being weird long ago. Christ, it was a
wonder they still bothered to knock on one
another's room doors. Sometimes he even fell
asleep in her room. Never under the covers, no
never that, but rather sprawled across the
slippery motel comforter, surrounded by grisly
crime photos or junk food or both. The things
they could look at while eating was disturbing.
They were not normal.
Sometimes she'd wake just enough in the predawn
hours to hear him slink from the bed and shuffle
back to his own room, leaving behind crumbs and a
warm spot where he had been. He never stayed the
whole night. Oddly enough, even if he only left
her room an hour before the alarm went off, it
didn't qualify as 'sleeping over.' The unspoken
rule was that it didn't matter where you fell
asleep, only where you woke up. Some things were
just too big to face the light of day.
She had never been good at sharing a bed. Even
when she had been in long-term relationships, she
had always enjoyed the romantic notion of the
morning after more than the actual morning after.
Waking up naked to find someone in your bed,
bending self-consciously to locate something,
anything, to put on before traipsing to the
bathroom. Discreetly trying to avoid that morning
breath kiss, or worse yet, morning sex, because
they all wanted that and were sure you did too
when all you really wanted was some good strong
coffee, two Advil, and to throw on your sweats
and do the crossword puzzle by yourself.
The closest she had ever come to living with
someone was Jack Willis. Once they had started
sleeping together, she spent most nights at his
apartment. His place was closer to work than hers
and for some strange reason, she felt more
comfortable with that arrangement because she
knew she could simply leave at any time. Whenever
he stayed at her place, she felt trapped, which,
looking back on it now, really should have told
her something. Her mother, tired of leaving
unanswered messages at her apartment, had
resorted to calling her cell phone instead,
skillfully avoided phoning her anytime between
the hours of 10 p.m. and 8 a.m. when she might be
tempted to ask about Dana's whereabouts. Despite
the fact that everyone suspected the situation
was on a one-track course toward a more permanent
arrangement, her parents still subscribed to the
Catholic code of silence when it came to
fornication. Don't talk about it and it isn't
happening.
And she might have said yes to a proposal from
him. She just might have up until that point when
she woke up in his bed one Sunday morning and had
a painful thought that if she had to do the same
thing for the next fifty years, she might just
whither and die like a parched flower. Up until
the point when they were discussing the what ifs
over pasta primavera and he said, "When we have
kids of our own, it'll be this way..." and her
stomach clenched. Up until the point when she was
lying beneath him and he was calling her baby and
she thought, 'This is nice.' And then when he was
done and she still wasn't, she struggled out from
underneath his heaviness and went to the bathroom
to clean herself up and discovered that she had
forgotten to take her pill that morning.
Realistically, she knew it would be fine, that
one missed pill was nothing, but still, she
couldn't imagine. She just couldn't imagine. And
so she ended it. Bags of clothing and CDs and
toiletry items that had migrated apartments were
returned. She requested a transfer within the
Bureau and threw away the lingerie he had bought
her. He told her she'd be sorry because no one
would ever love her like he did. He was wrong.
The idea that things might be different with
Mulder had crossed her mind more than once, even
though she banished the thoughts as quickly as
they came. Still, she couldn't help sensing that
she wouldn't mind the morning breath, that the
morning sex would be every bit as transcendental
as the bedtime sex and the middle-of-the-night
sex. And afterward, they would do the crossword
puzzle together in bed and eat grapes, completely
naked, half draped in white sheets like Adonis
and Aphrodite.
On her TV screen, Sigourney Weaver looked into a
pair of slime-dripping jaws and opened fire.
Things splattered about on the screen while
Mulder went for another handful of chips. "That's
not what they look like, Scully."
"Hmm," she hummed, munching.
"Aliens. They don't look like that."
"I know," she appeased him. It was easier than
arguing that maybe it was possible he didn't know
for sure exactly what aliens looked like. She
also didn't really care. She just liked sitting
this close to him and sharing a moment, even if
it was over gory movies and trans fat. She slid
her leg over underneath the covers as far as it
would go, to where he lay on top, and he placed
his hand on her knee. It was his chip eating
hand, so he had to stop eating momentarily. She
reached into the bag and fed him one. He smiled
without taking his eyes off the screen and kept
his hand right where it was. This was flirty
Scully. She hadn't been seen in quite some time.
Flirty Scully, meet Mulder. Mulder, this is
Flirty Scully. She used to be quite a force back
in her day. Maybe she's still got it.
*************************************************
3/6
Still February, 2000
"Suicide is Painless," he mumbled under his
breath and her perplexed eyes made him chuckle
like a madman and hold his head in his hands.
Inappropriate responses were a normal part of the
grieving process, she reminded herself, even
though he was the psychologist, not her.
"It's the theme song from MASH," he said.
She cupped his head with her palm and his nose
dripped into the inside of her elbow. All six
feet whatever of him was crumpled into something
compact enough for her to get two arms around, a
near physical impossibility when he wasn't
shattered and soul-crippled.
"Did she suffer, Scully?"
Everybody asked that. She had been doing
autopsies for years and it was what everybody
wanted to know. Her policy was that there was
never a good reason to say yes. If a lie could
bring comfort to the grieving, then what possible
justification was there to withhold it?
"No, Mulder. She didn't suffer." And in all
reality, Teena Mulder probably had not. Death by
carbon monoxide inhalation was caused by
asphyxia, which was not exactly painless. But in
almost all cases, the victim was rendered
unconscious minutes before suffocation occurred.
"Why wouldn't she tell me she was sick?" he asked
the inside of her upper arm. His hands clutched
the black fabric of her jacket like a security
blanket.
She had no answers, so she held him a little
tighter and heard the steady thrumming of his
heartbeat with her ear to his back. She thought
about him as a child, his mother holding him like
this, after thunderstorms and bee stings and
scraped knees. It was just him now, no family
left, except her. Then again, maybe it had been
this way for awhile. Her island of Mulder.
"I didn't call her back. I should've known
something was wrong. I should've...she never
calls me on the road."
"Mulder, you couldn't have known. This isn't your
fault."
He pushed away from her and stood, paced quietly
back and forth, head pitched low and fingers
steepled, mouth moving in a silent liturgy. If
she didn't know better, she'd swear he was
praying. But she did know better. She had long
ago reconciled herself to the fact that her
prayers would have to be enough for both of them
because she wouldn't go anywhere without him. Not
even heaven.
She stood and touched his arm tentatively and he
stopped moving. "Do you want me to give you
something to help you sleep, Mulder?"
He shook his head. "I'm --I just need to figure
some things out, that's all."
She sighed, worrying her lip. "There's nothing to
figure out tonight," she said, running her palms
from his elbows to his hands and squeezing. "You
need to get some rest."
He pivoted and walked into his bedroom without a
word, sloughing his T shirt off over his head and
dropping it into a laundry basket on the floor.
The button and zipper on his jeans were next and
she felt ridiculous turning around and even more
so not, so she went to his kitchen and busied
herself washing up the few dirty dishes in his
sink. A plate, two coffee mugs, a pan with crusty
egg and a spatula, a few pieces of silverware.
She dried everything and put them away, not
pausing to overthink the significance of knowing
exactly where all the dishes went in his kitchen.
A fern, still in its little green plastic planter
and sitting on a salad plate, struggled on the
windowsill. When had he gotten a plant? Mighty
optimistic of him when his fish were typically
one meal away from a flush. She carried the
trusting little sapling to the sink and watered
it, lifting its branches tenderly to the mist and
mentally coaching it to live, dammit. He had had
his share of loss for the time being.
When she returned to the living room, he was
exiting his bedroom wearing a clean T shirt and
pale yellow pajama pants. She had not seen them
before. They seemed much more intimate than the
sweatpants he wore on the road. She suddenly felt
overdressed.
"You don't have to stay, Scully. I'll be okay."
He stood before her with mad scientist hair, bad
posture, and shifty eyes. If a situation had ever
called for responsible adult supervision, this
was it.
"I'll stay."
"Then come to bed," he replied, matter-of-factly
and returned to his bedroom.
She paused for a brief moment, but not to
contemplate whether or not she'd go to his bed.
Of course she would. Not for that, she suspected.
That wasn't what he was asking for, but would she
even know anymore when a man was? Yes, it had
been that long.
She removed her jacket and draped it over his
wooden chair, glancing down at the cluttered
desktop, made even more untidy by his sudden
outburst just an hour ago. She straightened
stacks of papers and folders and righted an
overturned desk lamp and a coffee mug full of
pens. His checkbook lay open and face down on top
of a cable bill. She flipped it over and looked
for no good reason. $340 for his car payment.
$57.90 at the dry cleaners. $30 for a haircut.
These were things they never talked about. She
had no idea what he paid for rent or what he owed
on his Visa bill. These were things couples
talked about. They just crossed continents to
save one other's lives, that's all.
A hand rested gently on her shoulder and she
jumped, her cheeks coloring at her transgression.
She folded the checkbook closed and placed it
back down on the desk. "I'm sorry, Mulder."
He squeezed her shoulder affectionately and
shrugged. "It's all yours anyway. If anything
ever happens to me."
"Don't-" she pleaded with a hand to his chest.
"What? Talk about dying? Seems somewhat
appropriate, don't you think?" He took her by the
hand and led her into the bedroom and to his
closet, where he reached up to a shelf much
higher than she'd ever reach without help, and
pulled down a metal box.
"It's not locked." He demonstrated by opening it.
There was a stack of folded papers, some in
envelopes, others not, and a key lying on top.
She eyed it, curiously. "It's to a safe deposit
box," he said. "Everything's there." The key was
attached to a small plastic keychain with a 60s
style smiley face on it and the words 'Shit
Happens.' Leave it to Mulder to weave irony into
potential tragedy.
"So now you know," he said, returning the box to
its original location. Then he picked up a small
stack of clothing folded neatly on his bed and
handed it to her. "If you want to change into
something to sleep."
Not even a year ago, one of them would have taken
the couch while the other took the bed. That was
then and this is now. Back when the slim
possibility, however remote, still existed that
perhaps she could possibly share a bed with
another man someday. Then again, maybe she had
mistakenly thought that possibility existed long
after it no longer did. When had she become his?
In his bathroom, she was startled to see the
toothbrush she had used during her stay in his
apartment after the Pfaster ordeal was still
standing tall in the toothbrush holder by his
sink. She had a toothbrush in Mulder's bathroom
now. She tried not to dwell on symbolism. What
else would he have done with it? Throw it away?
Put it in a closet? It was a two-dollar
toothbrush and Christ, she was freaking just a
little. Like he had put her name on his mailbox
or something.
It suddenly occurred to her that maybe she was a
commitment-phobe. In all of her past
relationships, not that there had been all that
many, she had been the one to end it. Interesting
that she had never thought this through before,
and yet a single toothbrush in Mulder's bathroom
caused her to psychoanalyze her relationship
patterns. Funny - she had always pegged him as
the runner. He had ditched her on more
assignments than she cared to think about. And
yet, lately he seemed to be exhibiting
concentrated bursts of neediness when it came to
her, intense, almost suffocating devotion
interspersed among periods of casual normalcy,
even disinterest.
One night he'd show up at her apartment
unannounced with Thai food and a smile and she'd
practically have to kick him out in order to go
to bed, then the very next weekend, she wouldn't
hear from him from the time they left work until
Monday morning. One day last week, he had managed
to corner and kiss her three separate times at
work, once by stopping the elevator on its
descent to the basement for a good five minute
makeout session until she had pushed him back
firmly with a palm to his chest and staggered
away in her heels while he swiped lipstick from
his mouth. After that, absolutely nothing for the
rest of the week. Not even when she had sat down
on the edge of his desk in a skirt, crossed her
legs and said, "How 'bout lunch?" That hadn't
even earned her a decent leer. And yet other
times, she'd practically have to pry his eyeballs
off her ass when she bent to reach the bottom
drawer of the filing cabinet. She wasn't sure
which one of them was still figuring out what
they wanted. It seemed to vary day to day.
She stripped down and used the toilet, washed her
hands and face, and brushed her teeth. When she
slipped on the T shirt Mulder had given her, it
fell almost to her knees, so she opted to skip
his jersey shorts. They were much too large and
she'd have to literally hold them up at the
waist. She exited the bathroom to find Mulder
already in bed. The room was dark and she had
trouble finding her way to the bed.
Thankfully, once her eyes adjusted, she could at
least make out his lump underneath the covers, so
she knew which side *not* to climb in on. That
would have been embarrassing. Did he always sleep
on one side? She did for reasons she suspected
were a throwback from sharing a bed in previous
relationships. Oddly enough, the side she tended
to sleep on was the opposite of the one he did.
How convenient, she smiled to herself and then
quickly chided herself for the presumptive nature
of her thoughts.
She hadn't been sure if he was asleep until he
spoke. "Ever notice we only wind up in this bed
together when there's a crisis?"
She huffed out a breath and reached for his hand
on top of the comforter.
"Maybe we should try it under different
circumstances sometime," he said, and she held
her breath for a brief second, feeling as if even
the most miniscule movement could possible convey
something fraught with significance.
"If we did, it might mean something else
entirely," she managed.
"Would that be so bad?"
She answered only with a sigh and a gentle
squeeze of his hand.
"I don't think I can sleep," he said.
"Are you sure you don't want to take anything? I
have my medical bag in my car."
"No, thanks. I'm a total idiot on sleeping pills.
I'd sleep until noon tomorrow."
"It would be good for you. You don't sleep
enough, Mulder. I've told you that before."
"I can't turn my brain off. You go ahead and
sleep. I'll lie here and count by prime numbers
or conjugate verbs or something."
"What would you do to fall asleep if I wasn't
here?"
A crack of a laugh popped out of him and she felt
her cheeks warm in the inky darkness.
"Besides that."
He cleared his throat. "Um," more chuckling,
"gosh, it's hard to think of what else..." The
amusement in his tone was audible.
"Mulder."
"Sorry. Maybe listen to music or watch TV."
"Music," she said, rolling onto her side to face
him and tucking a bent elbow under the pillow.
He pawed for his nightstand. "Radio okay?"
"Yeah. No country or rap," she demanded.
"Picky, picky."
Several stations went by that she might have
stopped on if it were her choice. He flew by
something and then backtracked, pausing to listen
with his back to her. He still had his T shirt
on, but she could see the edge of his shoulder
blade straining the fabric and she had to urge to
slide a hand up inside the shirt and touch the
warmth of him. Not appropriate, she reminded
herself.
He flopped onto his back and the mattress bounced
in squeaky protest. "This song makes me think of
you a little bit."
She recognized it. Secret Garden by Bruce
Springsteen. She had never stopped to really
listen to the words, but she did now.
"Mulder," her tongue clicked in mild
disagreement. "Do you really think of me this
way? That I hide things from you?"
He sighed. "Not just from me and not on purpose.
I think there's a pocket inside you that you keep
well-protected from everyone, even me."
"That's sad, Mulder."
"Not really. It's just you, Scully. It's as much
a part of you as your expensive shoe fetish and
the way you eat all the way around the crust of
your sandwich and save the middle for last. It's
what makes you you, and it's what makes me want
to be with you."
"That's deep, Mulder."
"Thank you. I'm having acid flashbacks as we
speak. Next we'll study our hands in front of a
black light and play 'I Am The Walrus'
backwards."
"Are there other songs that remind you of me?"
"Maybe. Yes."
"Which ones?"
"I can't tell you."
She frowned. "Why the hell not?"
"I'm shy."
She snorted out loud and swatted his arm gently,
but he captured it and pulled her into a kiss
that lasted somewhere between 'maybe this isn't
the right time' and 'don't stop now.'
She backed away from it first, devoid of air and
very acutely aware of his hand on her low, low
back, his fingers tracing over the thin elastic
waistband of her panties.
"No shorts," he breathed into the corner of her
still open mouth.
"Too big. I figured you could be a gentleman
about it."
"That's some reckless faith you've got there,
Scully."
"What other songs remind you of me?" she pushed
again.
His tongue darted out to tickle her earlobe.
"Right now? Off the top of both heads, um... Lay
Lady Lay, Let's Get it On, Light My Fire, Let's
Spend The Night Together... hmmm, lots of L
songs. Someday I'll make you a mixed tape.
Mulder's L songs for Scully."
The hand that had been at her lower back had
circled around and was inching its way past her
abdomen, northbound. She caught it. "Mulder,
maybe this isn't-"
He withdrew the disobedient hand and allowed his
head to pitch back in defeat. "I know," he
groaned, still breathing fast. "Why can't we ever
get this right, Scully?"
Dizziness. Dizziness and the feeling like she was
floating above her body. Her breasts tingled and
she knew her nipples were hardened, alert to the
possibility of a touch other than her own after
so very long. Why couldn't she do this? Why did
it have to be so complicated? Sometimes it was
okay to just fuck. She had fucked men she hadn't
loved before, not many, but a few. Why was it so
hard to fuck one she did? She knew the answer.
Because it wouldn't be just fucking between them
any more. It would be something else entirely.
There were other words for what it would be
between them and she didn't know if she could
manage those yet. She clenched her thighs
together in frustration and pressed her
fingernails into her palms. If he wasn't lying
next to her right now, her hands would be doing
other things.
Rod Stewart droned from the radio about Maggie
May and going back to school and playing pool.
She had this song on a 45 record when she was in
fifth grade. Melissa had sat on it accidentally
and had broken it and when she went to buy her a
new one, Dana had chosen Crocodile Rock instead
when she should have stuck with another copy of
Maggie May. The random snippets of life that will
forever be associated with songs. The same way
that My Girl always made her think of her father
teaching her to dance in the kitchen before the
eighth grade dance, and how Heart of Glass by
Blondie reminded her of the first time she got
really drunk and Missy had to sneak her in the
back door after she threw up on her shoes.
Apparently Mulder was feeling less nostalgic. He
silenced the radio with one slap of the palm,
stood abruptly and grabbed a pillow. "I'll take
the couch."
"No, Mulder. No." She reached for his hand and
coaxed him back down to a seated position with
his back to her. His shoulders hunched forward.
"You told me before you didn't want this and I
pushed again. I'm sorry. I guess I'm not thinking
straight right now," he said, wearily.
She sighed and tugged at his shirt until he
unfolded his length onto the bed again, feet
dangling off the end like usual. Didn't he ever
get sick of not fitting? On beds, in airplane
seats, into compact cars? Then again, who was she
to talk? She had to use a stool to reach the
spices in her kitchen and she literally had to
look up to speak to just about anyone over the
age of ten.
"I'm not saying no, Mulder. I'm saying not now. I
just need a little more...time, I guess. This
thing between us -- I'm afraid to want it," she
confessed.
His head pivoted on the pillow to face her. "I
remember what that's like," he said and her heart
swelled just a little.
They lay side by side on their backs and she
swept the sheet with her bare leg, connecting her
foot to some hairy part of his body, a bony knee
or a calf. Warmth radiated off him. He was like
one of those dogs that you wanted to get stuck in
a snowstorm with, if you had to get stuck in a
snowstorm. A Saint Bernard. He drooled a little
less, but had the big feet. There was never a
time when she didn't feel overwhelming affection
toward him. Even when she could not tolerate even
one more second of his pontificating, and she
fantasized about handcuffing him to the filing
cabinet and silencing him with a mouthful of his
tacky tie, he could still soften her with a touch
to her back, could completely disarm her with a
slow steady blink and a pouty lip. If he cupped
the side of her face or tucked her hair for her,
she was liable to roll over for a tummy rub.
"How can you know, Mulder? How can you know this
would work?"
His exhale was long. "How can we know anything?
What I do know is I can't live without you, so
what choice do I have?"
*************************************************
************************************
Late February, 2000
Mulder scuffed his feet on the pavement as he
walked because it made him feel a little bad ass.
Scully walked a half a step ahead of him in her
heeled boots and jeans and black leather jacket
and she managed to actually look a little bad
ass. She had been doing that walking ahead of him
thing lately. He figured it had to do with the
sorting out process she was doing regarding their
relationship and her need to remind him of her
independence.
"I was almost slain tonight by a video ninja
babe," he said to the night sky, his head tilted
back.
"I know," she replied.
"You saved me."
"I know."
"Where do you guys want to eat?" asked Frohike,
who was sandwiched between Byers in the lead and
Scully behind him. Then came Mulder. Then came
Langly and that Phoebe chick lagging ten paces
behind and sharing a smoke. Mulder could sense
that Langly was thinking maybe.
"Why don't you ask Phoebe?" suggested Byers.
"She's local."
"There's a microbrewery two blocks up," she
called out, having overheard.
"I think you owe me a beer, Mulder," said Scully.
"I think I owe you an all expenses paid vacation,
a new car, and a big screen TV."
"You can start with the beer."
"Can I have the TV?" asked Frohike.
They were seated at a huge round booth in the
back, sticking to their already established
order: Byers slid in first, then Frohike, Scully,
and Mulder, with Langly and Phoebe on the end.
Coats were discarded and piled up on an empty
chair in a mountain of leather and denim with
frayed sleeves. An ambitious number of pitchers
of beer were ordered, making Mulder confident
that the remainder of the evening would be spent
on foot or attempting to fit as many inebriated
people as possible into cabs. Maybe Scully would
have to sit on his lap. She was the smallest.
He'd fight Frohike for her.
He ordered a cheeseburger with sweet potato fries
and Scully followed suit. He could count on one
hand the number of times he'd seen her eat a
cheeseburger. It was an omen. It meant anything
was possible tonight. Well, maybe not anything.
He didn't dare to hope.
Technically the case was over, but there hadn't
been anything more than a couple of brief stolen
kisses since that night in his apartment when
she'd worn his T shirt but not his shorts. He had
woken in the predawn light to find her back to
him and the blankets hovering below her waist.
His navy blue shirt had ridden up high enough for
him to see peach colored cotton panties and a two
inch expanse of pale skin before the shirt picked
up again. Her leg had been bent, her hip high,
accentuating the dip of her waist. It had taken
every ounce of control he had not to bend down
and run the flat of his tongue over the exposed
skin. Her femaleness had assaulted every last one
of his senses. It might have been the closest
he'd ever been to being able to come without even
touching himself, but she had stirred and reached
for the comforter before he could achieve abject
humiliation. The image had been branded into his
brain, however, and it had taken him no more than
half a dozen tight strokes in the shower that
morning to find release, all the while with her
innocently drinking coffee and reading the
editorials in his living room.
She ate her cheeseburger with one leg bent and
tucked underneath, her knee against his thigh. He
wanted to rest his hand on it, but she wouldn't
have appreciated his boldness and he didn't want
to deal with getting the puppy dog eye from
Frohike, and also, his hand was greasy from his
cheeseburger. So he flirted by stealing her
pickles and squirting a smiley face on her plate
with ketchup.
Frohike got up to use the john and everyone had
to scoot out, one by one, oozing back in out of
order so that Byers was in between he and Scully
now. Pitchers of beer were passed around for the
third time and Phoebe sang along to Free Falling,
Langly pulling in some low harmony and bobbing
his head, slacker style.
"Hey, let's find some karaoke!" said Phoebe. She
smiled at Scully in girl solidarity. "We'll sing
some Go-Go's or The Bangles."
Mulder snorted and then quickly recovered with a
long pull from his beer.
"What? You got a problem with that?" Scully
eyebrowed him.
"Not even one," he replied, and it was the truth.
Scully couldn't sing a lick, but he loved to hear
her just the same. Scully doing drunken karaoke
was something he might even pay money to see. He
feared it might also involve Frohike taking on
Freebird, though, which was a scene he could live
without.
They stumbled back into the night, thick as
thieves. Scully swayed and righted herself with
an arm around his waist and two fingers through
his belt loop. He reciprocated with one around
her shoulder and they stayed that way for some
time, a combination of leaning and walking going
on and nobody really caring because they were all
pretty buzzed and what happened in Southern
California stayed in Southern California.
"What's the plan?" asked Byers.
"More partying," piped in Langly and Phoebe
contributed a giggle. They were still bringing up
the end of the line. There seemed to be a
correlation between how much hair one had and how
slow they walked.
"If we keep heading in this direction, we'll hit
the pier. There's a bunch of stuff down there --
bars, arcades..." said Phoebe, zipping up her
hoodie and sinking her hands into her pockets. He
supposed she could be cold. It was a matter of
perspective. To the D.C. crowd, this felt like
spring. He bent his head back and huffed into the
air.
"It's late February and I can't see my breath,
Scully. Let's move here."
She smiled and tilted her head lazily against his
shoulder. "And do what, work in surf shops?"
"Live off love."
He caught a roll of the eyes from Frohike.
*************************************************
************************************
Byers and Frohike hurled insults over an air
hockey table next to them. Phoebe and Langly had
disappeared somewhere in the vicinity of Super
Streetfighter awhile ago. He handed Scully
another ball.
"Keep going. You're at 48,000 points and
climbing. I want that Simpsons key chain that
plays six different catch phrases."
"I figured you for the blow- up alien," said
Scully, rolling another one up into the 500 slot.
"Nah, blow-up dolls aren't really my thing."
She ignored him, too intent on her game to
acknowledge his ill attempts at eighth grade
humor. "Can you just see Skinner's face in our
next meeting, Scully, when he hears Bart Simpson
say, 'Eat My Shorts!'?" He snickered loudly.
"He'd kill you, Mulder. I'd kill you."
"When did you get to be the Queen of Skee Ball?
See, this is something I didn't know about you. I
love when that happens."
"There was an arcade two blocks from the base we
lived on when I was eleven. We used to stop every
day on our way home from school."
"Get another 1000," he grinned.
She shook her head, reproachfully. "That's where
people go wrong. They get greedy and always go
for the 1000. But if you miss, it falls into the
zero. If you stick with aiming for the 500 and
miss, you usually still get 400 or 300."
"I didn't realize there was such a complicated
strategy to Skee Ball."
"Oh yes. Get me some more tokens, Mulder."
He extracted his wallet from his pocket and
thumbed through. "All I have left are twenties."
"Money bags. There's a five in my back pocket.
Grab it."
His grin got wider. "You're giving me permission
to feel up your ass in public?"
"Desperate times call for desperate measures."
A half hour and 450 tickets later, they were
perusing their junk choices at the redemption
counter. Byers combined all his tickets with
Frohike, who cashed them in on a pocket full of
atomic fireballs, a decoder ring, and a rubber
chicken.
"Hey Scully, for just forty more tickets, we can
get both the Simpsons key chain and a whoopee
cushion."
"I'm done, Mulder."
Langly and Phoebe wandered over. "Hey everybody.
Phoebe's girlfriend is singing in a band over at
a place called The Wayside. Let's hit it."
"Yeah, it's kind of a sixties throwback, Janis
Joplin, Grace Slick kind of deal," added Phoebe.
"I have weird friends."
"I think I know what that's like," he heard
Scully mumble as she leaned her black leather
elbows on the glass counter, biker chick style.
She outclassed them all by a mile.
Mulder bent toward Langly's ear. "Her
girlfriend?"
"Not that kind," he whispered back. "I checked."
Mulder gave him a 'carry on' nod.
Scully handed Mulder the coveted key chain and
draped a candy necklace over her own head,
lifting it to bite off a pink one. He wondered if
he'd be invited to share.
"Let's hail a cab," suggested Byers.
"Hey, let's see how many of us we can cram into
the back seat," said Langly, and Mulder wondered
how he'd ever been passed over for the Bill and
Ted movies.
"Cowabunga!" said Bart Simpson.
*************************************************
************************************
She leaned against him where he stood, propping
up a wall to the left of the stage. "My buzz is
wearing off, Mulder. Get me a Corona with lime."
"You got it." He bent and chewed off a piece of
the candy necklace and she tilted to let him.
Frohike and Byers were seated at a high top next
to them and Mulder stopped and rapped his
knuckles twice on the table. "Anything from the
bar, Gents?"
Frohike's eyes narrowed. "What do I have to do to
get a piece of that necklace?"
Mulder offered a tight-lipped smile and slapped
his shoulder.
"I'll come up with you," said Melvin.
They waded through body piercings and colorful
hair, past Langly and Phoebe doing some kind of
mosh pit slam to Jefferson Airplane's Somebody to
Love.
"You two have been cozy all night," Frohike
yelled over the music. "Should I ask?"
Mulder shrugged. "You can ask, but I don't have
an answer."
Frohike gave him a bulldog scowl. "You mean
you're not-"
"Not what?"
"If I have to spell it out for you, then you're
worse off than I thought."
Mulder chuckled. "If you mean has our
professional partnership become slightly less
professional, then yes, there has been a notable
shift. If you're asking if I know first-hand what
it's like to wake up in Georgetown with a smile
on my face, then no, I do not."
"Why not? You love her, right?"
"What is this -- True Confessions?"
Frohike continued staring at him, unwaveringly.
Mulder sighed. "Yeah. I love her. It's
complicated, though."
"No it's not. You love her. She loves you. It
couldn't be simpler."
"There's a little more to it than that."
Frohike shook his head. "Neither one of you is
married, gay, crazy, incarcerated, or Republican,
right? It's a piece of cake, then."
Mulder scratched his head. "I'm thinking about
the crazy part. What would be the criteria
exactly?"
"Everybody wants to muck it up when it's right.
Take it from me, Bro. Something like this only
comes along once in a lifetime, and that's if
you're lucky."
Mulder's eyes narrowed at his friend and he
tilted his head.
"Don't look at me like that. That's all you're
getting."
On their walk back to their table, Mulder
considered what he knew about Melvin, mostly bits
and pieces he had gathered over the years. He had
never been married, but there had been someone
and Melvin had never gotten over her. She had
gotten sick. He carried a tattered photo in his
wallet and once, when he had taken a credit card
out, the photo had fallen and Mulder had
retrieved it and handed it back to him. She had
dark hair and a pretty smile and she looked to be
about thirty-five or so in the picture. When
Mulder had questioned him with his eyes, Melvin
had simply said, "My Scully." Every year in July,
Frohike disappeared for about four days and went
up to Long Island, where he was from. Mulder
suspected the timing had to do with the
anniversary of something he was both trying to
remember and trying to forget.
Mulder handed Scully her beer and slinked an arm
around her waist discreetly and she let him keep
it there, swaying in time to the beat. The band
segued into a languid version of Me and Bobby
McGee and Phoebe and Langly made their way back
to the group, flushed and out of breath from
dancing.
A bachelorette party congregated next to their
group with margaritas and too much eye shadow,
singing at the top of their lungs to the song.
By the chorus, the overall mood had infiltrated
the rest of the bar and most people were on their
feet singing along. Phoebe stood on the other
side of Scully, one arm slung over her shoulder,
like they hadn't just met for the first time
twelve hours ago.
"Freedom's just another word for nothin' left to
lose, Nothin', don't mean nothin' Honey, if it
ain't free...And feelin' good was easy, Lord,
when he sang the blues...You know, feelin' good
was good enough for me...good enough for me and
my Bobby McGee...."
The la, da, da's were belted loudly and off-key
with beers raised high. Scully's cheeks were rosy
from the warmth of the room and from the alcohol.
She looked carefree and happy and he imagined
this was how she might have looked as a young
college student, smart and fresh and full of
idealism, with a ponytail and an answer to
everything. If he had spotted her in a bar like
this back then, would he have noticed her? Bought
her a drink, asked her to dance, taken her home
with him? Would she have even given him the time
of day? Probably not, he smiled to himself. She
would have been out of his league even then, with
her shiny Einstein paradoxes.
He exchanged a look with her and she stopped
singing and beamed at him. It was one of those
totally genuine, in the moment, heart stopping,
rest of the world fading away smiles and he
wanted to haul her over his shoulder and carry
her off to a deserted island with him for the
rest of their lives. He'd feed her chocolate
covered strawberries and paint her toenails for
her. She'd recite poetry to him and wash his hair
(he was oddly turned on by having a woman wash
his hair). She'd wear a sarong half the time and
be naked the other half. They'd never have to
think about monsters or aliens or filing taxes
ever again. Their arguments would be over getting
sand in the sheets or how to tap a coconut or
what month it was, because neither of them could
remember. When it rained, they'd make love under
a thatched roof. He'd spend entire afternoons
tracing the curve of her hip or the swell of her
breast. They'd be happy. Flawlessly, deliriously
happy.
"Mulder?" She tugged on his arm.
He could hear her again because the music had
stopped. There was a girl with Lisa Loeb cats eye
glasses on stage telling everyone not to go away
because the band was just taking a ten minute
break.
They left anyway.
Out on the sidewalk, Scully bummed a cigarette
off of Phoebe and a light from Frohike. Mulder
had seen her smoke only once before. It was
surreal. The only thing weirder would've been
seeing the Surgeon General light up.
She offered it to him and he took a drag and
handed it back to her. "Nasty habit," he said
through choked breaths.
"Very," she agreed. "That's why it's not a habit.
Anymore."
"I didn't know you used to smoke, Scully."
"Briefly. A little bit in college. I quit in med
school, but even now, once in a blue moon, with a
beer..." her voice trailed off and she took
another long drag, exhaling skyward out of the
edge of her mouth with her head tipped back.
Someone spotted a tiny, dilapidated playground
that had seen better days and they headed for it,
over dew slicked grass, under humming
streetlights. Red cigarette dots bobbed in the
dark like crazed fireflies. Mulder and Byers were
the only ones not smoking. Bunch of delinquents.
"I can't believe I'm out partying with feds,"
giggled Phoebe.
"Don't worry, they don't really arrest people
much," said Langly.
"They slay monsters and hunt extra terrestrials,"
added Frohike.
A loud laugh cracked from Phoebe. She thought
they were kidding.
There were three swings and Mulder, Scully, and
Byers lined up on them. Frohike stretched out on
his back on top of a picnic table, arms crossed
under his head, stargazing and smoking. Langly
and Phoebe headed for an old rusty metal slide
that listed to one side suspiciously. Scully
stomped out her cigarette with a twist of her
boot in the dirt, backed herself up into the
black rubber swing and sailed forward,
immediately starting to pump her legs. She was a
natural at this, he could tell. Mulder was too
tall to fit properly, so he sat, knees just about
up to his chin, feeling the gust of air as Scully
flew by him. She was tipped backwards now, body
flat, pulling back on the chain links.
"Dare me to jump?" she called out.
"No! Jesus, Scully."
Her carefree laugh resonated through the quiet.
"Just kidding. I'm not that drunk, Mulder."
She stopped pumping and allowed gravity to slow
her to a stop. Her hair was parted in the back
now, completely pushed forward and blanketing her
face. She pushed it back with one hand. Mulder
reached and tucked back a stubborn lock that was
still clinging to her lip gloss. She smiled and
captured his hand, jumping up and tugging him
along. "Come on. Let's walk."
"Where to?"
"Anywhere. Not far," she said, lacing her fingers
into his. He tucked both their hands into the
pocket of his jacket. They walked a wide berth
around the metal slide where Phoebe was sitting
at the bottom and Langly was leaning in,
thoroughly checking out her dental work.
Scully snickered quietly. "Doesn't he have a
girlfriend back in D.C.?"
"Langly? Nuh uh."
"Yes. What about that goth girl with the-with the
nose ring? She was with him that night in
December when I came to get you because you
locked your keys in the car. Remember?"
"Ruby? No. They're just friends."
"Just friends like we're just friends, or just
friends?" She was arching one eyebrow and
smirking up at him.
"Just friends," he smiled. "Langly's not her
type."
She frowned like he had just told her she smelled
funny, and he realized that despite her protests
to the contrary, she had a soft spot for the
three amigos and was actually quite protective of
them. "Why not?"
"Because he has a penis, for one thing. Ruby
likes women."
"Oh." She was quiet for a minute. "But do you
really think this could work? I mean, Phoebe
lives all the way out here. You don't think he'd
move, do you?"
He patted her hand and chuckled. "Well, so far
he's kissed her. Maybe we should wait a little
while before we mail the wedding invitations."
Scully sighed and smiled, contentedly. "I like
Phoebe. She seems nice."
"She does," he agreed.
They came to a wooden structure with a series of
uneven platforms, a creative jungle gym of sorts.
Mulder hoisted himself up, then offered a hand to
Scully who took it. They climbed to the top
platform and sat down, side by side. She swung
her legs and sighed.
"We should do more of this," she said.
"More of-" he lingered, unsure.
"-normal people things. Things that don't involve
anything life threatening or death defying."
"I don't know. That thing you did on the swing
had me going for a minute."
She giggled and he leaned so his lips were
hovering inches from hers for several long
seconds...before smiling and bending down to bite
a piece of candy off her necklace.
"Tease."
"It takes one to know one, Agent Scully."
She responded by wrapping one hand around his
neck and pulling his mouth down to hers in a
solid liplock. He closed his eyes and tilted his
head, putting an arm around her back to draw her
closer. Soft and yielding, she parted her lips
and invited him in. Their tongues slid together
as they changed angles. Her thigh pressed firmly
against his and her fingers spread themselves in
his hair and kneaded his scalp.
"D'Oh!"
"Don't have a cow, man!"
His key chain came to life inside his pocket and
she giggled into his mouth, pulling back and
pressing her forehead to his. "Let's get out of
here and head back to the hotel," she said and he
tried not to overanalyze whether that loaded
statement meant the end of a night or the
beginning of one. He was no longer in the
driver's seat, so he'd just buckle up and enjoy
the ride.
They wandered back, hand in hand, and informed
the Gunmen -- well two of them anyway -- that he
and Scully were going to catch a cab back to
their hotel. The look Frohike gave them strongly
suggested that perhaps their little public
display of affection hadn't been as discreet as
they had thought. Byers just cleared his throat,
stared down at his shoes, and wished them a good
night. Scully pulled her candy necklace off over
her head, draped it over Melvin's and leaned over
to give him a sweet peck on the cheek. Mulder
wouldn't have been surprised to return to that
very spot the next morning to find that Frohike
hadn't moved an inch, still frozen in place with
that starstruck, open-mouthed grin on his face.
*************************************************
************************************
When they reached their neighboring hotel rooms,
still holding hands, Mulder pulled his key card
from his wallet, but lingered in front of her
door. Her eyes were slightly sleepy and heavy-
lidded and her hair was tousled. She listed
against the door frame in her black boots and
leather, white blouse unbuttoned just a little
more than it had been when the evening began. She
looked sexy has hell.
"I don't want to say goodnight yet," she said,
her voice low and raspy like it often got when
she had just performed a 2 a.m. autopsy.
"Okay." He leaned into her with a palm braced on
the wall above her head. He was still a little
buzzed, so he assumed she was at least that too.
She had matched him drink for drink.
"I can't sleep with you tonight," she said in a
breathy alto, eyeing him from under thick, heavy
lashes. Bedroom eyes. That's what they were.
"Okay." He wondered if 'can't' meant something
different than 'won't.'
"You want to watch TV then?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"What do you want to do?" He always stumbled at
this part. The what-to-do-at-the-door part. He
either got invited in or he didn't. If he did,
then it usually meant one thing. With Scully,
nothing followed any predictable pattern. It was
like trying to do one of those dot-to-dot puzzles
where all the numbers were scattered all over the
page. His pen was paused and leaking ink at
number thirty-two and he couldn't, for the life
of him, spot where number thirty-three was.
"Draw me a map, Scully," he whispered, his large
hand under her jacket and bracketing one side of
her waist.
"Maybe just a little more of this." She stretched
up to sip shyly at his lips, her eyes open and
connecting with his. "If you can...if it's not
too-"
"It's not," he jumped in, not willing to admit to
himself that it might be.
*************************************************
************************************
He was kissing her on her hotel bed. They had
both shed their jackets and shoes, but otherwise
remained clothed. One tiny light over by the
closet offered the only illumination. He could
see her face and all the important parts, but he
wouldn't have been able to read a takeout menu
and he couldn't quite tell if the ugly flowers on
the bedspread were purple or blue.
She was soft and small under him and he leaned
just his torso over her, peppering her jaw, the
tiny shells of her ears, her neck with kisses.
Slender fingers skimmed up and down his back and
then she was tugging his shirt from his pants and
sliding hot hands underneath it. Something
ignited in him and he rolled himself more fully
on top of her and began a deep and steady grind.
He could cut glass, he was so hard. She slid
against him, her hips rising and falling and
doing this mind-bending circular motion that was
going to slowly drive him insane.
He pulled back, his lips separating from hers
with an audible pop. The room spun and he didn't
think it was from the alcohol. "We need to slow
down," he panted.
"Okay." And they did. For a few minutes. The
kisses became less frantic and they traded the
dry humping for more of a rocking motion. He
started over again at her hairline, brushing his
lips gently on her forehead and working his way
down. Her eyelids, lashes, the bridge of her
perfect nose, cheekbones that would have been
worthy of Botticelli's brush, and then finally
the lips again -- first the top, then the bottom.
He drew each into his mouth and sucked on them,
then flicked his tongue to tickle them. And
therein lay the problem again. It was the
tongues. Definitely the tongues. When they got
involved, his self-control went to hell in a hand
basket. And hers wasn't much better as she arched
under him, tiny moans like bubbles escaping her.
Her eyes fluttered open and closed, her lashes
like rose petals on his cheek. Her nipples stood
at attention, visible pebbles straining her
blouse. He would give up air just to make love to
her right now. He was confused. Confused and in
love and more aroused than he'd been, possibly
ever.
"Scully, why-" he started, struggling with his
words. Shit fuck. She had already said no. Right
there in the hallway. Full clothed and of sound
mind and just a little drunk. She had said no.
She had her reasons and he had to respect them.
And in order to do that, he needed to leave. Now.
But she wasn't letting him go. He was still
poised on top of her and now her knees were bent
and his hips were sandwiched in the sweet valley
of her thighs. She cupped his face and continued
the onslaught on his mouth and all five of his
senses, plus his efforts to be a gentleman.
"It's not that I don't want to," she whispered in
short hot bursts into his ear. "Not a good
time..." more grinding of her pelvic bone against
his cock, "...for me."
His brain sputtered back to life, fitting the
puzzle pieces. Oh that. Shit fuck. What were the
chances? About four or five out of twenty-eight,
he overthought, still rubbing shamelessly against
her. "I don't care. It's fine, Scully. Really,
it's okay. It doesn't bother me." He sounded
desperate, even to himself.
Her eyes opened fully now and she put a gentle
hand to his chest. The light had switched from
green to yellow and was well on its way to red.
"No, Mulder. No." She made a distasteful face.
"Not for the first time, no. It's just not...how
I want it to be."
He groaned and flopped to the side, one arm over
his face. It was official -- he was the poster boy
for Murphy's Law. Why couldn't the universe stop
spinning for them just once? Just for an hour?
Okay, even twenty minutes would do it. He'd make
it the best twenty minutes of her life.
"I gotta go, Scully. I gotta go or I'm going to
start begging."
She huffed out a tiny laugh. "That wasn't
begging?"
"It's not funny. I think my balls could glow in
the dark they're so blue."
Her tongue clicked and she rubbed his arm
apologetically. "I'm sorry, Mulder. I shouldn't
have started something I couldn't finish."
"Don't be ridiculous, Scully. I'm not fifteen.
I'll live. I just have to go, that's all." He
sighed. "Do you have any idea how much I want you
sometimes?"
"Just sometimes?" He heard the smile in her
voice.
"Well, only when I'm awake. And once in awhile
when I'm asleep."
He heard her exhale and roll to face him. Then he
felt her arm slide up and over his chest and down
to his lower abdomen. She plucked at the button
on his jeans.
His hand quickly covered hers. "Jesus Christ,
Scully, stop! If you're saying no, then say no.
Don't pull this crap on me and expect me to walk
out of here a gentleman."
"Shhhh, Mulder. Just relax. I'm not changing the
game on you, just bending the rules a little."
His zipper slid down. "Let me help."
"Scully, don't, come on. You don't have to do
this." But he made no move to stop her. It was
possible that he lacked the chromosome to do so.
"Stop because you don't want me to, or stop
because you feel badly you can't reciprocate?"
His chest rose and fell as his brain sorted
through her question. "Um, I- are you kidding
me?" Her hand stroked him through denim, her
fingernail making a scritching noise. "The second
choice...but I'm quickly getting on board with
the idea."
"Relax and get over yourself, Mulder. I'm not
keeping a score card."
Her voice oozed like honey. He swallowed and
closed his eyes as she folded the flaps of his
jeans down and drew him out of his boxers.
Holyyyyyyyyy shit. His head pressed back into the
pillow and his mouth fell open. Her hand felt
like hot smooth butter on him. If his cock could
sing, it would be belting out the National Anthem
in four-part harmony right about now, and hitting
all the high notes. Her grip was firm, but not
tight, absolutely perfect. His eyes opened to
half mast, just far enough to watch her raise one
hand to her mouth and deposit a little bit of
saliva on her palm for lubrication and then
return it to his penis. How did she know? How
the hell did she know exactly how to touch him?
Oh God, it felt dreamlike. His entire body
floated and his muscles flexed and relaxed with
her rhythm.
She buried her face in his neck and made a
purring sound as her hand pumped him a little
faster, shuttling up and down, sliding and
twisting. The bed jiggled with her movements and
her upper arm tensed against him with her
efforts.
His breathing quickened. This was going to take
an embarrassingly short amount of time, he
realized. "Almost....yeah, like that..."
"Mmmm," she hummed into his ear and he lost it
completely, hips raising entirely off the bed and
pumping into her hand as he exploded. He heard
her breath hitch a little and felt the warmth on
his stomach, his groin. He could smell himself,
pungent and familiar.
Her movements slowed gradually and eventually
stopped. He made an attempt at words, but came up
empty and settled for a long moan.
"Wow," she said.
"Translation, please," he panted.
"Um, I'm not sure there are any fluids left in
you."
Yeah, it had been a few days. Mess. Big mess. And
this was her room. Fuck. "Sorry, Scully. We can
trade rooms, if you want."
"It's okay," she chuckled, getting up and heading
for the bathroom. He heard water running while
she washed her hands, he assumed. Then she
returned with a large bath towel. "But I will
pilfer one of the towels from your room to
replace this one."
He rolled over a little, hit a wet spot, and
recoiled. To his utter humiliation, Scully sat
down and began dabbing at the spot with the
towel. "Do you know how much semen shows up under
UV light in most hotel rooms?" he offered, trying
to rescue himself by appealing to the science
geek in her.
She quirked a smile. "I try not to think about
it."
He clutched at the corner of the offensive
bedspread and began stripping it down and off.
The flaps of his jeans still hung open and his
rapidly-shrinking penis protruded from the
opening of his boxers. He had managed to decorate
himself as well. Translucent fluid puddled in the
dip of his groin. It was not one of his more
dignified moments. He reached for the towel and
began cleaning himself off.
Scully cleared her throat. "Um, I'm trading
pillows with you too."
"I got the pillow?" he asked, feebly.
She toggled her brows and smiled. "Impressive arc
for a man your age, truthfully."
He grimaced. "I-I don't even know what to say to
that. Thanks? Why can't men do this neatly, like
women do?"
"Because all of humankind would eventually die
off?"
"Well, yeah, there's that."
She gripped his hand in hers. "Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"To sleep in the other room."
*************************************************
************************************
Mid-March, 2000
She needed to go home and take the world's
longest shower. She needed to stand under
scorching hot water and scrub her skin raw. She
needed to unpack her overnight bag and burn
everything in it, everything that bastard had
touched or even seen her in. She had left the
black dress there, hanging in the armoire. It
would still smell like her. She felt bile rise in
the back of her throat.
Mulder stood three feet from her, and yet it
could have been three miles. She had no idea what
he needed, other than for the last forty-eight
hours to never have happened. She had spent seven
years learning to read him. She recognized his 'I
know you think I'm crazy, but you're not changing
my mind' look, his 'I'm about to do something
that breaks every rule in the book and you're
coming with me' look, his 'I shouldn't have eaten
that truck stop chili' look, and about four
hundred other distinctive ones. But right now, he
was totally unreadable to her. All she knew was
that it wasn't good. She didn't ever recall a
time when he wouldn't meet her eyes.
Alan Byers had touched her elbow on his way out
and had paused briefly, shifting his feet, like
he'd wanted to say something to her, something
comforting. He had a gentle, chivalrous side that
had always appealed to Scully. Frohike stopped to
mumble something to Mulder that included her
name. She thought she also picked up the words
"overreact," "hurt", "needs you", and "croutons,"
but she wouldn't wage money on that last one. She
hadn't eaten since 6 a.m.
The door of his apartment snicked shut and
uncomfortable silence prevailed. She risked a
glance at him again, but he hadn't moved a muscle
in well over ten minutes. He stood in the archway
to the living room, arms crossed in front of him,
back against the wall and head tilted to the
ceiling. His eyes stared blankly at a yellowish
brown water-stain.
"Mulder, I had to take the chance. What he
offered me- you would have done-"
"Don't," he cut her off, looking right at her now
with dull, vacant eyes. "You don't get to tell me
what I would have done."
"I'm not crazy, Mulder. He had an office. I saw
it. I was there."
"How many times do I have to say it, Scully? You
saw what he wanted you to see. He used you."
"For what? What could he have possibly gained
from this? From me?"
"He must have switched the disks. He needed you
to take delivery of the disk for him and then he
switched them without you knowing."
She sighed and shook her head. "That doesn't make
any sense. He could've used anyone to do that. He
didn't need me."
"He wanted your trust. He played with your
emotions and he was after your trust. To get to
me. Fuck, Scully, what the hell could you have
been thinking?" His voice rose and he ran a
shaking hand through his hair. "Do you have any
idea what he's capable of?"
She frowned at him, her emotions shifting, her
voice edged with anger now. "How can you say
that...to me? After everything we've been
through? Don't treat me like a child. I had a
difficult choice to make and I made it. How many
times have you risked your life pursuing what you
thought was the truth only to come up empty-
handed? I've lost count, Mulder." She rubbed two
trembling hands back and forth over her thighs.
"I'm a doctor and I had to take this chance. I
just had to. I would think that you, of all
people, would understand that."
"You lied to me."
"I HAD NO CHOICE!" she shouted. Her eyes swamped
and she cursed under her breath and got up to
pull two tissues from the box on his desk.
Several minutes of silence passed while she
gained control over her emotions. "I sent you
tapes. I wired myself before we left and I sent
you tapes from a rest stop near the Pennsylvania
border."
"I didn't get anything."
"I can't explain that."
"Someone got to them, intercepted them."
She sighed loudly, but was otherwise silent. Her
end of this argument was getting much too heavy.
Her stomach burned and her head hurt and she was
just so exhausted.
"Where did he take you?"
"I-I can't be sure exactly. It was a house. In
rural Pennsylvania."
"Did he threaten or harm you?"
Her eyes swept the room and she bit her bottom
lip, hesitating.
"Scully-"
She took a deep breath and exhaled. "There's a
period of time that I can't account for. I fell
asleep in the car and...when I woke up again, it
was the next morning. I was in a bed by myself.
My clothes had been removed and I was wearing
pajamas."
His posture went erect and his nostrils flared.
This was another look she knew. It was especially
rare; she could only recall a handful of
occasions, one of which was a couple of years ago
right before he assaulted a pharmaceutical
representative who wouldn't disclose the details
of Emily's condition.
He reached for his jacket and pulled it on, still
refusing eye contact with her.
"Mulder, where are you going?"
He didn't answer, but stalked toward the door.
"Mulder, don't-"
She started after him, reaching her hand out, but
he moved quickly and intently, tipping over an
umbrella stand and scattering a pair of shoes on
the floor in his wake. A gust of air followed the
slamming of his front door.
*************************************************
4/6
When she opened her eyes, her face was stuck. To
the leather of his couch where she had slept like
the dead with her shoes still on for who knows
how long. A scratchy wool blanket had been draped
over her from hip to shoulder. When her eyes
focused, she saw that he sat on the floor in
front of the couch, his head propped on a folded
arm that was half on, half off of the middle
couch cushion where her stomach lay.
She pressed a warm hand to his shoulder and he
stirred and breathed deeply.
"My God, where did you go? I was so worried," she
whispered.
He nuzzled his face into her blanket-covered hip
and huffed out a breath. "There seems to be a lot
of that going around."
She echoed his half-hearted chuckle and covered
her face with her hands, rubbing her temples.
When she removed them, he was propped on his
elbows, studying her gravely. "Scully, I want to
take you to the hospital. You should get checked
out."
Her mind searched for a moment, and then she
blinked heavily and shook her head. "No, Mulder.
It's not necessary."
"There could be...evidence. If he did something
to you."
"He didn't."
"How do you know?"
"I just...do. I would know. I would."
"You don't know that. Not if he drugged you or-"
"Mulder, please. You have to trust me. He didn't
harm me. Not physically anyway."
"He touched you against your will. Even that
would be enough to-to-"
"To do what? Have him arrested for assault? It
would be impossible to prove and then what? We
both know nothing would stick. He doesn't answer
to the same laws that you or I do. That everyone
else does. It's not worth it, I'm fine."
He looked away and she felt him trying to steady
his breathing, calm himself again.
She took his hand in both of hers. "He didn't
rape me. I would know that. You have to trust
me."
His gaze shifted from her eyes to her mouth and
back again slowly, considering. He finally gave a
half nod. "I believe you," he conceded. "If I
didn't, he'd be dead right now."
She closed her eyes and her hand went to the back
of his head. "Where did you go?"
He sighed. "Nowhere. Driving. Thinking."
She drew a deep breath. "I've been thinking too.
Since you left."
He opened his mouth like he was about to say
something, but she silenced him with a fingertip
to the lips.
"Mulder, this is exactly what I feared might
happen if...things changed between us...if we got
involved."
"We've been involved for years."
"Not like this. You know what I mean," she said,
pulling her bottom lip in and shaking her head
slowly.
"Scully, you're wrong. It's not different. If you
had disappeared like that at any time during our
partnership and I thought you were in trouble, I
would've done the same thing, reacted the same
way."
"You would have worried, yes. Gone after me,
maybe. But it wouldn't be like this and I think
you know that. You've made this personal, Mulder.
You reacted like...like a jilted lover...as if I
cheated on you."
His eyes flashed and he was startled into silence
for a moment. Then he huffed out a breath and
shook his head. "You're wrong, Scully."
"Am I?"
They locked eyes and neither spoke. The air in
the room had shifted, thickened, and she was
hyper aware of background noises. He bubbling of
the fish tank, a distant siren, the muted sounds
of a neighbor's TV. Finally he moved, got up and
stretched, then sat down on the sofa next to her,
leaning forward with his elbows propped on his
knees and his head in his hands. There were
several inches between their shoulders, but that
wasn't the only distance separating them.
"Mulder, I don't know what this means...how to
deal with this from you. Whatever this is that
we're doing or not doing-" her hand gestured
between them, "I need to be able to make
decisions without you treating me like I'm
your...God, I don't know." And she didn't. She
knew a hell of a lot of things, but how to deal
with her brooding best friend slash work partner
slash soul mate, with whom she currently had a
relationship more convoluted than anything the UN
could navigate, well, that simply hadn't been on
any of the tests. Why couldn't everything in life
be sorted out with multiple choice answers and a
number two pencil?
"So what are you saying?" he asked, quietly. "Do
you want to go back to the way things were?"
Like flipping a switch. Hitting rewind.
Backspace, escape, shift alt delete. Wipe the
slate clean and start over. Take it back; it
didn't fit.
Thirty-six years had trained her that there was a
logical way to do everything from programming her
VCR to planning her retirement. Why should love
be any different? This was not how it was
supposed to go. Not even close. She knew what she
wanted, or at least she used to. But somewhere
along the way when she wasn't paying attention,
she went from wanting the shiny, neatly packaged,
pasteurized, wrinkle-free, machine-washable,
happily ever after version of love that she had
wanted her whole life, to simply wanting him.
And now he was sitting next to her with slumped
shoulders and stubble on his cheeks and a frayed
hole in the knee of his blue jeans, asking her
what was next for them, and she had only one
answer.
"I don't know," she whispered. "I just don't
know, Mulder."
"Can I say something?" he asked.
She nodded uncertainly.
"Why don't we do this, Scully? What are we so
afraid of? Why do we keep running from the one
thing that seems to make sense?"
She opened and closed her mouth twice before she
managed anything coherent. "What if it doesn't
work?"
"What if it does?" He turned to look at her and
she met his eyes, then quickly looked down
because it was all just too much.
"If you walked away from it, wouldn't you always
wonder?" he asked, his voice raw and honest. "I
know I would."
She reached for his hand and grasped it,
squeezing. Then she kissed his forehead and stood
to go. It was all she had right now and he seemed
to understand that, just like he understood every
other little thing she didn't say.
They must have silently agreed on something. More
time, she supposed. It seemed to be their passive
aggressive answer to this little conundrum they'd
found themselves in.
She started for the door and his voice stopped
her. "I'll wait," he said quietly. "It's up to
you, you know. It has been for a long time."
She left him sitting in a dark apartment with all
his cards on the table and his heart on his
sleeve.
*************************************************
************************************
Early through mid-April, 2000
When Dana Scully was twenty-seven years old, she
slept with a married man. She hadn't planned to,
of course, it just happened. These things
sometimes do, but never to her.
Daniel Waterston was brilliant and she was young.
Thirteen years younger than him, in fact. She was
the kind of resident who got noticed for all the
right reasons. She was highly intelligent, quick
to learn, not afraid to challenge herself or
others, even her superiors when the situation
called for it. She didn't complain about thirty-
six hour shifts or tedious paperwork. She stayed
out of the gossip circles and the other
residents' beds. She was confident, level-headed,
professional, and industrious. And she was
beautiful. Even in scrubs and a french braid with
no makeup, she was girl-next-door beautiful.
Waterston had noticed her right from the start.
She was different from the others, her sense of
presence extending far beyond her small stature.
Bold and dauntless, she was not easily
intimidated and Waterston liked that.
Before long, she was assisting him on surgeries
that were usually reserved for more seasoned
residents, but he wanted her. She was always two
steps ahead and not afraid to question him. Other
doctors might have resented her self-assurance.
He thrived on it. By her third year of med
school, she was working with him on clinical
trials and research. They were having coffee or
lunch together almost every day. She had a key to
his office and knew her way around his files. She
left him Post-It notes about journal articles to
review. "Daniel -- JAMA Nov. '85 -- Patients with
hypertension who undergo aortic dissection --
Dana," or on another day, "Daniel - Compare Mrs.
Carson's treatment regimen with those outlined in
NEJM, Aug. '88 and Dec. '89. I think we're being
too conservative. -- Dana." They were on a first
name basis and he knew how she liked her coffee,
but he had never touched her. He stopped going to
marital counseling with Barbara and started
sleeping in the guest room. When he finally took
off his wedding ring, she got scared and chose
Pathology as a specialty. He didn't see her for
five months.
Then he called her.
It wasn't like her to fall in love with a married
man. Not even a man whose marriage had been
failing long before she entered the picture. He
was everything she always thought she wanted --
profoundly intelligent, charming, stable, strong,
and dedicated to his profession. She was drawn to
his charisma, and his easy confidence and good
looks. He told her he was filing for divorce and
that it had nothing to do with her and she
believed him because she wanted to. The first
time they made love it was in a beach-side bed
and breakfast near Ocean City, where he had taken
her for the weekend. They had eaten lobster and
split an eighty dollar bottle of wine and when he
laid her back on the canopy bed and removed her
white sundress, she had felt like a beautiful,
blushing bride.
When she joined the FBI, he asked her not to go
and she asked him not to follow her. Neither of
them listened. And now he lay, broken and hopeful
in a hospital bed, offering her all the same
things he did eight years ago, all the things she
still didn't have. But it wasn't enough. She
wasn't the same person she once was and it took
him asking for her love to make her realize that
it was no longer hers to give. It belonged to
someone else.
She realized for the first time in her life that
sometimes the right thing isn't the thing you'd
choose, but rather what chooses you. Every event,
every decision, every success and tragedy in her
life had somehow conspired to lead her to this
exact point in time. There were no mistakes, no
coincidences. John Lennon once wrote, 'Life is
what happens when you're busy making other
plans.' She gave herself permission to join her
life, already in progress.
*************************************************
************************************
Mulder had been practicing controlling his dreams
since he was very young. Always an imaginative
child, his dreams tended to be particularly vivid
and lifelike. He started mapping out what he
wanted his dreams to look like from the time he
could read and write. He kept a dream journal
between the mattress and box spring of his bed
and each night, he wrote down in minute detail,
what he wanted to dream about. Then he would
close his eyes and will his subconscious to sink
into the dream that he had chosen. Sometimes it
worked, sometimes it didn't. In the morning he
wrote down what his actual dream had been, and
then set about analyzing all possible meanings
and subliminal messages.
As a teenager, he varied his approach somewhat.
Instead of a dream journal between his mattress
and box spring, he kept several skin magazines.
Before going to sleep, he'd look at the pictures,
commit the images to memory, and then close his
eyes and attempt to summon the woman on the page
into his dream. As his skills improved, there
were times when he could even wake up in the
middle of a particularly titillating dream and
then will himself to reenter the same dream when
he fell back asleep. He hated leaving his women
unsatisfied, even the imaginary ones. Again,
success varied, but at the very least, it was
much more entertaining than falling asleep to the
radio or reading comic books.
So it was really no surprise that when Mulder
fumbled out of sleep to the sensation of his
mattress shifting and a warm female body sliding
between his sheets, his first reaction was to
question his state of consciousness. His second
was to question hers.
"Mulder, it's me," he heard her whisper, a
decidedly bare shoulder brushing up against his
own very bare shoulder.
"Am I dreaming?" he managed hoarsely, still flat
on his back, but tilting his head on the pillow
to see her face. Moonlight streamed in through
his blinds and cast a bluish glow over her. She
looked almost ghostlike and he wondered if he
tried touching her, if his hand would find
nothing but dust particles and air. He didn't
risk it. If it was a dream, it was just too damn
good.
His eyes scanned lower and he held his breath.
She was lying on her stomach, propped up on both
elbows, studying him with heavy lidded eyes. She
was most certainly no longer wearing her sweater.
His eyes darted down again. Or her bra. Jesus.
They were like two perfect little globes, pressed
down into his percale sheet. And not so little
either. He had some vague idea what she had been
concealing under those tailored suits. He had
caught a glimpse exactly twice, but the first
time their survival hung precariously in the
balance and she had been barely conscious. It had
seemed a bit rude to stare. The second time, it
had been a very fast quid-pro-quo exchange of
looks in a decon shower. I'll show you mine if
you show me yours. If the chemical shower hadn't
felt like thousands of tiny needles drilling into
his balls, he probably would have embarrassed
himself with an unabashed display of arousal.
Even with the pain, it was damn close.
He swallowed. "Are you awake, Scully?"
She nodded silently. Two of her slender fingers
traced his cheek and then brushed across his lips
and lingered there. He kissed them gently and he
watched her mouth fall open. Time stood still and
he hardened in anticipation. It took next to
nothing lately for his body to respond to hers. A
sidelong glance, a tuck of the hair, a bare knee,
a cold room and a snug sweater. She was in his
bed now with not a stitch of clothing on. He
couldn't have stopped it even if he wanted to.
In one fluid motion, he slipped one hand under
her and rolled her so she was on her back looking
up at him. He leaned over her and stared into her
eyes, bottomless blue, the color of midnight. He
wanted to climb inside them and curl up. He
kissed her instead.
Her fingers moved in his hair and her hips
beneath him. His hand roamed the smooth slope of
her side, inching lower at a snail's pace, until
it cupped her hip and she responded with a moan,
pulling back from the kiss and pressing her open
mouth to his cheek. Her breath was warm and fast.
She had come naked to his bed and now she lie
beneath him, soft as satin and smelling like mint
tea and rain and distinctly woman. She was
everything that was anything to him -- all that
was good and real in his life, all rolled up in a
compact package of dangerous curves. He was most
certainly in over his head.
"Is this...what I think it is?" he asked, his
eyes volleying between hers, looking for a
foothold.
"Yes," she said, her gaze not retreating.
"So that thing about um...needing more time.
We're um, we're good?" he asked, searching her.
She nodded and nipped teasingly at his earlobe.
"We're good."
His breathing became pants. "Because...I just
want to...be...sure that...you-"
"Mulder."
"Yeah?"
"Do you always talk this much when you make
love?" A smile curled on her lips.
He tilted his head, considering. "I'm not really
sure. There seems to be a drought of reliable
recent data."
"Well, we're going to have to work on that." The
tip of her tongue followed an imaginary path
around his jawline and down the slope of his
neck.
"The talking or the data?"
"Both. In the meantime, shut up and get to work."
He chuckled in surprise at her boldness and then
sank his tongue deep into her mouth. He lost
himself in her for what seemed like forever, but
was realistically minutes before he felt her
tugging not-so-subtly at his boxers, the last
remaining barrier between them. He had almost
forgotten about those.
There was never a graceful way to remove clothing
in the throes of passion. It simply didn't exist.
There should be a class on it. Socks and shoes
were the worst, but at least those were already
off, so he was ahead of the curve. About the only
time undressing was cool was when it involved a
bra and panties and he was the one performing the
removal. That counted as practicing a craft and
he took it most seriously.
He knelt in front of her on the mattress and
tugged the waistband of his shorts down and off,
getting momentarily hung up on his erection,
which wagged and bobbed at her like one of those
silly dunking birds. She should have, but she
didn't laugh. She did, however, wrap her small
hand around him and gently caress him from root
to tip while wetting her mouth. It beat out every
porn video he'd ever seen and effectively erased
his brain function. He pitched forward onto her,
his face hovering mere millimeters from her
breasts.
She wrapped two tiny strong arms around him and
he nuzzled her flesh, all milky and firm and
round. Mulder had been called a breast man
before, and honestly, he couldn't argue the
validity of that statement. He liked them. A lot.
Unfortunately, 'like' fell desperately short of
how he felt about hers. They were, well, flawless
came to mind, but even the word itself was
imperfect compared to her. There were no words.
He'd have to make one up when he could think
again.
"It's a nipple," he managed, brilliantly.
She giggled. "Two, I hope."
"I've heard tell of such things."
She arched impatiently, guiding his head with
fingers in his hair. "Talking again," she panted.
"I can see we're going to have to keep that mouth
of yours busy if we're going to get anywhere."
He could take a hint. He latched onto one
puckered nipple and heard the breath release from
her in one long stream. In his experience, which
wasn't particularly extensive and landed
somewhere between been-around-the-block and
learned-all-I-know-from-the-Penthouse Forum, some
women's breasts were extremely sensitive while
others felt next to nothing. Mulder got his rocks
off when a woman enjoyed having her breasts
worshipped, because he was particularly fond of
doing it. If the pelvic gyrations and breathy
little sighs, mixed with a few "oh Gods" were any
clue, she was sparking like a live wire under
him. Mulder went back and forth between the two
and took his sweet time. He was an equal
opportunity breast worshipper.
He would have taken longer, but she clearly
needed more from him. Her hips were rotating
underneath him and her nails were scratching his
back. Her breath came hard and fast. This was a
Scully he hadn't seen before and it was blowing
his mind. She was the most beautiful thing he'd
ever seen.
He went back to kissing her mouth and settled
himself in the valley between her thighs. His
erection nudged at her, insistently, but he held
back, unsure if she was ready, needing that one
last invitation from her. Unless he was
completely naive, it had been almost as long for
her as it had been for him -- taking into account
tattoos and psychotic madmen. His eyes locked
onto hers and he tipped his head in question. Her
gaze didn't waver and she gave a distinct nod.
Then he felt her hand slip between them as she
grasped and guided him.
She was wet and hot and, Holy Everything, he had
almost forgotten how good this was. He slid into
her and watched her jaw clench slightly.
"Stop?"
Her eyes closed and her hair moved on the pillow
as she shook her head. "No. God, no. Just-just
don't move for a second, okay?"
He remained as still as he could, just absorbing
the feel of her all around him, clenching him.
She was so small, so tight, how could this not
hurt her? Her breathing was deep and regular and
he could tell she was concentrating on relaxing
her muscles. He sipped at the corners of her
mouth gently and caressed her hip, tight against
his, feeling their complete connection. God, he
was all the way in her. Inside of her body.
And then she started pushing into him with her
pelvis and rocking her hips. Her soft breasts
pressed into his chest. "Okay," she said.
He withdrew from her and then pushed back in,
several times slowly, in and out, burying his
face in the slope of her neck and breathing
deeply. Their rhythm was slow and steady at first
and he felt time stop as he lost himself in her --
the feel of her, the smell of her, her quiet
sighs and moans. How many times had he imagined
this? Too many to count, more so in the last few
months as they became closer and it became all
too clear that it was more a matter of 'when'
than 'if.' And yet, all that he had imagined fell
short of what he was experiencing right now. He
had counted on her being heartbreakingly gorgeous
as she moved under him, her full lips parted and
her eyelids fluttering. He had counted on it
feeling absolutely amazing, had counted on them
being sexually compatible, although he'd admit to
a fleeting concern or two about the irony if it
ended up not being the case. But what he hadn't
counted on, what was completely blowing his mind
right now, was the overwhelming emotion he felt.
He'd do anything for her and he hated that he
couldn't give her what she wanted more than
anything else.
He kissed her over and over tenderly, wanting
there to be no misunderstanding about the way he
felt about her, that he didn't take this lightly.
That he'd move heaven and earth for her, that he
couldn't imagine living even one second of the
rest of his life without her in it. And there
were other words too. He'd said them to her once
before. He could say them again. But she knew it
already, and they had always communicated best
without words anyway. And right about now, their
bodies seemed to be doing a pretty good job of
it.
He sped up in response to her movements, her hips
enthusiastically meeting him thrust for thrust.
Their lips only parted to catch their breath when
absolutely necessary, when their need for oxygen
was greater than their need for each other.
Otherwise, they kissed almost constantly. He
never could have predicted this, that she'd be
this passionate. It was always the conservative
ones, wasn't it, he thought to himself, allowing
a small chortle to escape without breaking
rhythm.
"What?" she panted. "What's wrong?"
He shook his head and smiled, nipping at her
upper lip. "God, nothing, Scully. Nothing could
be less wrong. I just can't believe we're doing
this," he chuckled. "Finally."
Her hands gently cupped the sides of his face and
she gave him a peaceful, very content, all-is-
right-in-the-universe smile. He wasn't sure if
he'd ever seen that particular one before and he
vowed to do everything in his power to make sure
he saw it regularly from now on.
Their bodies moved together like they'd been
doing this dance forever. Damn, how could he have
ever wondered whether they'd be good together?
She brought out everything and anything good in
him -- why would it be any different when they
made love? She made him better. Who the hell
needed self-help books. She was every bit of
therapy he'd ever need.
It wouldn't be long now for him. There was only
so much he could do to stall himself when she was
so tight around him, sinking her tongue into his
mouth and wrapping her leg around his hip like
that. He had wanted her far too much for far too
long.
"Scully...show me," his breath came in staccato
bursts and he could imagine the frenzied look on
his face right now as his desire stumbled right
past his self-control. "Show me...what to do for
you..."
Her baby blues darted away for just a second and
he was amused by her shy hesitation. "Let me get
on top," she said, quietly.
Oh yeah.
He gave her one more kiss before withdrawing,
rolling onto his back, and reaching for her.
Graceful and lithe, she straddled him and guided
him back inside her until she was sitting flush
against him and rocking with her eyes closed. My
God, she was incredible. His hands went to her
breasts and cupped them, strumming her nipples
with his thumbs. She arched into him, catlike,
and began to move slowly up and down on him,
setting her own languid and determined pace. He
tried to relax. He wanted to watch her do this,
and he'd absolutely die if he finished before she
did because this was just too damn good to miss.
They moved together and apart in perfect
counterpoint and his hands left her breasts to
migrate down and cup her buttocks, lifting and
lowering her, aiding in her efforts. She moved
faster and he folded one arm underneath his head
to prop himself so he could watch their bodies
collide again and again. It was one hundred
percent sensory overload for him. It was watching
her that did it. He was starting to lose his grip
on the plateau and things were getting desperate
for him down at ground zero when it suddenly hit
and there was no mistaking it. Her thighs
clenched around him and she let out a tiny little
yelp as her body tensed and shuddered. He felt
her contractions, strong and steady all around
him as she rode it out. He gripped her hips
tightly and let go, following her, pumping so
hard up into her that both of their hips lifted
off the mattress. His eyes slammed shut and he
cried out before she folded down onto his chest,
breasts heaving. He wrapped both arms around her
and clutched her to him, kissing her throat, her
mouth, every inch of her face.
The stayed like that for a few minutes, trying to
regulate their breathing to one another, still
joined together and kissing. His hands caressed
her sides and back and he felt goose bumps form
on her.
"Cold?" he whispered, pecking at her plump lower
lip and nuzzling her nose.
"Mmmmm," she hummed, "a little."
He didn't want to let her go, but in order to
reach the blankets, he'd have to withdraw. If he
could arrange to stay inside her forever, he
would, although it might make working a little
complicated for both of them.
He flexed inside her and was perplexed to find
himself still hard, not completely stiff, but
enough for her to raise an eyebrow at him,
curiously. "Didn't you?" she asked.
"Oh yes. One hundred percent yes. A lot, I
think."
Another eyebrow. "Don't tell me you
can....again..."
She looked genuinely worried and he laughed. "Um,
no. I think, um, he's just a bit out of practice.
Might take him another minute to realize it's
time to pack it up for the night." He flexed
again and could feel he was noticeably softer.
She looked a little more relieved. "But that
would be something, wouldn't it?" he smiled.
"Yeah, something," she said, with an unconvincing
smile of her own. "Ouch. Impressive, but ouch.
For me, anyway." She rolled off him and pulled
the sheet up.
"Are you admitting you can't keep up with me,
Scully?" he teased.
"I'll admit nothing of the kind," she yawned.
"But it is almost..." she stretched to see over
him to the blue glow of his alarm clock, "...
2:30 a.m. and we have a meeting with Skinner in
exactly six and a half hours. Remember him? Big
boss man? Bald with glasses? I may be wrong, but
I doubt he'd accept 'all night horizontal
marathon' as an acceptable reason for being
late."
He pulled her to him and spooned up behind her.
"Mmmm, I like the sound of that, though. Another
time maybe." He kissed her shoulder and sighed.
"I should go," she said.
"What? Why would- Scully no. Stay." He held her
tighter.
"It's late, Mulder. Or early. I need to shower
and change before work."
"You can shower here."
"I can't go in wearing the same clothes. What
would people think?"
He chuckled. "What they already think. We might
as well make some people in the betting pool some
money."
She flicked his upper arm with her finger. "What
time is your alarm set for?"
"Seven."
"Set it for six and I'll stay."
"Okay," he agreed, kissing her neck and shoulder
again.
He reset the clock, then curled up behind her and
listened to her breathing until he drifted off.
When the alarm went off at 6:00, the spot beside
him was already empty. He pulled the pillow she
had slept on over his face and inhaled deeply,
then hit the snooze three more times.
*************************************************
************************************
She was there when he got to the basement office
and there was hot coffee on his desk. Her eyes
lifted to his and then back down so quickly he
would have missed it if he hadn't been staring at
her.
"Good morning, Scully. Thanks for the coffee."
"Good morning, Mulder. And you're welcome." She
went back to reading a file and chewing her
bottom lip. Less than five hours of sleep and she
was no worse for the wear. Hair styled and in
place? Check. Impeccable makeup? Check. Black
pantsuit and white blouse, unbuttoned two buttons
past his threshold for distraction? Check.
Situation normal.
Her just-fucked look was surprisingly similar to
her business-as-usual look. Huh. He, on the other
hand, had practically skipped all the way to
work. A little embarrassing. He might have to
dial down the swagger.
"So what's up, Scully? Flesh-eating houseplants?
Telekinetic squirrels? Mer-men? A Van Halen
reunion?"
"Mer-men, Mulder?"
"Yeah. They exist. How else do you impregnate a
mermaid?"
She blinked several times at him.
"They can't reproduce with human men, Scully.
Their DNA patterns are incompatible."
"It worked for Ariel."
"She only married a human. I don't think they had
children."
"And you know this detail because..."
"I might have seen the movie. I have a thing for
redheads." He sat down and turned on his
computer. "What are we meeting with Skinner
about? A case?"
"It was in your email, which you never read. It's
about our budget."
"What budget?"
She tried not to indulge him with a smile. "We're
being audited next month and he wants us to, and
I quote, 'help shed some light on why the X Files
division is consistently fifty percent over
budget.'"
"Fifty percent? Shit."
"I think he's going to need a little more from
you than that, Mulder."
He sighed and leaned back in his chair, spinning
his basketball on his finger. "It's really quite
easy, Scully. They just need to give us more
money."
She shook her head at him as the phone rang.
"Scully," she answered, then paused to listen.
"Oh-kaay, thank you." She hung up and pulled her
jacket off the back of the chair, swinging it
around in front of her and pulling it on. "The
Assistant Director is ready for us."
Mulder stood and dribbled his basketball twice on
the tile floor before tossing it into a corner
and then follow her out like a petulant child.
*************************************************
************************************
Skinner peered down over his glasses at a stack
of paper six inches thick and clicked his pen on
and off repeatedly. Scully cleared her throat and
shifted in her seat uncomfortably, recrossing her
legs. Her one pump dangled precariously off her
foot, catching Mulder's attention. Even her
ankles were beautiful. He didn't even need to see
the whole leg to get aroused. Just the ankle.
Jesus, did he have some kind of ankle fetish he
wasn't even aware of?
She looked amazing, even prettier than usual. Sex
agreed with her, which made him deliriously happy
because he wanted to have a lot of it with her. A
lot, a lot, a lot. Then some more. He had a whole
bunch of things he'd love to do for her -- things
he used to do really well, if his past partners
were to be believed. What if he'd forgotten how
to...no, you couldn't forget how to do *that*,
could you? It was probably just like riding a --
holy, was that a black bra she was wearing under
her white blouse? When she slouched just right,
her blouse gapped and if he leaned back
discreetly, he could see a flash of black against
her milky complexion. Had she done that before --
the black under the white? He scanned his memory.
She routinely did the black under black or even
blue. He had noticed, had become quite adept at
sneaking peeks when she wasn't paying attention.
Hell, it wasn't like she was making it that tough
lately, what with the blouses unbuttoned the top
two or three. It had become a little game for
him, actually - making a point of establishing
visual contact with the bra sometime before day's
end. Sometimes it was more challenging, like when
she'd wear one of those tight tanks or knit tops
under her suit jacket. On those days, he'd have
to wait patiently until she bent down to retrieve
something and then hope that her top gapped in
front just enough for him to catch a glimpse. He
wasn't above surreptitiously planting something
on the floor that she might feel compelled to
bend and pick up. He'd consider himself a sick
puppy if he wasn't madly in love with her, and if
he didn't think that there was a solid chance
that she was on to him anyway and just playing
along.
This whole black under white move today went a
long way toward suggesting that she might indeed
be toying with him. Especially after last night.
Ooooooh, last night....his mind switched gears
and a parade of steamy images assaulted his
cerebral cortex. Scully rotating her hips under
him, her leg wrapped around his waist, panting
with cheeks flushed. Scully sitting astride him,
firm breasts bouncing gently, head tilted back,
eyes closed. Scully crying out, making that
little yelping sound that he had most definitely
never heard her make before, but that he would
damn well be sure she made again in the very near
future.
"....phones in four months, Mulder?"
"Agent Mulder?" Skinner's voice interrupted him
as he zoned out over all things Scully.
"Sorry, Sir?"
Skinner sighed, impatiently. "I was just asking
you if you could explain to me why you've
requisitioned three replacement cell phones in
four months?"
"Um, well one phone was unfortunately lost
during an on-foot pursuit of a suspect, Sir, and
another one was, um, damaged by a high impact
altercation with a zombie."
Scully was biting her lip now.
Skinner stared at him blankly. Mulder offered a
nervous smile.
"That's two. What happened to the third phone,
Agent Mulder?"
Mulder cleared his throat with one closed fist in
front of his mouth. "It uh- it went through a
washing machine. You can see there, Sir, that I
paid to replace that one myself."
Another long sigh from Skinner. "What I see,
Agent Mulder, is that the expenditures for the X
Files division alone is sucking up nearly forty
percent of my overall budget. That the travel
expenses for you two agents is more than those of
all the other agents under my charge combined.
How do you propose I explain that to my
superiors? Because I will be asked to."
"Sir, if I may-" said Scully, jumping in. "The
cases handled by the X Files division can hardly
be compared to the cases managed by any other
division in the Bureau. And Agent Mulder and I
have a solve rate that is second to none. It
would be impossible to maintain that if the
resources are not available to us."
Skinner shook his head slowly and removed his
glasses to rub his temples. "I've been feeding
them that same song and dance for years, Agent
Scully. Unless you can come up with something new
to dazzle the powers that be, you'd better start
crunching numbers to figure out how you can cut
thirty percent from your expenditures for the
next quarter."
"I could try and use fewer pencils," Mulder
deadpanned.
Skinner's face reddened and Scully put her
fingers to her forehead and pressed. "Do you
think this is a joke, Agent Mulder?"
"No, Sir. I don't. And I do think taxpayer money
is being wasted. But not by the X Files division.
Have you been by VCU lately? All new carpeting
and ergonomically-correct office furniture. Or
how about OPR? Forty-seven new computers. The
ones they got rid of are ten months old. The
computers Agent Scully and I are using are nearly
four years old. Or how about the new Mercedes
that Director Burns from the Office of
Congressional Affairs has been driving lately?
You might want to check into who is footing the
monthly payments on that. And while you're at it,
there's a certain task force within the
Counterterrorism Unit that you might want to take
a closer look at -- specifically its fiscal
connection to several adult entertainment
establishments within the District. Somehow I
don't think that male bonding over tequila shots
and pole dancing is exactly what HR had in mind
for professional development. And all this goes
on while Agent Scully and I risk our lives to
unmask a deeply-embedded government conspiracy
that lies and murders people, and to save the
world from alien colonization -- all from a musty
basement office with leaky windows, faulty heat,
and seriously crappy furniture. And you tell me
who's wasting money. Sir."
Scully's eyes were wide and her mouth hung open
as both she and Skinner stared at him. You could
have heard a pin drop in the room. He was either
about to get fired or get his ass kicked, or
both. The longer the silence went on, the more he
was betting on the former.
Skinner finally moved again, straightening the
paperwork in front of him and putting his glasses
back on. "You're free to go now, Agents. I think
that's all I need for now."
Mulder and Scully both sat for another minute,
not moving until Skinner waived his hand at them.
"Go. Get out of here. I've got another meeting in
ten minutes and you've both got work to do."
Scully stood awkwardly and Mulder followed her
toward the door.
"Oh, and Agent Mulder," he heard Skinner's voice
call after him. "I'll put a requisition in to get
the windows and the heat fixed."
*************************************************
************************************
The elevator doors closed and her face broke into
an awed smile. "Where the hell did you get that
information, Mulder?"
He shrugged. "What, about VCU and OPR? Anyone can
walk by and see all the new stuff."
"No, about Director Burns' Mercedes. And, um, the
other...the strip clubs?" She looked down at her
shoes.
"How do you think?"
"How would they have access to that kind of
information?"
Mulder shot her an 'Oh please' look. "Langly
could hack in and give you a raise if he wanted
to. They've been keeping a running list of
misappropriation of government funds for years."
"Using taxpayer dollars at strip clubs, though,
Mulder?" she said in a hushed tone as they exited
the elevator and headed down the hall toward
their office. "That's appalling."
He unlocked the door and ushered her inside.
"The tip of the iceberg, Scully. Some of your
friendly neighborhood Feds are using their per
diems to pay for a whole lot more than lap
dances."
She sat down, crossed her arms in front of her,
and looked up at him with that classic skepticism
he knew all too well. "Like who?"
Mulder drummed his fingers on his desk and
glanced around casually, then grabbed a piece of
paper, jotted down three names and passed it to
her. "For starters."
She read them with both brows raised. "These are
all married men, Mulder."
"You look surprised. Come on, Scully, you can't
be that naive. Who do you think the clientele for
those types of services usually are?"
She shook her head in distaste and handed the
paper back to him. He bent and fed it to the
shredder at his feet.
"Excuse me while I take a moment to lament the
putrefaction of humanity." She sighed. "You know,
my parents were married thirty-seven years. My
father worshipped my mom. I just can't imagine he
would have ever..."
"I'm sure he didn't," he said, to make her feel
better and because it was probably true. He
looked at her pointedly. "Not all men cheat."
Her eyes darted to his and she held his gaze for
a moment before looking away, and he had the
sudden sensation they might be talking about more
than her parents' marriage. Did she really wonder
those things about him? If he would be faithful
to her. And where was that magical point when it
was time to have that kind of conversation --
about expectations, about commitment? They'd only
slept together once. Normally, if his own history
was anything to go on, that wouldn't constitute
much expectation. But things were anything but
normal for them. He had been faithful to her long
before he ever had a reason to be. He couldn't
imagine being with anyone else and he'd like to
know she felt the same, but he wouldn't ask. Not
yet anyway.
He'd had his share of relationship hang-ups, back
when he actually used to have things that
resembled relationships. He'd been rightly
accused of being narcissistic and self-absorbed,
moody and emotionally distant. And God knows he
hadn't had the best example growing up. He
remembered more bad years than good between his
parents. But regardless of all that, he took
fidelity seriously. He was a lot of things, but
he wasn't a cheater.
The remainder of the morning passed uneventfully.
Unless, of course, you counted a notable decrease
in his already lacking concentration. Scully had
somehow decided that it was as good a day as any
to reorganize the top two drawers of the filing
cabinet. Every time she crossed the room in front
of where he sat, he could smell her perfume or
lotion or shampoo. Her personal nectar. Her
pheromones. He sat in his chair, in a near
constant state of semi-arousal. He was grateful
for loose-fitting suit pants.
His stomach growled at ten minutes to noon and he
felt like doing some of that himself. As she
stood with her back to him at the top drawer of
the filing cabinet, he got up from his chair and
leaned into her from behind, his large hands
bracketing her hips.
Her breath caught in surprise. "Mulder," she
warned.
"Hmmm," he purred, burying his nose behind her
ear and breathing in deeply.
"We're at work," she said, but her head tilted
all on its own.
"Then let's go to lunch." One of his hands crept
up above her waist.
She stopped it with her own. "Mulder." Another
warning, firmer this time.
He pulled back, fully hard now.
"On second thought, yes, let's go to lunch," she
said, crossing to retrieve her jacket and purse.
"We should talk."
Uh oh. He didn't like the sound of that. Nothing
good ever came from a conversation that began
with 'We should talk.' Nothing sexy, anyway.
*************************************************
************************************
He sat across from her over steamed dumplings, lo
mein, and a split order of chicken and broccoli.
They both used chopsticks. He transferred the
mushrooms onto her plate. He just couldn't eat
them after the flesh-eating fungus debacle. It
didn't seem to phase her. She had a pathologist's
iron stomach.
"So I'll save you the breath, Scully. How about
'Mulder, last night was a lot of fun, but I've
decided we should be just friends. Thanks for a
good time.' Or how about 'Mulder, I don't think a
physical relationship between us is going to work
out after all. It would just complicate things.
Let's just put last night behind us.' Or wait-
wait, this is it, 'Mulder, you were an amazing
lay, simply the best I've ever had, and I wish I
could spend every minute in bed with you, but
that level of overwhelming passion would
compromise our work, so we'll need to call it
quits.'"
She stopped chewing and stared at him, blank-
faced.
"I'm partial to the last one. If I had to
choose."
Still nothing from her, but she did manage to
swallow and calmly put her chopsticks down.
"Or -- you could just go with 'Mulder, you're a
really nice guy, but...' or there's always the
tried and true 'It's not you, it's me-'"
"Shut up," she said firmly, but quietly, not
looking up.
"That's a new one."
"What makes you think I'm going to say any of
those things to you?"
"Um, I've just heard them a few times. And you
haven't been very...I don't know, receptive since
last night. Or I guess technically early this
morning, if we're splitting hairs."
"Receptive to what? You feeling me up by the
filing cabinet?"
He looked at her and opened and closed his mouth
a few times, unsure of where to go from here.
Verbal communication didn't seem to be working in
his favor at the moment. So he took her advice
and shut up.
She sighed deeply. "Mulder, if we're going
to...be involved, then I think we need to agree
on some ground rules."
She was wearing her schoolteacher expression and
he was pretty sure the word "agree" didn't really
imply any compromise. But since it was beginning
to sound like there was actually a snow ball's
chance in hell that he might see her naked again,
he was willing to roll over and fetch. And no,
he'd never begged a woman before. But yeah, he'd
beg her. Without a second thought.
She was the one he wanted. You did what you had
to do.
"First of all, we have to be discreet in the
office. And by discreet, I do not mean copping a
feel whenever no one is looking, Mulder. I'm not
your property. Please do not rub up against me
while I'm at the filing cabinet, stick your
tongue in my mouth while we're in the elevator,
or 'accidentally' brush your hand against my
breast when you're reaching past me." She made
air quotes around the word 'accidentally' and
pursed her lips. God, she was hot when she was
worked up and all serious. This would be a whole
lot easier if she wasn't so fuckable all the
time.
She continued, now with more animated hand
gestures. "No kissing anywhere within a block of
the Hoover building, absolutely no sex when we're
traveling or on assignment, and at no time should
you call me Honey, Baby, Sweetheart, or any other
equally nauseating pet name." She wrinkled her
nose at that last part, her hand sweeping the
air.
"No 'Baby' just at work or-"
"At all."
"Can I call you Dana?"
She startled and a tiny wrinkle formed between
her brows. She looked like he had just asked her
if he could dress up in her underwear. "Do you
want to?"
"No," he smiled. "I was just checking."
A tiny sigh of relief from her. "I'm just saying
that I think we need to be mature about this,
don't you agree?"
He nodded, his attention darting between her eyes
and the edge of her mouth where she had a smear
of duck sauce.
"We need to keep it all in perspective and not
allow our personal lives to get in the way of our
work, you know?"
More nodding. "Absolutely. Mature," he said. That
duck sauce was really bugging him. She couldn't
launch a persuasive argument with duck sauce on
her cheek. She looked like a five-year-old. He
stifled a laugh and covered the bottom half of
his face with his napkin.
"We're two reasonable adults and I think if we
handle this responsibly, then- Mulder, what the
hell is the matter with you?" She frowned.
"Um, you have a little bit of..." he pointed to
her cheek, smirking.
She swiped at it with her napkin, still frowning.
"Did I get it?"
"No, it's actually a little more to your...come
here, lean forward."
She did and he reached and gently wiped the sauce
off of her with his napkin. "Thank you," she
said, leaning back, her face softening into a
half smile, her eyes still lingering on his.
"Is there anything else?"
"Hm?" she asked, distractedly.
"Any other rules we need to establish?"
"Um, I-I-" Her voice was breathy and her gaze
shifted from his eyes to his lips. "I think
that's it."
"Okay then. Are you going to eat that?" He
pointed to the last dumpling.
*************************************************
************************************
He opened the car door for her, hoping that was
still on the list of approved conduct. She got in
without decking him, so apparently yes.
He started the car up and sat there for a minute,
still in park, both hands on the wheel. "Scully?"
"Yeah?" Her head swiveled toward him.
"How far are we from work?"
She looked confused. "I don't know. A mile and a
half, maybe?"
"So that's...further than a block away, then,
right?"
Her cheeks pinked and the edges of her mouth
turned up. "Yes. Yes, I'd say that's correct."
He leaned over and kissed her, hesitantly at
first, then more firmly as he felt her relax into
the kiss. Her mouth moved under his, all soft and
salty from their Chinese lunch. His tongue swept
her bottom lip and she reciprocated, just a
little, a wet tickle, nothing more than a tease.
He had just watched her reapply her lipstick in a
small compact after they finished eating. Now he
was wearing it too. Estee Lauder, Cafe Latte was
the color. Yes, he knew her favorite shade of
lipstick. It was the one in the black and gold
case. The green one was Pink Chocolate by
Clinique, but she only wore that in the winter.
The kiss lingered and she squeezed his forearm
affectionately. When they finally did part, she
kept her eyes closed for a few seconds after he
opened his. She looked like a china doll --
porcelain skin, high cheekbones, and long lashes
fanned out. He'd love to just stare at her all
day, but it probably didn't pay well enough to
support himself.
He cupped the back of her neck gently and their
foreheads met. "So you don't regret last night,
then?" he asked, needing the reassurance.
She shook her head. "I don't regret one minute of
it. Last night was amazing." A demure smile
played on her lips.
"I'm glad to hear I'm not the only one who thinks
so. Please tell me we can do it again sometime."
His fingers played in her hair, sifting through
slick russet strands, cool to the touch.
She planted another kiss at the edge of his
mouth. "I'd like that." Then another kiss, and
another.
"Do you want to come over tonight?" he asked,
giving up completely on playing it cool and
reconciling himself to sounding like a moony
teenager.
"I have to do my laundry."
"Or I could come to your place."
She hesitated for a long beat. "Mmm, another
night," she said, still kissing him.
He pulled back and studied her. Her head dipped
apologetically, but she squeezed his hand and he
understood without her having to say it. This
needed to go at her pace. Now that they had
crossed that line, there was an underlying
subtext to their off-duty activities. She'd be
wondering about his expectation every time he
stopped by her apartment. He loved just hanging
out with her and doing nothing - lying on her
floor and waxing poetic over 60s song lyrics,
vegging out in front of a Godfather marathon on a
Sunday afternoon in their sweats and listening to
her say, "Leave the gun, take the cannoli" in her
best Clemenza voice. Doing paperwork on Friday
nights with a bag of M&Ms. Watching her divide
the colors into groups and eat them in ascending
order of preference -- brown first, then orange,
yellow, green, red, and finally blue last because
they were her favorite. He still wanted all of
that.
He patted her hand and put the car in drive.
"Maybe we could go see a movie or something this
weekend."
She smiled and then flipped down the visor to
reapply her lipstick. "I'd like that."
*************************************************
5/6
The next two weeks flew by with no more than a
few stolen kisses, all more than a block from
work, and a light groping session in the doorway
of his apartment. There were also two movies in
the theatre with shared popcorn and diet soda
with only one straw, eight lunches together, one
pizza after work, two mid-day walks outside in
which she allowed hand-holding, and seven bedtime
phone calls, but who was counting?
On a Wednesday afternoon when she was wearing his
favorite sky blue blouse and black skirt (the one
with the slit on the side instead of the back),
he crossed the room and deposited a folded note
in her lap and then left for a restroom break.
The note read: "Have dinner with me this Friday
night. Linen tablecloths, a wine list, and a
confusing arrangement of silverware, all
promised."
While standing in front of a urinal, he second-
guessed his approach. The idea of passing a note
had seemed whimsical and romantic, but she might
just see it as juvenile and unimaginative. He had
considered sending her flowers with the dinner
invite on a card, but that just seemed like he
was trying too hard. He had never been good at
this sort of thing. Dating, courtship, wooing a
woman, whatever you wanted to call it. He was a
master at turning on the charm and sparking their
interest, and he was pretty sure he wasn't bad in
the sack. It was all that other cursory stuff
that eluded him -- the fancy dates, the flowers,
birthdays, Valentine's Day, putting the toilet
seat down and actually remembering to call more
than once every four days.
But the good news was that, over the course of
seven years, Scully pretty much knew all that
about him and for some insane reason, she seemed
to want him anyway. She'd gotten the Apollo
keychain and the baseball lessons for her
birthdays. She knew he spit sunflower seeds into
the cup holder of his car, squeezed the Crest
from the middle, watched porn, only had about
three things in his refrigerator at any given
time, disappeared for days without calling
whenever the mood struck, and had never, ever
taken her to a decent restaurant. He'd really
like the chance to remedy that last thing,
though, if she'd let him.
When he got back to his desk, she had stepped out
of the office, but her jacket was still on the
back of her chair. There was a folded up paper on
his desk blotter. He opened it. It was the same
paper he had given to her. Underneath his
question, she had written the words "yes" and
"no" with boxes next to each. There was a check
mark in the "yes" box. Off to the side, she had
also drawn a heart with an arrow piercing it,
just like one you might see carved into a tree.
Inside the heart she had written, "D.S. + F.M."
He grinned and tucked the paper into his shirt
pocket, then began scanning the internet for
restaurant reviews. Score one for passing notes
in class.
*************************************************
************************************
Scully stood at her open closet wearing a towel
on her head and not a stitch more. She waded
through a sea of black and navy suits to pull two
dresses out from the back and toss them onto the
bed. The mulberry colored one slid from the
comforter to pool on the floor. Maybe that was a
sign she wasn't supposed to wear that one. Maybe
it was a sign that she should start believing in
signs.
She picked up the slate blue dress and held it in
front of her at the full-length mirror, then
tossed it back onto the bed and did the same with
the black one she had just bought last night in
anticipation of tonight, but was now second-
guessing the hemline on. Yes, she had actually
gone shopping for a new dress for her date. When
was the last time she had done that? When was the
last time she had gotten ready for a date?
Shaving her legs all the way up to the hip --
twice just to be extra smooth. She had even spent
time grooming other places that were just
starting to have a dull recollection of what it
was like to be touched by hands other than her
own. New razor, shaving gel, and lotion
afterward. She was out of practice at this. She
didn't remember it taking this much effort to get
properly laid.
She had also bought new underwear, new lipstick,
and a small handbag. She had tried on four pairs
of black heels, but ended up passing on them. She
owned no less than a dozen pairs of black heels
already. Surely another would have been
overindulgent. Plus, she was cursed with
expensive taste in shoes and her rent was due
next week. Her Mastercard thanked her.
Pulling the new black dress of its hanger, she
unzipped it and shimmied it up over her hips and
pulled the straps onto her shoulders, zipping it
almost all the way up the back, not bothering
with the new bra yet. She always wore a bra
unless she was cleaning the apartment or staying
home all day, even though she could get away
without one in a pinch. She still had most of her
muscle tone in her breasts. Not bad for thirty-
six years old. Part of it was good genes, part
was her modest size, and part was the fact that
she hadn't had any children, but she tried not to
think about that because it would only serve to
depress her for the remainder of the evening. She
would have traded perky boobs for a nursing baby
at her breast in a heartbeat.
She appraised the new dress critically in the
mirror. It was solid black, sleeveless, and
several inches shorter than anything else in her
closet. It accentuated her small waist and hugged
her hips and the sales woman had talked her into
it, proclaiming her confidence in Scully's
ability to "rock a dress like this with a figure
like hers." She turned to the side and examined
her profile, smoothing her hand over her abdomen,
then spun to check out her image from behind and
sighed. Well, it passed the thigh test anyway. If
she obsessed over any part of her body at all, it
was always her thighs. This dress seemed to be
doing her thighs a favor, so she decided what the
hell. You couldn't go wrong with a little black
dress. She slipped it off and padded into the
bathroom to blow dry her hair.
Her doorbell rang at 7:02. He was on time. That
was something new, she smiled to herself,
glancing through the peephole to see an expectant
Mulder rocking back and forth on his heels
wearing a different suit than the one he'd worn
to work that day. He had changed for their date.
She didn't know why that tickled her, but it did.
The effort maybe. Nice to know she wasn't the
only one who primped.
She took a deep breath and swung the door open.
"Hi," she said. It seemed like the place to
start.
His eyes raked over her leisurely, taking his
time. She shifted in her sling-back pumps and
crossed her arms in front of her self-
consciously, clearing her throat.
"You look incredible, Scully. New dress?"
She evaded his gaze and turned to walk toward the
kitchen where she'd left her clutch. "This? Oh,
you know...where are we going?" she asked,
avoiding his question.
"Pas'cal's. 7:30 reservation."
She paused, masking her pleasant surprise.
Pas'cal's was nice. Really, really nice. And not
some place you'd likely get a reservation for a
Friday night by calling two days ahead of time.
"Have you been?" he asked.
"Once. A long time ago," with Jack, she didn't
bother to add. "It's lovely. How'd you manage
it?"
"My neighbor on the ground floor, the college
student? Turns out she moonlights as a hostess
there. I gave her slacker boyfriend's VW bus a
jump on two separate occasions last winter. I
cashed in a favor. I just have to pretend to be
Senator Harvey and you're my very pregnant
mistress. We'll just take a throw pillow from the
couch here and..." he reached for one of the
pillows, then laughed when he saw her expression.
"I'm just kidding, Scully."
She huffed out a relieved laugh and shook her
head at him. This was Mulder trying. He had gone
out of his way to pull some strings and get a
last minute reservation at one of the nicest, not
to mention priciest, restaurants in the District.
Freshly shaven, pressed suit, shiny shoes, one of
his least gaudy ties, showing up on-time at her
door to take her out. He was turning on the charm
for her and it was working. But what she
appreciated the most was that it was still her
Mulder, her best friend, and he could always make
her laugh.
How do you know when you've truly got it bad,
Dana? When you're starving and you've got a
handsome man at your door ready to take you to
Pas'cal's, and all you can think about is how
long before dinner's over and that expensive
Armani suit hits the floor of your bedroom. Hoo
boy.
*************************************************
************************************
They split a bottle of Pinot -- he let her pick.
And there were indeed linen tablecloths and more
pieces of silverware than any reasonable person
needed to enjoy a meal. And candlelight and fresh
flowers and live piano music that consisted of
wordless renditions of songs by Billy Joel and
James Taylor and Bette Midler. And far more swank
than Scully had been treated to in a very long
time. There were no prices on the menu, so she
ordered conservatively - a chicken and pasta
dish, but he gave her a quizzical look.
"Try something seafood, Scully. It's your
favorite and it's their specialty." The waiter
nodded to indicate that yes indeed, it was. So
she switched to scallops over angel hair while
Mulder went with filet mignon. She had no idea
who was paying for this and she didn't mind going
Dutch, but it would have been nice to know ahead
of time. She only had about fifty bucks on her.
Etiquette dictated that if he invited her, then
he paid for it. But it was the twenty-first
century now and the last time she had been on a
proper date, Monica Lewinsky still had a clean
dress and every girl wanted a Rachel haircut. It
had been awhile and things changed. Adjusted for
inflation, this was going to be one hell of a
pricey date. Her mother had warned her about men
who treated her to expensive dinners. They were
only after one thing. Too bad her mother hadn't
mentioned what to do when she was also interested
in the one thing. Catholic girls weren't supposed
to want it. The thoughts she was currently having
at the moment, sitting across from Mulder - she
didn't think a couple of Hail Marys were going to
cover it.
Once upon a time, she had supposedly learned
everything she needed to know about dating from
Missy, which included: don't order anything with
broccoli because it's gassy, proper posture makes
your boobs looks bigger, and the guy usually
brings the condoms. She had found out the hard
way that the last one wasn't very reliable.
In any case, she tucked her hair and sat up a
little straighter.
To her relief, they fell into a pattern of
comfortable conversation during dinner and she
was quickly able to get past her sort-of-but-not-
really-first-official-date vertigo. They played a
game while they ate -- one of their favorites.
Mulder picked out a table near them and Scully
had to study the people who sat there and tell
him what she thought their "story" was. What was
the relationship between the people and what were
they doing there? They took turns, dazzling one
another with their intuitive skills and sharing
friendly disagreements over one another's
conclusions. It shouldn't have surprised her
that, as a former profiler, Mulder loved this
game.
He eyed a table to Scully's left and raised a
brow at her. "Two couples to your three o'clock
smiling like they're in a Sears portrait. What's
their story?"
Scully popped half a scallop into her mouth and
glanced over surreptitiously. She chewed and
swallowed, thinking. "The younger couple just got
engaged. They live far away, but she's from here
and those are her parents. She's introducing them
to her fiance for the first time. Daddy doesn't
like him."
Mulder smiled. "How can you tell?"
"His jaw is tight and he just noticed his future
son-in-law put his hand on his baby girl's bare
knee. Also, the parents have money and they think
their daughter can do better."
Mulder made a "come on" gesture with his hand to
indicate he wanted elaboration.
"The fiance is wearing a mismatched and ill-
fitting suit. The grey in the pants is just
slightly darker than that in the jacket. The
parents think he can't afford anything better.
Also, the girl's engagement diamond is on the
small side -- half a carat at best, while Daddy...
Daddy is wearing a Rolex and Mom is wearing
Chanel pumps."
"Not bad," he said with a tilt of his head and a
click of his tongue. "Your turn to pick."
Her eyes darted around discreetly until she
landed on a couple several tables away. "There,"
she nodded with her head. "Older man, balding.
Woman in the red dress."
Mulder took stock of them, then drained his wine
glass and refilled it after topping off hers.
"Birthday."
"Not anniversary?" she asked. "They're both
wearing wedding bands."
He shook his head. "Birthday. His."
"Based on what?"
"A hunch."
"Says the FBI's former star profiler," she
smiled, teasingly. "Gee, I never realized it was
such a technical process."
"Profiling is twenty percent science and eighty
percent plain old gut instinct."
"Well, I say anniversary." She twirled angel hair
onto her fork.
He shook his head. "You're wrong. Birthday. And
it's his because she looks happier than he does.
She brought him here; he would have rather have
ignored his birthday. She wanted to throw him a
party, but he refused. This was a compromise." He
finished the last bite of his filet and placed
his fork and knife at the three o'clock position.
"Okay Scully, over there. Young couple to your
five o'clock. Pretty blonde."
Scully pursed her lips at that and swiveled her
head. She watched the waiter approach the table
in question and deliver their food. She continued
observing for a few more stolen moments before
looking down intently at the remainder of her
meal and picking at her last scallop. "She's
pregnant. He doesn't know yet. She's planning to
tell him tonight."
Mulder was quiet and his face sobered. Scully
continued. "She isn't drinking any wine, but
there's a whole bottle at the table. He ordered
it, thinking she'd share. When the waiter went to
place her dinner on the table, he accidentally
touched the edge of the plate to her ...her
breast and she winced. They're sore. And if you
watch closely, every once in awhile she places
one palm to her lower abdomen. They're young,
twenty-five, maybe. This is their first baby,
hence the expensive restaurant. News of second
and third babies get delivered over rushed coffee
in the morning or while folding laundry and
wiping runny noses. Sometimes after making love."
Mulder opened and closed his mouth twice, but
couldn't come up with anything to say. She knew
he was silently cursing his choice of tables for
her to profile, but she wanted to tell him it was
okay. It wasn't the first time she'd encountered
a pregnant woman and it certainly wouldn't be the
last. In fact, it seemed like they were
everywhere she looked since her failed IVF
attempt. Ten months later, it was still a fresh
wound, but it would eventually heal and she'd
learn to live with the disappointment. She didn't
have a choice.
Mulder was just starting to reach for her hand
when their waiter came to remove their empty
dishes and place dessert menus in their hands.
They were both thankful for the interruption.
They agreed to split something and were
negotiating between the cheesecake (his pick) and
the tiramisu (hers) when a large piece of cake
with a candle was placed in front of the debated
birthday/anniversary gentleman. The woman with
him clapped her hands jubilantly. Mulder smiled
in vindication.
"You're good," she said.
"Eh -- I got lucky. It could just as well have
been an anniversary." The waiter returned to
their table. "We'll split the tiramisu," said
Mulder.
Later, when the bill came, Scully reached for her
purse while Mulder pulled out his credit card.
"What are you doing, Scully? I asked you out. I'm
getting this." She let him be chivalrous.
"So Scully, what, um, what do you think other
people would say if they profiled us?"
Wow. She found herself momentarily at a loss for
words. Her brows arched and she fingered the stem
of her wine glass.
"Because I have an idea," he hedged. "They'd
think 'that guy is waaaay out of his league.'"
Her eyes darted to his, then retreated and she
flushed. "Mulder, that's not true."
He chuckled. "Oh, it is. It definitely is. But as
long as you don't figure that out, we're okay."
Her breath hitched and she moistened her lips and
blinked slowly at him as she did the math. Five
minutes for the valet to get the car, ten to her
apartment if they didn't hit any red lights -- but
hell, let's just run them -- seven more to walk
into her building, ride the elevator up to her
floor and make it to her front door, three more
to unlock the door, factoring in dropping the
keys once. She could have him in her bedroom and
be tearing at that Armani suit in under thirty
minutes.
*************************************************
************************************
On the way to her apartment, she made the very
uncharacteristic decision to be bold about what
she needed tonight. After their first time
together two weeks ago, he had allowed her to
pilot the relationship, being respectful and
patient with her, holding back even when she
could plainly see the desire in his eyes -- and
other places. She had enjoyed the flirting, the
build-up, the slow and steady burn. But sometimes
a girl just needed to get some, and that time was
now. God, she had almost forgotten what this felt
like -- desperately wanting a man's hands on her
body, needing to feel him inside her. This was
simple desire, stripped down to its most base
level. She was horny, and the thought almost made
her snicker out loud. She must have made an
audible sound because Mulder glanced over at her
in the passenger seat. She coughed and shifted
and her dress rode higher on her thighs, a
development that wasn't lost on Mulder, if the
bobbing of his Adam's apple was any indication.
He snuck several glances and the car drifted. He
mumbled an apology and redirected his attention
to the road.
Seduction was an art, and one that, once upon a
time, she wasn't half bad at. It seemed to be
coming back to her in bits and pieces, directed
more by her body than her brain.
Mulder pulled the car up in front of her
apartment building and put it in park. She
unbuckled her seatbelt and leaned toward him
slightly. "Do you want to come in for awhile?"
she asked, her voice dark and low and full of
promise.
His eyelids seemed to be weighted down and his
lips were parted. "I-I-I could do that," he
managed.
Her hand drifted to his leg and he felt hot
against her palm. "Good," she said.
"Okay."
This was not the most brilliant conversation
they'd ever had.
Neither of them moved, while condensation started
to form on the inside of the windows. She had
sudden and sobering doubts that they'd even make
it into her apartment if she didn't remove her
hand from his thigh and get him moving soon. He
looked like a lion about to pounce. She wasn't
opposed to an occasional tryst in an interesting
location. She and a boyfriend had once done it in
the stacks of the library as seniors in
undergrad, and she had performed oral sex in the
back of a movie theatre once before. But somehow,
banging in his fogged-up car, ten feet from her
apartment building seemed just a little too
desperate.
"Let's go then?" she asked.
"Okay." The car idled on. His eyes were trained
on her full bottom lip, clearly stuck. An object
at rest stays at rest and an object in motion
stays in motion, unless acted upon by an
unbalanced force. She was used to solving
problems with science. She leaned closer until
her lips nearly brushed his and she twisted the
keys in the ignition off, then removed and
dangled them in front of his face. He snapped out
of his love-struck puppy time warp and smiled at
her, snapping up the keys.
It wasn't the fastest she'd ever managed to get
up to her apartment. That one day when she'd
drank a 32-ounce iced tea on her way home from
work and then got stuck in the Beltway rush hour
garnered that award, but this was a close second.
Once her door was closed, he was on her. She
dropped her keys and purse on the floor right
where she stood and threw both arms around his
neck. Large hands clutched at her back, her
waist, her breasts, her ass, in the dark. He
tripped over her briefcase that she had left by
the door earlier and she giggled into his mouth
as he momentarily lost his balance and pushed her
up against the wall.
"Light," he gasped. "Before I break my neck."
She stretched and twisted the knob on the
entryway lamp, managing to keep her lips
connected to his. A sixty watt bulb sprang to
life and cast a warm yellowish glow around her
living room. She slid his suit jacket off and
down his shoulders and flung it somewhere in the
direction of her couch, hearing the whoosh of
fabric hitting something that clattered. Not her
couch. A picture frame? Fuck. She'd like to care,
but her fingers were already tangled in the knot
of his tie, yanking and tugging until it too went
the way of the jacket. Tiny shirt buttons were
next and she was on number five or six when he
finally dialed in and realized she was dusting
him in the clothing removal category. His fingers
fumbled clumsily at the back hidden zipper of her
dress for several long seconds before he groaned
in frustration and dipped down to her hemline,
tugging the dress up and over her hips. When her
panties were finally exposed, he pulled the
crotch to one side and slid two fingers into her,
causing her hips to buck against his hand in
surprise and her mouth to utter one long breathy
"Mulderrrr."
His fingers made several slow passes over her
clitoris before he withdrew, wrapping his arms
around her body and lifting her by the buttocks
until she was pinned between him and the wall.
She circled his hips with her strong legs and
pulled his dress shirt off, then his undershirt
until her hands were sweeping over his chest,
tangling in the sparse hair. He ground his
erection into her, kneading her buttocks and
sliding his tongue against hers. She felt light-
headed and dizzy and there just didn't seem to be
enough oxygen to go around.
"God, what got into you?" he mumbled as she
nipped at his bottom lip. "You really need to eat
seafood more often."
She smiled and pulled his lips back down to hers.
He continued in a steady dry hump. It had been
years and years since she'd been this worked up
with clothing still on. Layers between them and
still, the tip of his cock felt like a knife
drilling into her. "Right here?" he swallowed,
his eyes a swirl of green and gold. God, she
wanted babies that had those eyes. Don't fall
apart now, Dana. Just don't. Nothing killed the
mood faster than a sobbing woman.
She refocused and went for his belt buckle,
whispering "Bedroom" and then planting the flat
of her tongue to his throat. He carried her all
the way there, stumbling again, this time over a
pair of heels she had left abandoned on the
floor at the foot of her bed. They fell back onto
the comforter, his arm catching his weight before
he pinned her. "Scully, you need to stop leaving
shit on the floor if we're going to keep doing
this." She giggled and swept the belt from his
pants in one long yank.
He had her underwear off and his pants pooled at
his ankles within seconds. She felt him enter her
in one long drive, her body accepting him without
protest. She was so wet that there was no pain,
only intense need as she bucked under him. It was
hard and fast and frantic and loud -- very, very
loud. Not him, but her. God, she'd never been
loud before. Ever. But she couldn't stop herself,
crying out as he drove into her relentlessly. She
came hard, arcing against the mattress, her
muscles tightening all around him as he finished
only several strokes behind her. He dragged
himself off her, collapsing in a heap to her
side, their chests rising and falling in tandem.
"That was crazy," he panted. "Please tell me I
didn't hurt you. I'm sorry, Scully, I thought I
would last longer."
"You didn't hurt me. Quite the opposite, I'd
say." She scooted closer to him.
He was sprawled out on his back, wearing only his
dark socks and she lay next to him, her new dress
bunched around her waist, naked from there down.
Was it wrong that she was thinking about her good
comforter as she felt a trickle on her inner
thigh?
"Mulder?"
"Yeah?"
"Can you please grab me the tissues on the
nightstand?"
She heard a rustling and then felt his hand
swiping at her, cleaning her. "Sorry about the
mess," he whispered. "I'll probably always be the
one saying that -- in the bed and out." She
chuckled and took the tissues from him, finishing
the job. Then she excused herself to the bathroom
for more extensive clean up.
When she came back out wearing a silk robe, he
was sitting up on the edge of her bed, still
nude. The room was dark, but she could make out
his shadow. "Hey," he said, reaching for her
hand.
"Hey." She went to him. "Thanks for dinner."
He huffed out a laugh, then grew silent for a
moment as his fingertip circled the back of her
hand tenderly. "You didn't think you
owed...because of dinner?"
She rubbed his shoulder affectionately with her
free hand. "No, of course not. I wanted it as
much as you did."
"I'm not sure that's possible, but I'm glad you
think so."
She smiled in the dark and peeled back the covers
to get in the bed, tugging his hand. "If you want
me to take off, it's okay," he said, tentatively.
"Not unless you keep talking," she yawned,
removing her robe and sinking into the sheets.
He peeled off his socks and climbed in naked next
to her, molding his body to hers.
*************************************************
************************************
She woke in the predawn light to the sensation of
something wet brushing her inner thigh. She
startled and lifted the covers to see the top of
his head about halfway down on the bed, hovering
over her. "Oh God Mulder, what are you doing?"
She heard a muffled reply, "Woke up and couldn't
fall back asleep," then, his tongue reconnected
with her skin, inching its way up to the apex of
her hip and thigh and tracing the crease there.
She tensed and he felt the change. His head
popped up and he maneuvered himself back up the
bed to kiss her mouth. "You don't like it,
Scully?"
"It's not that. I just don't think most men
enjoy...doing it." She felt her cheeks burn.
He pulled back to look in her eyes and she saw a
touch of mischief there. "Scully, you have been
with entirely the wrong men then. In my opinion,
it should qualify as a food group."
She wrinkled her nose and clicked her tongue in
disapproval at his vulgarity, but then laughed
despite herself.
"Please?" He sucked on one nipple as her hand
sifted through his messy bed hair. "Pretty,
pretty please?"
"Well, if you must," she smiled demurely. He
knelt above her for a moment, arcing the blankets
up over his head, and went down.
Before the first ray of sunlight came filtering
through her blinds, she was flowing like molten
lava and giving her neighbors something to listen
to for the second time in six hours. She hoped
the new couple with the loose headboard was
trying to sleep in.
*************************************************
************************************
End of April, 2000
The limousine cornered a little fast and Scully
slid over grey leather seats until her hip rested
tight against his own. Mulder was vaguely
cognizant of bright lights from the neon world
outside bouncing off the window glare and
launching prisms around the interior of the
vehicle. Scully's bare knee had white polka dots
of light on it and he wanted to play connect-the-
dots with his fingertips. They pulled up to a
stoplight and Mulder stretched to crank open the
moon roof, loud bass from the vehicle stopped
next to theirs suddenly cutting in, as well as
honking horns and a siren somewhere in the
distance. He stood and stuck the tip of his head
out the moon roof like a prairie dog. The street
sign read Sunset Boulevard and a salty breeze
ruffled his hair. Scully tugged him back down
with handfuls of his tuxedo jacket, muttering
something about safety and conduct befitting a
federal agent.
Their driver looked exactly like George Carlin
and Mulder wondered if he knew the Seven Dirty
Words routine. When they saw that his name tag
read Carl, he and Scully laughed until Scully had
to wipe tears from the corner of her eyes to keep
her mascara from running. It really wasn't all
that humorous, but somehow over the course of the
last two days, they had both adopted that West
coast stoned-on-life attitude that made
everything seem just a little funnier. He had
never seen Scully this easy-going before. She
wore Ray-Bans everywhere and snapped her gum. She
was late to meet him for lunch yesterday because
she had treated herself to a Swedish massage.
Last night when he knocked on her hotel room
door, she had been raiding the mini bar and
watching VH1.
Mulder popped open the cherry cupboard door to
the bar and whistled, pulling out two bottles and
handing her one, then opening the refrigerator to
peruse the multitude of beverage choices there.
"How come we always get drunk in California,
Scully?"
"We're not getting drunk. We have a 10 a.m.
flight home tomorrow."
"Speak for yourself. Our life's work has just
inspired the worst movie of all time. I'm
drinking. Vodka, rum, or champagne?"
She tossed him her disapproving librarian look,
which was much less effective when she was
wearing a cute little sparkly headband and had
just let him snake his hand up her dress not ten
minutes before. "Rum. Champagne makes me really,
really...never mind," she giggled.
"Champagne, it is."
He poured two generous glasses, raised his, and
then paused, brows knit in contemplation. Wow, so
much to toast. How could he choose just one
thing? Historically a glass-half-empty kind of
guy, lately he had been wondering if what he
thought really mattered was what really mattered.
"To...the truth?" she offered, and his heart
broke just a little because there she was --
always right there with him through thick and
thin, always wanting what he wanted, making his
goddamn quest her own at all costs.
And he shook his head. No. Not tonight. "To us,"
he said simply, and she clinked glasses with him
and sipped, her eyes big and blue, wet and
trusting. He loved her. He loved her and he was
really such an idiot sometimes.
She barely had her swallow gone when he kissed
her, thinking that there could be nothing better
in life than the taste of her, and at thirty-
eight, he had some serious catching up to do.
She pulled back first and he pitched forward, his
lips still pursuing hers like a magnetic force,
his eyes closed. He heard her giggle and she
steadied his champagne flute with her hand.
"Where are we going, Mulder? Because so far, your
instructions to Carl to 'just drive around' have
resulted in some pretty serious neglect of this
fine piece of plastic." She held the gold
Bureau credit card between two manicured fingers
like a lit cigarette.
Mulder slid the privacy window open and leaned
in. "Hey Carl, take us to swankiest restaurant in
town."
Carl eyed them through the rearview mirror and
smiled, tolerantly. "Uh, Sir? It's 8:30 on a
Saturday night and you don't have a reservation."
Right. So much for being suave. He scratched his
head, thoughtfully. "Well, then take us to the
nicest joint we can get into at the last minute
on a Saturday night without a reservation."
"Might I make a recommendation, Sir?"
Mulder made a sweeping 'by all means' gesture
with his hand that he hoped looked confident.
"If you're looking for a nice atmosphere, great
food, and ...a little privacy," Carl cleared his
throat, "there are some wonderful little fresh
seafood places down along the waterfront. Perhaps
a drive along the Pacific Coast Highway afterward
and a moonlit walk on the beach?"
Mulder nodded and smiled, pointing a finger at
Carl and making a decisive clicking sound with
his tongue. "Or that. You're brilliant, Carl.
Does anyone ever tell you that?"
Carl smiled, keeping his eyes trained on the
road. "All the time, Sir."
Mulder closed the privacy panel again and tried
to pick up where he left off with Scully,
trailing open mouthed kisses down the slender
slope of her neck while tracing light circles on
her bare knee cap. In true Scully form, all
reluctance and modesty, she pressed a tiny, but
strong hand to the center of his chest and pulled
back with that tight-lipped smile that could mean
seventy different things.
Okay, he smiled. He could wait. Seven years of it
had trained him well.
*************************************************
************************************
Scully quirked a disapproving eyebrow as the
waiter deposited the dinner bill next to Mulder's
water glass. "Why do they do that?"
"Do what?" Mulder asked, knowing full well what
she would say next, but waiting for her
predictable liturgy.
"Automatically assume that the man is paying the
bill." She fingered through her clutch for the
Bureau credit card that had been in her
possession all evening. "It's the twenty-first
century. What - like it's not possible that *I*
might be taking *you* out to dinner? That I might
actually have a career and money of my own? Is he
covertly suggesting that it's not acceptable for
a woman to ask a man on a date and pay for it?
Would that somehow upset the greater universal
balance of male and female gender roles in
society and lead to the pathological
disintegration of --of-of..." she paused, mid-
rant. "What, Mulder? Why are you looking at me
like that?"
He smiled and shook his head. "I'm not. I just
think...that he's probably a twenty-year-old
student, waiting tables to put himself through
acting school. I'm guessing he didn't give much
thought to how the exact placement of the bill on
the table might be interpreted as a statement of
support for patriarchal stereotypes. But if it
would make you feel better, I can pull him aside
and let him know you can vote now."
The corner of her mouth curved up and he felt her
foot step on his under the table. Then her gaze
dropped to the bill. "How much damage?" she
asked.
He slid it toward her so she could see. She
smiled and nodded approvingly. "Now that's a
respectable dent."
"What do you suppose the limit on this thing is?"
"I have no idea, Mulder, but we're not going to
find out."
"You're no fun," he pouted.
Her head cocked playfully, a coy smile planted on
her plump, merlot-stained lips. "Are you sure
about that?" He nearly jumped at the sensation of
a bare foot creeping up the inside of his pant
leg.
*************************************************
************************************
"How old were you when you learned to swim,
Scully?"
They had both kicked off their shoes and he was
proceeding to bury her tiny feet under mounds of
damp sand. "Don't wiggle, you're messing it up,"
he said, adding more handfuls and patting it down
firmly and smoothly.
She took another swallow of the champagne
directly from the bottle and passed it to him. He
did the same and passed it back. Two teenagers
screeched and laughed, chasing each other
drunkenly about fifty yards from them, and a
couple of night surfers paddled out toward the
horizon, waiting for the next big wave.
Otherwise, they were alone. It was a full moon
and the air was salty and cool. She wore his suit
jacket draped over her bare shoulders.
"Young," she said. "I'm not sure exactly. Maybe
four. You?"
"Not until I was nine. I went to sleep-away camp
for the first time and we had to pass a swim test
by the end of the summer. I had to take it four
times."
She huffed out a quiet, sympathetic laugh.
"You're a great swimmer now."
"About the time I turned twelve or thirteen, I
started spending every minute of my summers on
the beach in the Vineyard. I even took up surfing
for awhile."
"Why the sudden interest?"
He chuckled. "One guess. Prime motivator of every
heterosexual pubescent male."
She smiled and nodded, understandingly. "Girls."
"Girls in bikinis, specifically."
She bumped shoulders flirtatiously with him. "So
who was your first girlfriend?"
His eyes narrowed in thought. "You mean, the
first one who actually liked me back?"
She giggled. "Yeah." Another giggle into the
mouth of the champagne bottle as it tipped back,
nearly empty now.
"Corinne Meyers."
"One of your beach groupies?"
"Nope. Eighth grade science fair partner. She had
braces and was three inches taller than me."
Scully frowned. "Was she an amazon?"
"I hit my growth spurt late."
"I still haven't hit mine," she sighed, and they
shared a chuckle at that. "What did you make?"
"Huh?"
"For the science fair? What was your project -- an
erupting volcano?"
He smiled. "A launching rocket."
"Ah, yes, of course."
"What about you? Who was your first?"
Both her brows went to her hairline and she
cleared her throat as her eyes shifted down and
away. "Just what are you asking, Mulder?"
"Just what will you tell me, Scully?"
She wiggled her bare feet free from their sandy
grave and stood, tugging on his hand and shucking
his jacket. "Let's walk."
He let her lead him closer to the water, to where
the surf drifted up onto the sand, wetting their
feet and leaving foam between their toes. One of
her hands tangled with his, their fingers laced
casually. The other held the tip if the champagne
bottle between her middle and third finger. They
walked.
"So I tell you about the eighth grade love of my
life and I don't even get a name in return?" he
hedged.
"I didn't date until I was sixteen -- Captain's
orders," she smiled. "My first boyfriend was
David Markley. He had a car and he was
Protestant. My parents did not approve."
Her fingers twisted gently in his as they walked,
the swaying of her hips making him dizzy in a
good way. She offered him the bottle and he took
it and drank, handing it back. "Finish it off,"
he said. She did.
"Did his car have a big back seat?"
She smirked. "I don't remember."
"Liar."
She sighed deeply and pitched her head back to
the star-littered sky, her gait swaying in
contentment and mild inebriation. "God, it's sooo
beautiful here." Her voice had taken on that rasp
that he loved so much. The one she had sometimes
when he called her right before she went to
sleep. A wave of pure lust assaulted his senses
and in one swift turn and reach, he had her flush
against him. The empty bottle dropped soundlessly
into the sand and two arms went around his neck,
pulling his mouth down to hers.
And he kissed her on the beach, in the surf, in
the moonlight, and he felt like they could have
been pictured on the outside of a box of condoms
or something. Frankly, he wouldn't have been at
all surprised to see fireworks or hear Marvin
Gaye music playing. Not even the romantically-
challenged, such as himself, could screw this
moment up.
When their lips finally parted, he looked deeply
into her enchanting baby blues and
said...."You're really hot."
Good, Mulder. That's good. The Ph.D. was really
coming in handy.
She suppressed a giggle and nodded her head,
biting her bottom lip. "That's really....wow.
Thank you."
"Oh, you like that, do you?" He tilted his head,
feigning a dreamy look. "I can sing some Lionel
Ritchie, if you want, Baby."
They both erupted into quiet chuckles, her head
falling forward to rest on his chest, shoulders
shaking with her laughter. When they finally
composed themselves, Scully rubbed both of his
upper arms affectionately with her hands and
offered him her best Mona Lisa smile. "Let's go
back to the hotel."
They walked back to their waiting limousine
barefoot, Scully's heels dangling from her
fingertips, sand between their toes. Mulder gave
Carl instructions to take them back to their
hotel, and received another professional "Yes,
Sir," along with a knowing smile that could have
something to do with the amount of Scully's
lipstick Mulder was currently wearing.
It was really difficult to surprise Mulder. If
anything, his years on the X-Files had taught him
to always expect the unexpected. But this one, he
just never saw coming. He was slouched back into
the buttery leather seats with his head tilted
back and eyes closed, enjoying the rhythmic sway
of the ride, when he felt a gentle tugging on his
leg. He opened his eyes to find Scully kneeling
on the plush carpeted car floor, her knees bent
under her and both her hands braced on his legs.
"Scully, are you okay?" Could she be sick? He
didn't think she'd drank that much. They had only
had one glass of wine with dinner and then split
a bottle of champagne on the beach. That was what
-- maybe three or four drinks total over about
four hours? And the look on her face didn't
indicate that she felt ill. What was she doing on
the floor in front of him then?
And then, Oh Holy Christ, if ever the universe
had shifted on its axis, that moment was now as
he watched in disbelief as her manicured nails
traced a line all the way up the inseam of his
trousers and she began stroking him through the
fabric. The effect was almost instantaneous,
blood pumped into his groin, leaving his brain in
the dust.
He groaned and shifted in his seat. "Scully,
what, um...oh Christ." She was unbuckling his
belt and making quick work of his button and
zipper. His eyes darted quickly up to confirm
that yes, indeed, the privacy partition was
closed, thank God. She wouldn't, would she? In
the back of a limousine? Maybe she just wanted to
see him, or touch him, but not actually-
Air sucked into his lungs with a hiss as she
pulled him free from his boxers and began
stroking him up and down firmly. He didn't think
he had ever gotten this hard, this rapidly before
in his entire life -- well, not since he was about
fifteen. He was fully engorged, a dark purple-red
nestled blissfully in her pale white palm. She
continued stroking. He almost continued
breathing. Almost.
And then she was moistening her lips and lowering
her lead to him and his own mouth was hanging
open in shock, his eyelids droopy as he felt the
first touch of her hot tongue. Oh fuck, oh fuck,
oh fuck, she was sucking him all the way down in
one long dive, and then sliding back up and
swirling her tongue all the way up his entire
length and then around the head. A long groan of
pure pleasure released itself from the depths of
him as one of his own hands sifted through her
hair to rest gently at the back of her head.
An entire mantra of words and phrases, pleas and
expressions paraded through his brain, mostly the
soundtrack to his porn tapes, but all he managed
was some moaning, a few "oh yeahs" and a lot of
heavy breathing. This was, hands down, the best
head he'd ever gotten in his life. Well, he might
be biased because he was in love with her and
yeah, it had been that long, but hell -- this was
at least in the top three anyway.
Just when he thought the fun was already off-the-
charts, she started making this little humming
sound in the back of her throat and her hand
tightened around his base while her hot mouth
stroked up and down on him. He groaned loudly and
lifted his hips. She coughed once and pulled back
before going down full force once again, this
time scraping her nails against his sac. Yup,
that was it. He had about thirty seconds until
launch.
"Scully... you should stop..."
No stopping from her. More humming and fervent
pumping.
"Uuuuh, Scully...I'm...too close..."
Twenty seconds and counting.
"Scully! God...not here....I want to be in
you..." he moaned. She kept going like the
Energizer Bunny. His strangled voice eeked out
something about it being a rented tux and his
hand tugged desperately at her shoulder.
She pulled off him, cool air sweeping over his
groin and he was immediately sorry for being
responsible. He reacted quickly, squeezing
himself at the tip firmly to stall an orgasm. She
watched a tiny pearl of his moisture pool at the
head of his cock and she swirled her tongue over
her top lip, hungrily. Jesus. He clamped his eyes
shut tight and groaned. He couldn't even look at
her. If he did, there'd be no stopping it,
whether her mouth was on him or not. Several
minutes passed before he felt himself relax a
little and he was able to open his eyes again.
She had slipped back up onto the seat next to
him, breathing hard, sweeping mussed hair from
her eyes and tucking it behind her ears again,
all prim and proper.
"Why'd you stop me, Mulder?" she panted. "I could
have.....I wouldn't have left a mess." Her eyes
sparked coyly and she licked her lips again. Who
the hell *was* this woman? Fox Mulder, meet Dana
Scully, respected pathologist and fearless
special agent by day, expert fellatio
extraordinaire by night. How could he not have
known this about her? Then again, how could he?
It's not like it would have come up over pizza.
"By the way, Mulder, I give the best head on the
eastern seaboard, and I swallow. Pass me a
pepperoni slice."
"Are you okay, Mulder?" her hand caressed his
knee and he jumped, stumbling back to reality.
"Relaaax," she purred.
His hand covered hers. "Just...just no more
stimulation at the moment, unless you're not
expecting us to, um, you know. Because I'm
teetering, Scully. Jesus Christ."
She giggled. "Well, we're about two blocks from
the hotel, so perhaps you should pull yourself
together."
Pull myself together. Like he was the one
responsible for why he was slouched in the back
of a Hollywood limo with his pants around his
ankles and his dick twitching and staring at her.
She had officially awoken the beast. Oddly, she
did not look afraid.
He winced and tucked himself away, not without
significant discomfort. This time, when he exited
the limo, Carl smiled at him for an entirely
different reason. Mulder was beyond
embarrassment.
*************************************************
************************************
Three staircases, one elevator, two long
hallways, an envious look from a bellman, and
lots of giggling later, he was hip deep in his
partner with mounds of pillows and clothing
strung around the room and the edge of the fitted
sheet coming off the mattress. Was it his room or
hers anyway? Unclear. His key card had opened the
lock, but that meant nothing. They always
requested two keys each and exchanged with one
another anyway. He picked his face up from her
cool blanket of hair to focus on the nightstand
and saw the empty Diet Coke can from the night
before. His room. He thrust harder and she
responded with a tiny, high-pitched yelp and
fingernails on his shoulder blades.
She was hot, smooth satin all around him, tight
walls gripping, muscles taught, arcing and
writhing to meet his frantic strokes. Their
bodies crashed against each other like waves. He
tried desperately to capture one tiny pink nipple
in his mouth, but she was moving too much and
every time he caught it, it popped from his lips.
He tempered his strokes and steadied her with a
hand to her hip, but she bucked against him. "No,
no, no, no, no......Mulder, don't slow
down.....oh God..." Her hands gripped his upper
arms tightly, digging in. He clamped his eyes
shut and put his whole body into it, driving into
her hard and fast until he came in a shuddering
groan, mouth open against her bare shoulder.
He rolled off and flopped over to the side of
her, his heart galloping in his chest. She was
breathing just as hard next to him. He hated
asking. He always felt like he should know these
things. "Did you?" he panted.
"Yeah," her voice was breathy and light. "Oh
yeah."
He smiled with satisfaction, slipping an arm
under her to gather her to him. She snuggled in
close, tucking her compact behind snugly against
his groin and he half wondered if he might have
another round left in him for later that night.
Once upon a time he would have been all over her
in about another half hour, but he had a feeling
those days were long gone. Maybe in the morning,
if she stayed, and with that thought, he pulled
her tighter and nuzzled her neck. He could get
used to this.
"Scully?"
"Hmmm..."
"Have you ever wondered why it is that women and
men hit their sexual peaks at different times? I
mean, supposing for a moment that there is some
kind of a divine creator, why wouldn't He - or
She for that matter -- create men and women to hit
their sexual peaks simultaneously? Or even if we
put all God conjecture aside, evolutionary
biology has proven time and again that changes in
a species will inevitably occur in order to
ensure the propagation of said species. So you
would assume that after millions of years or so,
men and women would eventually end up in synch."
A sleepy, thoughtful sigh sounded from her and he
could detect an indulgent smile in her response.
"Mulder, that's nothing but a cultural myth.
There is no scientific proof to corroborate that
any such dichotomy exists."
He raised his head up on one elbow and gazed at
her, incredulously. "Scully, not to be blunt
here, but when I was 19 years old, I was a
walking hard-on. I could get an erection twenty
minutes after ejaculating, just from seeing a
Nair commercial on TV. I could've had sex five,
six times in one night. I'd get sore long before
I couldn't get it up anymore. And now?" He
glanced down between them where his dick lay
curled up and content. "Well, let's just say
Elvis has left the building and probably won't be
offering any encores for at least a couple of
hours."
She rolled to face him, her authoritative doctor
expression firmly in place. "Okay, first you have
to decide whether you're talking about the simple
biological ability to reproduce, or sex as a
recreational endeavor. Humans, both men and
women, are most fertile during their late teens
to early twenties. That is a proven fact. So if
you're referring to sexual peak as the ability to
make babies, then men and women are biologically
in synch. When you mention staying power -- the
ability to produce an erection on the heels of a
previous one, then, well yes, age plays a crucial
role. Men in their late teens through their mid-
twenties get more frequent, harder erections, and
the refractory period in between is minimal.
However, if you're talking about sex purely for
the fun of it, then the idea of 'sexual peak'
can't be narrowly defined by physical ability
alone. The desire for and enjoyment of the sexual
act itself should be taken into consideration.
People in their thirties and older have the
maturity and the experiences that make for
better, more satisfying sex."
Having delivered her argument, she flopped back
onto her pillow as if to say "There. Your turn."
Mulder smiled at her, not just because she was so
adorable in her know-it-all doctor mode, but also
because her preoccupation with their conversation
had created a welcome diversion from her usual
modesty. She lay on her back with just the corner
of the sheet draped over her, right at the pubic
line. Her breasts were bare and the peaks of her
nipples were like two little smiley faces wishing
him a nice day.
"Huh," he said, smartly, tracing the circle of
her areola with his fingertip. To her credit, she
didn't even flinch, but he felt her nipple
tighten even more and goose flesh form on her.
"That's interesting. So you'd say, then, that you
enjoy sex even more now than you did in your
twenties?"
Her breath hitched almost imperceptibly. "Um, not
that I have much empirical evidence to draw upon
over the course of the last..." her voice drifted
off with a dissatisfied puff of air. He wanted
the number. How long, Scully? Had she possibly
been getting anything over the years that he
didn't know about? He didn't think so, but
sometimes you think you know a person and-
"Yes, I enjoy it more now. A lot more," she said,
interrupting his thoughts. He smiled at her
candor and it turned him on mentally, even if his
hard-on was lagging behind. He lowered his mouth
to her nipple, teasing it with the tip of his
tongue. It earned him a quiet purr and fingers in
his hair. To think he could make her feel this
good. His super hero complex was edified.
"So Scully," he mumbled to the pale brown ring
orbiting her pink nipple. "While maturity and
experience could be responsible for your
heightened enjoyment, there's also the very
strong possibility that your partner just might
be an amazing lay."
She giggled and then shifted, parting her knees
slightly. "I'm not going to lie to you. The
thought has crossed my mind."
He skimmed one hand up the inside of her thigh,
barely touching her. "And what did you conclude?"
"Mmm, nothing yet, I'm afraid. I'd say more
information is needed to make an accurate
determination. I'll think about it and get back
to you."
His thumb brushed her labia and he felt her
pelvic muscles tense in anticipation. "You do
that," he whispered. "In fact, why don't you
close your eyes and relax and see if any
answers... come ...to you."
She snorted and then giggled again. "That's
really bad, Mul-Oh God!" Her hips jolted at his
touch and she released a shuddering breath.
He kissed her long and slow while he hand worked
diligently at a pace that was anything but. His
groin was tight to her hip, one of his legs slung
over hers while he touched her and she noticed it
before he did. She pulled her lips from his and
glanced slowly down with brows lifted and a
playfulness in her eyes. "So what was that you
were saying about refractory periods and Elvis
leaving the building?"
His eyes followed hers down.
"Because I think he might be back," she added.
He shook his head slowly in awe. "That is
amazing. You....are good." They both chuckled and
he went back to kissing her.
*************************************************
6/6
The clock radio cast an eerie green glow across
the bed and the tornado of bedclothes that told a
pretty accurate story of the past couple of
hours. The bedspread had slithered to the floor
long ago, leaving a twisty mess of sheets and one
cotton blanket that was currently covering
Scully's bare ass. There were pillows somewhere,
but he wasn't sure where. The fitted bottom sheet
was hanging off the corner of the mattress
closest to his feet and he felt the pilled
scratchy material of the mattress pad underneath.
The hospital corners never stood a chance.
As it turned out, he had not been up for a second
round after all, which was altogether a little
embarrassing, but he'd get over it. He had gotten
almost, but not quite hard enough to penetrate,
despite both oral and manual effort on her part.
Another half hour would have probably done it,
but she had already finished in style herself
long before and he knew she was just too tired at
that point. Her efforts at suppressing her yawns
were endearing and polite, but he had stilled her
hand and kissed her hair and whispered, "It's
okay. Go to sleep." She was breathing slow and
steady against his shoulder half a minute later.
The clock read 2:38. They had a 10:00 a.m.
flight. An hour to shower, get dressed, and pack
up, a half hour to grab a bagel and check out,
forty minutes to the airport with morning
traffic, another forty-five to check in at the
airport and get through security. Holy shit. They
needed to get up early. He managed to reach over
and set the alarm without Scully even stirring,
and then fell into a dreamless sleep.
*************************************************
************************************
When he awoke again to his alarm, he was alone.
He might have thought it was a dream if it
weren't for the scent of her on the sheets and
his hands. He was naked and sticky, a sheet
spiraled around his bottom half. He wondered what
time she left and more importantly, why. It was a
little too early to call it a pattern with her;
they had only been together three times. But he
was beginning to wonder if she had morning after
issues, and if the issue was the actual morning
after or if it was him. He stumbled to the
bathroom and turned on the shower.
She was waiting for him when he got down to the
lobby, arguing with a manager about an extraneous
charge on her bill. Her eyes darted briefly to
acknowledge his presence before continuing her
conversation. "There must be some kind of
mistake," she said to the manager, whose nametag
read Cliff and who had a serious comb-over going
on. "I did not order any in-room movie."
Cliff smiled apologetically while tapping away at
a keyboard. "Well, let me just double-check that
charge, Ma'am, and maybe I can tell you
exactly....oh yes, here it is." He hit the print
button and quickly produced another paper, which
he placed directly in front of Scully. "Right
here it says that a movie was ordered from room
1551 last night at 11:34 p.m. The title of the
movie was...well, you can see here for yourself,"
he said, pointing to the paper.
Scully's eyes narrowed and her complexion took on
a noticeable flush. Then she pushed the paper
back across the counter to Cliff and crossed her
arms. Uh oh. Here it comes. Poor Cliff had
clearly not been sufficiently warned about the
dangers of pissing off Scully on less than six
hours of sleep and no caffeine. "First of all,
Sir, I was not even in my hotel room at 11:34
p.m. last night, as my FBI partner here can
corroborate." She put special emphasis on the FBI
part and Mulder noticed Cliff flinch at the
mention. "And second of all," Scully continued,
"even if I were, based on the title alone, I can
assure you that *this* is most definitely not a
movie that I would have rented. Now, my partner
and I are catching a 10:00 flight back to D.C.
and we are currently," she glanced at her watch,
"seven minutes late leaving for the airport. So
here is what's going to happen: you are going to
remove the erroneous charge from my hotel bill,
take care of expediting the charges to my
business credit card, and then print me an
accurate receipt. And you're going to have it
done by the time I return in three minutes with a
cup of coffee. Got it?"
Cliff smiled uncomfortably and nodded, taking the
receipt from her and crumpling it in his hands.
Mulder followed Scully across the lobby to the
cafe to order two coffees and bagels for the cab
ride.
"Hey Scully, when we get home, can you call my
cell phone company for me? I think they
overcharged me last month on my roaming charges.
And while you're at it, maybe you can call around
and see if you can get me a better rate on my car
insurance."
No reaction from her as her heels clicked on the
shiny floor of the lobby. Yeah, no coffee yet for
her. Definitely not. His good sense told him to
abort now and keep his mouth shut, but he was
never good at heeding his own advice.
"So do you mutate into some kind of scary
creature at the break of dawn or something?" he
asked, jokingly.
She frowned at him in confusion and annoyance.
"I'm just asking because you always seem to
disappear before morning. I wake up and you're
gone. I don't know -- maybe we need to open an X
File on it."
She tossed him a warning look, rifling through
her purse and pulling out a five dollar bill.
"I'm going to hit the restroom. Get me a plain
bagel with lite cream cheese and a coffee, one
cream and-"
"No sugar, yeah, I know. How many years have we
been ordering our coffee together, Scully? And
it's on me," he said, handing her money back to
her. She took it and stalked off to the bathroom.
It was going to be a long flight home.
*************************************************
************************************
They were six miles in the air and Scully had
just downed two Advil and was leaning her head
back against the seat next to him. They had a row
all to themselves, which was all but necessary
given Mulder's size. Unless he was either in an
exit row or had the option of stretching his legs
into the aisle or the space next to him, he was
very uncomfortable in coach class. And since the
Bureau did not pay for first class, he had gotten
pretty adept at flirting with both ticketing
agents and flight attendants in order to secure
himself a little extra space.
From where they sat, they had a perfect view of
Skinner, who sat across and three rows ahead of
them, nursing a tomato juice and from what Mulder
could tell, a respectable hangover. Skinner had
taken a separate cab to the airport, but had met
up with them at the gate to their flight. He
looked tired, haggard, and unshaven. When Mulder
had asked him how his night had been, the A.D.
had shook his head with a roll of the eyes and
said, "I'm too old for this shit." Mulder wasn't
sure if 'this shit' referred to the partying or
the twenty-something-year-old he had spent the
evening with.
Mulder opened a bag of peanuts and offered Scully
some, but she rolled her head back and forth
against the seat. He cleared his throat. "So
this, um, disappearing act you like to pull
before daybreak, is this, like, one of your hard
and fast rules, or what?"
She lifted her head and looked at him, brows knit
defensively. "What are you talking about?"
"You know, the rules. No PDA near work, no action
on the road, don't call you Snookums, and now,
what? Be sure to leave skid marks before dawn?"
Her posture tensed and her mouth hung open for a
few seconds before she composed herself. "We had
a flight to catch-"
"With the alarm set for plenty of time to do it,"
he finished.
"I woke up early and I let myself out. I fail to
see what the big deal is, Mulder."
He nodded thoughtfully. "I'm just getting things
straight, that's all. Trying to figure out how
this is supposed to work."
"What do you mean by 'this'?"
He shrugged. "This. Us. The way I figure it so
far, it's we go out, we drink, we fuck, and you
leave."
"Shhhh! Keep your voice down!" she hissed.
"Skinner is three rows ahead of us, Mulder."
He gave a sarcastic snort. "Come on, Scully. Give
the man a little credit, will ya? He's not an
idiot."
She sighed and calmed a little. "I think you're
making a big deal out of nothing, Mulder."
"So you're saying that if you didn't have
somewhere to be the next morning, you'd stay?"
She avoided eye contact. "I fail to see the point
of this conversation. Why does it matter?"
Jesus.
"Because it does! This is some kind of fucking
joke, Scully." His voice started to rise a little
again and she warned him with her eyes. He took a
breath and quieted. "If I just wanted somebody in
my bed for a few hours once in awhile, there are
ways to get that without dealing with all this
other...bullshit."
Her eyes sparked dangerously and she unbuckled
her seatbelt, flinging the buckle aside. "I don't
need this," she said, venomously, getting up and
moving to an empty seat in the row behind them.
He sighed and put his hands over his face,
rubbing his forehead. Well, that went well. Why
was it this hard? He had never really had strong
feelings about casual sex either way. It had its
purpose and he had certainly engaged in it now
and then, back when he used to actually have sex.
But it was just different with her. That wasn't
really what he wanted and he couldn't imagine it
was what she wanted either. Unless it was. And
then he'd have to decide if he could handle that
kind of arrangement with her. He had a strong
feeling he knew the answer to that, and certain
parts of his anatomy that had grown very fond of
her would not appreciate his decision.
He got up and moved back one row to sit next to
her once again. This time they weren't alone in
their row. An older woman, maybe seventy-
something smiled politely down at her crossword
puzzle and pretended not to notice the pretty
woman next to her that seemed pissed off and the
man invading her personal space.
"Mulder, go back to your seat. I don't want to
talk about this here."
"Just hear me out for a minute. I'm sorry for
what I said. Well, not really, actually."
She crossed her arms and leaned away from him,
frowning.
"What I meant to say is that I'm sorry for how I
said it. I'm not sorry for what I said."
Her posture softened just a little, but her guard
was still up. He leaned in to her shoulder, his
head tilted to the side, talking quietly into her
ear. "I enjoy being with you and this is more
than just sex for me." He noticed her glance
toward their row mate to confirm that the woman
was still pretending to ignore them. Satisfied,
she redirected her attention back to him and he
continued. "I'm not saying we need to figure all
this out right now, Scully -- what we're doing,
what this is. I just- I just would appreciate it
if maybe sometime, after we've made love, you
wouldn't run out like the place is on fire."
She smirked a little. It was a concession and
he'd take it.
"I don't run out like the place is on fire,
Mulder."
"You do. A small fire. Smoke then." She smiled.
He brushed the back of his hand against hers and
she didn't pull away. "I'd like to add an
addendum to the rules," he said.
She tilted her head, questioningly.
"What -- you're the only one who can make up the
rules? You have imposed three rules and if I'm
not mistaken, I have complied unfailingly with
all of them. I get a rule now."
"You called me Baby."
"What? I did not. When?"
"On the beach. You said 'I can sing some Lionel
Ritchie for you, Baby,'"
He sighed and put up one hand in surrender. "I
did. You're right." He made a face of mock
seriousness and she smiled at him. "It won't
happen again."
"What's your rule?" she asked, curiously.
"I would very much like it if...when we happen to
be *together* on a weekend night, and you don't
have to be anywhere the next morning, that you
would consider staying. All night. As in, have
breakfast with me. Maybe morning sex, but that's
negotiable."
"You know how to make breakfast?"
"I make a very respectable omelette. Vegetables
and all."
"You never have any vegetables," she argued.
"I'll buy some. As soon as we get home, I'll go
out and get some. Do you prefer green peppers or
red?"
"Both."
"I will get both. I'll get yellow too. All the
peppers. I'll buy all the peppers in the store."
She was smiling at him now and so was the
crossword puzzle lady. Mulder and Scully got up
and moved back to their old seats.
"Okay," she said. He looked at her. "Okay, I can
do that. Stay sometime. On a weekend," she said,
seriously, finger raised.
"You could even bring a few things over."
She looked at him cautiously and arched an
eyebrow.
"I mean, you know, a change of clothes or
something to sleep in, or whatever. Just if you
want."
"I don't see the point," she said and his heart
started to sink again. Then she smiled at him
coyly. "Why would I need something to sleep in?"
If Skinner hadn't been sitting three rows up, he
would have kissed her. He leaned in anyway.
"Don't," she warned.
"I know, I know. You don't have to say it. You're
really in love with A.D. Skinner."
She sighed dramatically, trying to suppress a
laugh. "Whatever shall I do?"
Mulder peered over the seats, pretending to be
sizing up Skinner. "I can take him," he said in
false bravado.
"No, you can't."
"No, I can't," he agreed with a sigh.
They both chuckled and Scully reached for his
open package of peanuts, shaking some out onto
her palm.
*************************************************
************************************
Early May, 2000
Scully's phone was ringing as she juggled four
bags of groceries and her purse outside her
apartment. She flung the door open, deposited the
bags onto the hardwoods with a loud thump, and
dove for the receiver on the end table. A
cantaloupe rolled across the floor, trying to
make a get-away.
"Hello," she said, breathlessly.
"Hey, it's me."
"Hey you. What's up?"
"So I was just thinking that it's Friday."
"Yes, it is," she said, shifting her weight onto
one hip and smiling. "All day, in fact." She
could hear him dribbling his basketball in the
background.
"Do you wanna come over and watch a movie and
hang out?"
"Will there be popcorn?"
"Yea-um, hang on." The sound of him walking and
opening a cupboard followed. "Yes, there will
be," he replied, in a surprised tone of voice.
She heard cellophane crinkling.
"Well, then I don't see how I can refuse such an
invitation."
"It would be unwise. It's Orville Redenbacher."
She chuckled. "I have groceries to put away and
then I'd like to go for a run and grab a shower,
so maybe-"
"Eight?"
"Eight's good. I'll see you then."
"Scully?"
"Yeah?"
"It's the weekend."
She could hear the smile in his voice. "Yes, it
is. See you later, Mulder."
"Bye."
*************************************************
************************************
He was wrong about her wanting to keep things
casual. At least she thought so anyway. If she
had wanted only the sex, she was pretty certain
she could have propositioned him and ended up in
his bed long before she did. And it wasn't that
she was overly confident in her abilities to
seduce either. Far from it, actually, not to
mention, sorely out of practice. But let's face
it, he was a man. And in her limited experience,
it didn't take much.
No, it was more than that with Mulder. It always
had been, which was why it had taken them this
long to get to where they were now. She wanted to
stay the night. To wake up to the feel of his
smooth, naked body next to hers, his soft breath
on her neck, his morning erection prodding her
behind. To make love again in the shower, then
eat toast and coffee in bed together, passing
newspaper sections back and forth and steeling
orange juice kisses. What wasn't to love about
that? But then what?
What if he asked her to stay for the day, to go
for a walk in the park or catch a matinee? Then
what? Would she stay the next night too? And if
they started spending entire weekends together,
then what? Would they do their laundry together
and cook their meals and balance their
checkbooks? Then what? Would he eventually end up
spending more nights at her apartment than he
would in his own? Would she acquire a drawer in
his dresser and a shelf in his medicine cabinet?
Then what? Because she had been there. And when
you got *there*, there was always a 'then what?'
She enjoyed being with him, being his best
friend, loving him, and of course, making love to
him. She just wasn't sure she was ready for the
'then what.' She had never been in a
relationship that hadn't eventually ended, and
that was simply not an option for them. She
couldn't imagine, could not fathom the thought of
not having him in her life. What she wanted was a
guarantee, an assurance that this would work for
them. But there were no guarantees when it came
to love. And she wasn't losing him, no matter
what.
She did want it all. She just had to give herself
permission to have it.
*************************************************
************************************
She knocked on his door at 8:15. "It's open," she
heard him holler. She walked in and smelled
something burning in the kitchen. His head poked
around the corner.
"Perfectly, fashionably late, Scully."
"It's your fault. I used to be habitually early.
I have a good excuse, though." She made her way
into the kitchen. "What is that smell?"
"I burned the first batch of popcorn. What's the
excuse?"
"How the hell do you burn microwave popcorn,
Mulder? There's even a button on the microwave
specifically for popcorn."
"Yes, I know that now. What's the good excuse?"
"No hot water, can you believe that? I came back
from my run to find that the hot water in half of
the apartments was turned off. Some kind of a
pipe issue. It's supposed to be fixed by
tomorrow."
"You could've showered here," he offered.
She smirked. "Yeah, thanks. Um, maybe in the
morning," she said, casually, not making eye
contact with him as she felt him studying her in
surprise. "My neighbors let me shower in their
apartment."
"Who? The two old ladies with the snappy
Pekinese?"
"Nope," she smiled. "The young couple -- Ms. 'Give
It To Me Harder' and Mr. 'Yeah, Baby, Yeah.'"
Mulder laughed out loud.
"They're nice enough," she said.
"Just...enthusiastic. And they have a very loud,
brass headboard. I'm considering buying them a
new, quieter one with pads on the back and having
it delivered to them anonymously."
"You'd be surprised at how common anonymous
bedroom furniture delivery is."
She looked at him quizzically for a moment, then
crossed to the window sill and picked up his tiny
potted plant. "Your plant's still alive."
"I have no idea why. It just won't die, despite
my best efforts."
She chuckled. "You should transfer it to a bigger
pot. It's outgrown this little one."
He was on his knees on the floor, reaching into a
cupboard and making loud clattering sounds before
emerging with a large glass bowl, presumably for
the popcorn. "Nah, that would be testing fate. I
barely water the thing. I go away for days at a
time. I'm convinced the plant is a sadist."
Scully carried the little fern to the kitchen
sink and turned the water on, gently rotating the
plant under the kitchen sprayer. "You should get
a mister bottle for it. Ferns should be misted
instead of having water dumped in their pots. And
they prefer not to be touched."
She felt his eyes resting on her, watching her.
"Do you want it?" he asked.
"No. It likes it here. It likes you, I think."
He was smiling at her now, amused. "Maybe I
should get a second one. Another of its kind. A
mate for it."
She nodded her head without turning around. "A
mate is good."
A warm touch rested at the small of her back.
"Come on, let's go watch a movie."
*************************************************
************************************
It wasn't her kind of movie, but she didn't care.
It was a stupid movie about a groundhog that her
brothers would have found funny. When she had
voiced her protest, Mulder had suggested, with a
wag of his brows, that she choose another from
his extensive movie collection. She told him
Caddyshack would be just fine and then made a
two-pointer into the wastebasket with her beer
cap. He missed.
Halfway through the movie she kicked off her
shoes and curled her legs beneath her on the
couch, migrating closer to his warmth. His upper
arm rested casually next to her shoulder and she
was overly aware of tan sinewy flesh, taut
muscles, and soft hairs that tickled her. And the
warmth. She was drawn to it. She thought about
him covering her like a blanket and it did
nothing to help her concentrate on the movie, not
that this particular story took much brain power
to follow.
Minutes later, she wasn't sure exactly how many,
he had snuck up on her and stolen a kiss, one
hand cupping her cheek and the other resting on
her knee. It was soft and slow, almost reverent
and shy, as if he wondered how his advance might
be received. It had been two weeks since the
movie premiere in Los Angeles and they had lost
themselves in their work, as always. There had
been lunches and a few casual dinners and lots of
phone calls, but nothing more. It was in his
eyes, though. Over case files and in meetings, in
elevators and when he thought she wasn't paying
attention. Desire. She felt it too, of course,
she just hid it better.
Then the Genie case had happened this week. There
had been invisible dead men and explosions and
wishes gone terribly wrong. She had made a fool
out of herself in front of her colleagues, and
then watched her partner spend a day and a half
with an attractive woman following him around.
She had been jealous, but she thought she'd done
a good job of hiding that too. It always snuck up
on her and reared its ugly head when she least
expected it. She and the green-eyed monster went
way back.
Once she had found a woman's name and phone
number in Jack's coat pocket. They had been
seeing each other for almost six months at the
time, sleeping together for almost as long. She
had followed up by searching his cell phone while
he was in the shower and coming up with five
instances of calls to the same number over the
previous forty-eight hours. She had even listened
in on his voice mails. Someone named Susan had
left three messages from that same number, asking
him to call her as soon as possible. She had
proceeded to spend the entire weekend brooding,
spying on him, and generally treating him like
shit until he had asked her what the hell was
going on. She had thrown his cell phone at him,
accidentally clipping the side of his jaw,
calling him a son-of-a-bitch, and demanding to
know who Susan was. He had responded with a
patient smile, led her gently to the edge of the
bed and sat her down. Then he had dialed his
voice mail and calmly asked her to listen to
another message, one she had apparently missed in
her snooping. "Hi Jack, it's Susan Herr calling.
Chuck's thirty-fifth birthday is coming up next
month and I'm planning a surprise party for him.
I wondered if you could help me get in touch with
some of the guys from Phi Beta Kappa? Anyway,
give me a call as soon as you can." Susan was the
wife of Jack's college fraternity brother. Dana
had felt like an idiot. Jack thought it was cute.
He had tipped her back on the bed and proceeded
to make them both late for work.
Mulder was still kissing her, chastely, sipping
from her mouth with those full, beautiful lips.
She opened just a little, but he seemed in no
hurry, which made her want him even more. She
loved when he was like this -- tentative,
fourteen-year-old boy shy, hand resting gently at
her waist shy, afraid to get caught in the act by
her parents shy. Then her mind flashed to two
weeks ago in California. His thumbs holding her
open, his tongue laving hungrily at her pink
center, his hardness prodding her, impatiently,
his need so desperate that he forgot to ask if
she was ready. She loved him when he was like
that too.
Their mouths slid together. The movie played on.
His hand lifted the hem of her shirt and rubbed
her lower back. "We're missing the movie," she
whispered.
"We should stop then," he said, unconvincingly.
She wasn't sure if he meant the movie or the
kissing. She only had a vested interest in the
second.
"Mmm, we really should," she agreed.
"Tell me when," he said, blowing at the soft spot
under her ear.
She sucked in a breath and tilted her head. "Not
fair." Her eyes fluttered shut and gooseflesh
formed on her. She was certain that her hardened
nipples were visible through the thin cotton of
her white shirt, but that was okay. They weren't
the only erect things between them at the moment.
Harnessing every ounce of willpower she had left,
she pulled back, smoothing her hair and putting a
little distance between them. "Let's finish the
movie," she said, straightening her shirt. He
took it in stride, but she didn't miss his shift
against the leather cushions and his subtle
adjustment of himself.
*************************************************
************************************
The credits began to roll and loud music was
silenced with the press of a button on the
remote. The room plunged into near darkness, the
only light a couple of candles flickering on the
bookshelf, the only sound the bubbly hum of the
fish tank.
Mulder hit rewind on the remote and the tape
began to whirr. Then he carefully placed the
remote on the coffee table and leaned to kiss her
softly, the rough pad of his thumb tilting her
chin up. Her head dipped to find the right angle
and without much forethought, her lips parted to
him. Still, he was gentle, in control,
exceedingly tender.
When he finally broke the kiss, he was rubbing
her upper arms affectionately. She felt
comforted, safe, like they had all the time in
the world. It felt different than it had the last
couple of times they had been together. Measured,
solid, sure. She wasn't surprised when he said
it. "Stay. Please." His voice was low and
soothing to her, a balm to treat every wound
she'd ever had. "I want to make love to you, and
when I'm done, I don't want you to leave."
It sounded like the best idea she'd heard in a
lifetime.
He led her to his bedroom and undressed her
slowly, savoring every inch of new skin as it was
revealed. She didn't think she had ever felt this
loved. She had had men undress her and tell her
she was beautiful before. Had had men kiss her
with raw need in their eyes. She had felt wanted
before, lusted after, even loved a few times. But
it had never been like this. She had never been
truly worshipped. She could not imagine any other
man making love to her ever again. The epiphany
hit like a tidal wave and emotion flooded her
senses. Her breath caught sharply and her eyes
swamped.
He looked at her with concern. "Scully?"
"I'm okay," she whispered. "I just-oh God,
Mulder, I...I hope you know that I-" she
faltered, her voice catching.
"I know, Scully. I do too." He kissed her
tenderly, but passionately and then laid her back
on his bed, smoothing his hands over her entire
body, inch by inch. She closed her eyes and
sighed, arching into his touch and letting
herself get carried by the moment.
When he was finally poised above her, she cupped
his face in her hands. "Slow, Mulder. I want it
slow. Make it last."
He locked eyes with her as he entered her, then
stroked carefully and deliberately so she could
feel every inch of him inside her body. At times
he pushed so incredibly deep and then held
himself still, ceasing all movement and she could
feel him pressing against her cervix. He wrapped
his arm all the way around and underneath her,
clutching her body to his while he made love to
her mouth with his lips and tongue. They rocked
together, skin pressed tightly together. He held
her leg up with her knee bent. She came quietly,
her body quaking and shuddering around him as he
held his mouth to hers, kissing her, whispering,
"Yes, Scully....yes, yes, yes."
He followed within minutes, pushing into her
feverishly, sporadically, and then one final
deep, hard stroke before his entire body went
taut and she actually felt him pulsating inside
her, the rush of fluid. And then his body
deflated and he listed over to the side, half on
and half off her, resting his weight on his hip,
strong arms still enveloping her.
He kissed her bare shoulder several times before
pulling out. She felt the loss immediately and
whimpered. He chuckled low and kissed her again.
"I left candles burning in the living room. I'll
be right back." He trotted off, naked and unself-
conscious, his still half hard cock swinging
gently.
She stretched and raked her fingers through her
hair, then rolled lazily from the bed, bunching
the top sheet and dragging it off with her to the
bathroom and shutting the door. She cleaned up
and found her toothbrush there, still awaiting
her return in the holder next to his.
After cleaning up, she left the bathroom to find
him back in the bed, waiting for her, a glass of
water on the nightstand by her side of the bed.
She smiled shyly and trailed the sheet with her.
He reached for her playfully as she went by,
dragging her down onto the bed and on top of him.
He fingered the sheet and smiled at her. "So I
can see that we're going to have problems with
Naked Saturdays, aren't we?"
She quirked a brow. "Naked Saturdays, Mulder?"
He nodded, running a finger over her clavicle and
tracing the line where the sheet met her skin.
"Only on the second Saturday of each month, and
well, tomorrow just happens to be-" he held up
his hands and clicked his tongue apologetically.
She shook her head and smiled at him. "How
convenient."
He kept looking at her and eventually she averted
her gaze. "I've seen you naked, Scully."
"I know that."
"So why bother with-" he slid one hand underneath
the sheet to caress her flat stomach.
She shrugged, feeling oddly like a child being
censured for something silly.
The palm of his hand made circles on her skin,
igniting heat underneath. "Can I ask you a
question?"
She nodded, folding one arm under her head.
"What don't you like about your body? What are
you self-conscious about?"
She shrugged and bit her lip, her cheeks feeling
warm.
"There must be something or you wouldn't be re-
enacting your own little version of Animal House
with my sheets, which are clean by the way, in
case you wondered."
She chuckled silently, but didn't answer him,
tugging his shoulder subtly to try and pull him
down into a kiss.
"Nuh uh. Nope," he smiled. "You're trying to
distract me with your feminine wiles, but it's
not going to work because we're going to talk
about this instead."
Her fingernails scraped at his upper back and she
ran the flat of her tongue enticingly up his
throat, closing her whole mouth over his Adams
apple. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes for
a moment. Then he pulled back with a quiet hiss.
"Nice try, my little vixen, but I'm tough as
steel."
She gave him the brow and her hand drifted lower
to close around his cock. He jumped. "Mmm, not
quite yet, but there's potential," she smiled.
"All right, Scully, I'll go first if it'll make
you feel better. Let's see..." He took a deep
breath and exhaled. "I have big feet." He wiggled
them in demonstration. "Not just big, but huge.
Clown feet. Size thirteen and my toes are long
and bony. Whenever I'm in crowds, people are
always stepping on my feet because they stick out
so far."
She smiled. "Look on the bright side. You know
what they say about men with big feet."
He chuckled. "And in your expert opinion, Doctor
Scully, would you say it's true? What they say
about men with big feet?"
She arched her eyebrows coyly. "Well, I'm not
sure if there's any scientific basis for the
correlation, but from a woman's perspective?" She
pursed her lips and looked down, demurely. "I'd
say that yes, there just might be some truth to
it after all."
"Thank you, I think." He pinched her behind
gently. "Okay, batter up, Scully. Your turn."
She sighed. "My thighs. I've always hated my
thighs. Whenever I gain weight, it always goes
straight there, without fail. And I have pale
skin, so not only are they fat, but they're pasty
white and fat." She huffed out a breath.
"You're kidding me, right?"
"Mulder, don't make fun of me."
"I'm not. It's just that...I-I don't see...what
do you weigh, Scully, all of a hundred pounds?"
"I fluctuate between one oh five and one ten,
usually."
"And help me out here, but how in the world could
any sane human being consider that fat? You're
tiny, Scully. I mean, I'm surprised you even set
off automatic doors. Can you even donate blood?
In fact, I'm not even sure you should be riding
in the front seat of a car."
"Very funny, Mulder. I know I'm not fat. I just
have a love/hate relationship with my thighs,
that's all."
"Let me see them," he said, slowly moving the
sheet aside until she was naked from the waist
down. She let him, but she closed her eyes for
it. She felt his hands on her, palms running
slowly up and down one leg, then the other. "I
have to vehemently disagree, Scully. They're the
curviest part of your body. They're smooth and
creamy and sexy as hell." His lips brushed her
inner thigh and she shuddered, then caught her
breath.
"I hate my scar too," her hand pushed the sheet a
little higher until her lower abdomen was
exposed, the slightly puckered spot where her
old gunshot wound had healed over.
He kissed it. "Yup, got one of those too," he
said, pointing to the scar from his own gunshot
wound on his shoulder. "Some chick shot me."
Scully smiled at him, brushing over the scar
tissue with her thumb. "What a bitch."
"She was really hot, though." His mouth
continued to hover over her flat stomach, hot
breath bathing her. "Chicken lips."
"What?" she said, with a startled laugh.
"I have chicken lips."
"You do not, Mulder. I like them. They're full
and luscious." She tipped his head up and put her
finger to his lips. He puckered them out and she
giggled, strumming them with her thumb.
"Have you checked out my profile lately?" He
turned his head to the side. "Cluck, cluck."
"Bring those chicken lips up here so I can kiss
them." She tugged on his upper arms and he
crawled up her body to find her waiting mouth.
They kissed, a lazy mix of long lip locks and
gentle pecks. Finally he pulled his head up and
glanced down at the only place on her body still
covered by the sheet. He nuzzled the fabric
covering her breasts. "Please tell me you don't
have a problem with these, Scully."
She offered a tentative smile and her shoulder
lifted a little indifferently. "They're not too
small for you?"
He raised his head and studied her, a distinct
frown between his brows. "What would ever give
you that impression?"
"Come on, Mulder, I've seen the women you're
attracted to." Her voice was quiet and she was
aware of the flush in her cheeks.
His frown deepened. "What the- what are you
talking about?"
She stayed quiet, sucking in her bottom lip and
keeping her eyes trained on the ceiling above.
"You mean the tapes? The magazines?"
She gave a half nod, still avoiding eye contact.
He laughed out loud. "Jesus, Scully. You've got
to be kidding me."
"I don't look like that, Mulder. Not even close."
"No, you don't, thank God. You think I prefer a
pair of hard, fake silicone tit-" he paused mid
sentence, took a breath and continued, "breasts
to the real, honest to goodness thing?" He slid
one hand underneath the sheet covering her and
locked eyes with hers, seeking permission. She
released the corner of fabric that she had been
holding and allowed him to peel away the last
layer covering her. She could feel the heat of
his gaze on her and she held her breath. Yes, of
course he had seen her naked. Several times, in
fact. But she had never had him actually study
her body before. It was unnerving. She
desperately wanted to cover herself again, but
didn't.
She felt his fingers lightly brush the underside
of one breast, tracing up and around to circle
her areola. Her nipples peaked and she arched her
back to his touch. God, it felt amazing. He moved
to her other breast and did the same thing. "So
soft," he whispered. "Round and firm and
perfect." He raised his head to lock eyes with
hers. "I wouldn't change a thing, Scully." And
she knew he meant it.
They made love again and when they were both
completely sated, he spooned up behind her and
pillowed her head on his arm, his knee nestled
between her smooth legs, a tangle of limbs. The
fan across the room oscillated lazily, blowing
cool air across their naked bodies. She shivered
and he pulled a sheet to cover them, kissing her
temple, her cheekbone, then her lips. "Will you
be here when I wake up?" he asked.
"Yes," she smiled contentedly, threading her
fingers through his and resting her face against
his hand.
*************************************************
************************************
Early June, 2000
Scully made her way swiftly from the plane into
the Portland airport terminal and made a beeline
for the bathroom, calling to Mulder that she'd
meet him in baggage claim. She used the toilet
and washed her hands, then stood at the sink,
steadying herself with her eyes closed, trying to
fend off another wave of nausea. It had been
happening on and off all week. She hadn't vomited
yet, but there had been some close calls, even a
few at work. At first she attributed it to mild
dehydration and a hotter-than-average June for
D.C. She had upped her fluid intake and watched
the carbs, increasing her fruits and vegetables.
But it had been more than a few days and she was
still having several strange, unexplained bouts
of nausea and mild dizziness each day. Perhaps
she really was coming down with something. The
flu in the summer was unusual, but not unheard
of.
She splashed some cool water on her face, dabbed
with a dry paper towel, touched up her lipstick,
and left to find Mulder. It was already after 4
p.m. and they still needed to get their rental
car and make the hour-long drive to Bellefleur.
She knew Mulder was anxious to get going on the
case and pay a visit to Billy Miles, but
truthfully, she didn't know if she had it in her.
She felt like she could fall asleep on her feet
right about now, even thought she had slept for
almost the entire flight. She hadn't eaten
anything more than an apple since breakfast and
that probably wasn't helping her energy level
any. But for some reason, she felt anything but
hungry at the moment. In fact, the idea of food
rather repulsed her. What she really wanted was a
hot shower and a cool pillow, but she suspected
it would be hours before she'd see either.
Mulder had already retrieved her suitcase by the
time she reached baggage claim and had his cell
phone up to his ear with a pained look on his
face. She questioned him with her eyes.
"Skinner," he mouthed silently, followed by
"Pissed off." Scully could hear their boss's
voice from four feet away. Mulder held his phone
away and tried to hand it to her.
"NO!" she mouthed. He put it back to his ear and
rolled his eyes, shifting uncomfortably from one
foot to the other.
"Yes Sir, Agent Scully is right here with me."
She exhaled long and deep through puffed cheeks
and rubbed her forehead. This was all she needed.
To get her ass chewed on top of the nausea and
exhaustion. Just perfect.
"I understand your concern-" Mulder said.
More loud, muffled angry sounds. Scully might
have picked up a couple of "R" words. Maybe
'responsibility' or 'requisition.' Or it could
have very well been 'rat's ass,' as in 'I don't
give a-'
"Sir, Agent Scully and I both agreed that there
was a situation out here in Oregon that warranted
our immediate attention....yes, I am aware of the
protocol for...yes, it was very last minute,
however, there really was no other way to....yes,
okay. Yes, she's right here. Hold on a minute."
Mulder held the phone out to her and once again
she mouthed the word "NO!"
"He wants to talk to you," Mulder whispered,
covering the receiver with his palm. "Our
requisition turned up on Kersh's desk not five
hours after our audit this morning. Apparently,
two, six-hundred dollar, last minute plane
tickets wasn't what the Director had in mind by
'improved fiscal responsibility.' Skinner's
taking the brunt of it. Just talk to him, Scully.
He likes you better."
She surrendered and held her hand out for the
phone. "Hello, Sir."
"Agent Scully, is there a reason why I was
informed by my supervisor that two of my agents
happen to be clear across the country without my
knowledge?"
"Sir, Agent Mulder and I received a call from
Bellefleur, Oregon this morning, from Billy
Miles, a man who is familiar to us from the first
case we worked on together seven years ago. Agent
Mulder and I have no reason to doubt Billy
Miles's story, Sir. In my opinion, the situation
definitely warrants further investigation."
An audible sigh from the other end of the
receiver. "More abductions?"
"Yes. At least one confirmed. Possibly more."
"And you believe this, Agent Scully?"
"I-I-I believe that something unexplained is
occurring within the community of Bellefleur. And
I believe it-"
"Warrants further investigation. Yeah, I got
that." Another loud sigh. "Just...call me with an
update when you know anything. I'll be busy
putting out fires around here."
"Thank you, Sir. We'll keep you informed on the
status of the investigation."
Mulder nodded emphatically and put his two hands
together in gratitude.
She hung up and handed Mulder's phone back to
him, placing one hand over her eyes and squeezing
at her temples.
"I told you he liked you better," he said.
"I have no idea why we still have jobs."
"Skinner is on our side, Scully. I've told you
that before."
"Maybe so, but there's only so much he can do
when he has Kersh breathing down his neck,
Mulder. One of these days, we will have used up
our last favor." She caught her breath and
waivered a little on her feet, placing one hand
on Mulder's elbow.
He grasped her arm. "You okay, Scully? What's
wrong?"
She took a deep breath. "Nothing, Mulder. I'm
fine. Let's get our car."
*************************************************
************************************
Her shaking had stopped, but he was worried about
her. She just didn't seem like herself. He could
count on one hand the number of days she'd been
sick, really sick, since her cancer went into
remission over three years ago. He pulled her
tighter to him and he felt her breath expel as
she relaxed. She had been quiet for minutes now
and he was starting to sense that he may have
said the wrong thing.
"Scully, I didn't mean...when I said that it had
to end now, that you should consider leaving the
X Files, I didn't mean...shit, did you think I
meant us?"
Her tiny body tensed almost imperceptibly. "I
don't know, did you?" she whispered to his hand
tucked beneath her face.
"No," he sighed. "God, no. You can't get rid of
me that easily."
She huffed out a breath and then sniffed.
"I just meant that there has to be more, Scully.
The X Files isn't all there is. Or it doesn't
have to be. Not for you... or for me anymore."
"What does that mean, Mulder? What do you want?"
"I want you to be happy."
"I belong with you...doing our work, fighting
together for the truth-"
He sighed and shook his head. "I don't know what
that is anymore."
"That's not true, Mulder."
He lapsed into silence, not having the emotional
energy left to fight her on this. How many times
had he told her to leave? To get out, be a
doctor, live her life? She was the most stubborn
creature he'd ever known. The thought had
actually occurred to him on more than one
occasion, that he could push her away. That if he
really, truly loved her, he would tell her he
didn't. That he never had, that he didn't want
her in his life any longer. If he did, she would
go. She had too much pride not to. She would
quietly leave him and he'd probably never see her
again. And maybe, eventually, she would move on.
Find someone else who could love her and not
endanger her, someone who could give her the life
she deserved.
But when all was said and done, he couldn't bring
himself to do it. He was a selfish bastard. She
was the reason he got out of bed in the morning,
put one foot in front of the other, even bothered
to draw a breath. He would never be able to let
her go.
"You're right, Scully. I do know what the truth
is. It's you. It's you and me," he whispered,
caressing her cheek, but her back rose and fell
steadily against him with each deep, measured
breath. She had fallen asleep and he didn't have
the heart to awaken her, not even for his
heartfelt confessions.
He reached to the nightstand and turned out the
lamp, then peeled back the covers and got in
behind her, pulling her close and nosing her
silky hair. Sleep didn't come right away, but
rather hovered just out of reach, like it often
did with him. He hadn't mentioned it to her, not
wanting to upset or alarm her unnecessarily, but
he felt plagued by the notion that something was
on the horizon for him, for both of them.
Something powerful and momentous, life-altering.
He sensed something about to shift, like when the
air changed right before a storm and everything
in the path of it went on high alert. It wasn't
fear exactly, but something similar, more like
hyper-sensitivity.
He had always felt that the future was best left
to be discovered and not foreseen. Until now, he
had never wanted to know what lie ahead for him,
good or bad. But at this moment, he would have
given just about anything for a glimpse at the
horizon. The one thing he knew for sure was that
she would be his strength, she would sustain him.
*************************************************
************************************
He had followed her into the hallway, her heels
tapping out a Morse Code on the shiny tile floor
and her hands steepled in quiet reserve. He knew
what she would say even before it came and he was
prepared to fight her on it. He had to go and she
would insist on following him. He wouldn't let
her this time.
"I'm not going to risk losing you," he said.
"I won't let you go alone." Her response,
unguarded and raw with emotion.
He embraced her right there in the hallway, both
of them unconcerned with their public display. He
would have kissed her, but what he felt right
then wasn't passion; it was emotional
desperation, pure and unadulterated devotion to
her. He couldn't have cared less if they were
seen. In all honesty, he hadn't cared for a long
time. She had been the one who clung steadfastly
to rules of propriety regarding their
relationship. Right now, none of it mattered to
either of them.
"When are you leaving?" she whispered, her eyes
edgy and moist.
"Soon. Today."
She nodded, their foreheads pressed together. Her
hand clasped his tightly. "I'll be back, Scully.
As soon as I can. I promise."
Not even a nod this time, just a deep breath
expelled through quivering, open lips. Once upon
a time, he would have done this without a second
thought. Leaving. Now, as he walked away from her
standing there in the hallway with dewy
eyelashes, he felt like he was leaving his soul
behind.
*************************************************
************************************
She awoke and sat upright, sweaty and disoriented
with her heart galloping in her chest. Her eyes
darted around the room feverishly. Oh yes, here.
The clock read 2:15 a.m., only an hour since she
had awoken last, that time from yet another round
of nausea. It was normal and to be expected, said
the nurse with the kind smile who kept asking her
if there was anyone she could call for her. No,
thank you. There wasn't. No, the baby's father
wasn't able to be here after all. He had answered
to a mysterious beacon in the sky and had been
sucked up into an unidentified aircraft, most
likely a spaceship, and had been transported to
God-knows-where. But not to worry, he'd be back
just as soon as he was able.
She didn't say that. If she had, she might not
ever get out of the hospital. And she needed to
if she was ever going to find him.
There would be doctor's appointments and
ultrasounds and childbirth classes. She'd need
someone to help her put together stupid plastic
baby things, and tell her she didn't look fat and
argue with her over baby names. How could she
have ever thought that she wanted to do this
alone? How could she have ever thought she could?
When she had first received the news, she had
responded as a doctor, not a woman, not a mother.
She had calmly explained that it had to be a
mistake. She was unable to conceive. It had been
confirmed by reliable tests and this was simply
not possible. She had politely, but firmly
demanded to see her test results, and when that
didn't satisfy her, she had requested repeated
counts of her blood HCG levels. Finally, after
three such tests, her doctor had held her hand
and kindly asked her if she wished to meet with a
counselor to discuss her options.
It had taken her a few awkward moments to puzzle
through the meaning of the gesture before her
stomach had clenched in realization. Jesus
Christ, no. That wasn't what she needed. What she
needed was for the father of her child to be
sitting in that ugly, puke green vinyl chair next
to her bed, stealing her hospital food jello and
getting all the Jeopardy answers right. I'll take
Where's My Baby Daddy for a hundred, Alex.
She couldn't sleep for more than an hour at a
time without waking up panicked or nauseated or
both. If she cried any more, they were going to
put her on a continuous saline drip for fluid
loss and a mild sedative for anxiety. She
couldn't help it. She just got quieter about it
and flipped her pillow every so often to find a
dry spot that wasn't tear-soaked.
She drank fruit juice to make everyone happy and
chased it with ginger ale to keep herself from
throwing it up. Whatever it took to get out of
there and start looking for him. Every minute
counted. Cells were dividing rapidly within her
and time was ticking. She had something the size
of a jellybean inside her right now that might
eventually have brown hair and hazel eyes and the
genetic propensity toward defying all authority.
She was ill prepared to teach it how to sink a
three-pointer from center court.
Intelligent life from other planets would have to
get in line because she needed him more and so
did their child. She hugged her still-flat
stomach and rolled over, stifling a sob. If she
dug her nails into the palm of her hand, she
almost forgot about how much her soul hurt.
*************************************************
************************************
She unlocked the door of her apartment and swung
it open, standing there on the threshold for a
long moment before entering. Her shoes echoed
hollowly on the hardwood floors and her keys
clinked when she tossed them on the table.
Walter Skinner entered and stood behind her,
awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to
the other and back again. "Why don't you take a
few days off," he suggested quietly.
She didn't turn around, but shook her head
slowly.
"Scully, you don't need to be-"
"What I need to it find him," she said, her tone
insistent and clear. She spun to face him, her
hand placed surreptitiously on her stomach. "And
I don't want to waste any time."
He glanced down and nodded, uncomfortably. "We
can start tomorrow, as soon as you get in-"
"Today." Her eyes brimmed and she took a deep
breath and fought back the emotion. "All I need
is a shower and a change of clothes."
She saw the doubt and concern in his eyes.
"Walter, I'm fine. I'm pregnant, not
incapacitated. I won't sit here and do nothing. I
need to find him; I don't have a choice."
His eyes drifted to the hand resting on her
stomach and he offered the slightest of nods. She
hadn't spelled things out for him, but her boss
was a smart man.
"Thank you for the ride home."
He walked to her and in an uncharacteristic
gesture of emotion, reached out to squeeze her
hand. "I'm ready whenever you are. I promise you,
we'll find him."
She nodded and squeezed back, her lip trembling,
betraying her classic stoicism.
Skinner left quietly and she went to her bedroom
and began peeling layers of clothing from her
body. She tried to strip away desperation and
anger, fear and loneliness, but some things just
coursed through your veins.
Her sobs wracked her as she stood bent beneath
the showerhead until the water went cold and her
fingers wrinkled. The craving to get into bed
naked and pull the covers over her head for the
next seven months was nearly overwhelming. Jesus,
she needed to get her shit together if she was
going to be any good to Mulder or to the tiny
bundle of his DNA that had taken up residence
inside her body.
As she dressed, she winced while pulling the
straps of her bra into place, her breasts tender
and swollen, another clue she had overlooked. She
had just assumed that she was in for one mother
of a period. God Dana, you're a doctor, how could
you have missed all this? Nausea, dizziness,
tender breasts. No period. For how long? She
padded to her kitchen in her underwear, flipping
through the calendar hanging by her refrigerator.
Her eyes scanned the weeks, trying to remember
where they had been, what they had been doing.
Well, yes that, of course. That's how she got
into this mess in the first place.
Over two months. She had not had a period in over
two months. It wasn't all that unusual. She had
been irregular since her abduction. And besides,
why in the world would she even consider that she
might be pregnant? Countless tests, an IVF
attempt, and rivers of tears had told her that
she would not have a child. She had tried
everything, except what she had wanted to do with
him for years. Who could've known that would do
the trick, she thought, the hint of a smile
forming on her reluctant mouth. If he were here,
he would make testosterone-infused jokes about
bionic sperm or super virility. She'd roll her
eyes or offer a disapproving smile, he'd wag his
brows and reach for her, and they'd probably end
up in bed together.
She stumbled back to her room to finish getting
dressed, pausing in front of the mirror in her
bedroom. For about the hundredth time since she'd
gotten the news, she placed her palms flat
against her abdomen and choked back the emotions.
It felt like a dream, hazy and surreal. A baby.
His child. Curious, intelligent, stubborn, and
fiercely independent, with wit and charm and a
wicked sense of humor.
"Hi Baby," she whispered aloud, smiling through
her tears and sniffling, a tiny laugh escaping
her. "Hi. It'll be okay. Everything will be
fine."
Then she buttoned her blouse and slipped on her
suit and heels, did her hair and makeup, and
walked out her apartment door to go bring him
home.
THE END
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