by Flynn
flyn121@yahoo.dom
 

E-MAIL ADDRESS: flyn121@yahoo.dom
DISTRIBUTION: Please drop me a line so I can check out the neighborhood.
SPOILER WARNING: DeadAlive and any eps where Mulder was shot.
RATING: PG-13
CLASSIFICATION: V, 3rd POV
KEYWORDS: MSR
DISCLAIMER: SO not mine. Not the characters, not the money. Just the affection.
SUMMARY: "They exist as separate individuals .... but they aren't truly complete until they're together."

Kudos to Christine - friend, sister, and smut-mate. You're the best, babe.
 
 

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The Divine Professor M.
Flynn
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I love my job.
 
 

Or at least, I used to. I guess I should say, I've loved my job for the past twenty years. I've worked with some cool people. The one I work for now, he takes the cake. Whether or not I still love my job in a week .... well, that depends on a few things.
 
 

FM is retiring. Today's his last day. FM, that's what I call him. It's what I've called him since the day we met. I know some kids in his classes think it's funny. Some few of them who don't have their heads buried in the noise they charitably call music these days, they actually get the reference. I don't know if they know just what a radio is - maybe they only remember seeing the little AM/FM dial on their parents' cars when they were young. Whatever. Nothing worse than having to explain a joke.
 
 

A radio. Something capable of picking up inaudible energy waves and converting them into useable information. In that, FM's moniker fits him like the proverbial glove. See, he's a little .... strange. I mean that in the best possible way, and not just because he's my boss. He seems to know things no one else has a clue about. He's got a weird take on things. I noticed that immediately. Well, almost immediately. Let's just say it was not the *first* thing I appreciated upon making his acquaintance. In all honesty, that would have been his looks. Hey, I may be happily married, but a woman can still look, right? Besides, it's rare when what's inside is as attractive as the package it comes in, and that's something else I appreciate. That's what's really important - what a man has inside. What life has written on his soul. This guy's soul .... man, it's old. He's seen and done things I cannot begin to fathom. He's told me things, of course, but for the first couple years I wrote him off as a bullshitter. More likely, a pathological liar. Guess you could say it comes with the territory. I've never met anyone in my life so crazy as some shrinks, and working the Psych department like I have for so long, I've seen some winners. This guy, though, wasn't a practicing therapist at all - he was a Fibbie. Okay, whatever. After all, guys retire from the Bureau all the time, right? Fine, so he got his fill of profiling the post-Modern Frankensteins of our society and decided to retire to academia. Again, nothing really remarkable in that. What was remarkable was the kind of stuff that came out of that mouth of his when we got to know each other. Aliens and government conspiracies and, Jesus, guys who rip people's livers out and eat them raw - all discussed over morning coffee the way other people talk about the box scores from last weekend's games. What division did they have this guy in, anyway? Here, I thought Men In Black was just a movie.
 
 

I have to admit, I still don't really know what the hell he's about sometimes. I mean, I'm an educated woman, but the man has done things. Our second year together, he and his wife invited me and my husband, Hobie, over for an afternoon barbecue. Mind you, FM was well into his forties at the time, but the bod I saw diving and swimming and horsing around with that fireball of a wife .... well, I wished Hobie still looked like that. Those pricey slacks and sweaters FM wears really do hide a multitude of blessings. Anyway, it was probably the first time I'd seen him without a shirt, and absolutely the first time in shorts. Beautiful. Or at least, he should have been. Jesus, the guy's body was a roadmap of scars. Gunshot scar on his shoulder, with a another on his back, just above his left shoulder blade. A third high up on his thigh, in an area I probably shouldn't even have been looking at, and the only reason I got away with it was the sunglasses I was wearing, and being black means I'm not an obvious blusher. Besides, he was lazing around on the lounger, and let's face it, the guy wasn't shy. Whoa. Nice package, FM. No wonder your wife loves you. I'm thinking that scar wasn't just any hickey, though. That was some serious stuff. Another two inches and you would never have had that kid you're always telling me about. Something major had happened to his right arm and shoulder as well - hell, it looked like someone used a bazooka on him. And what was with his chest? The scar was not quite hidden in that almost chest-hair he has, but I could still see it: something had practically eviscerated him. A long, thin line ran almost from his collar bones clear down his belly to his navel. I'd think open-heart surgery, but it's too long, and he's too healthy otherwise. Hobie, bless his heart, had bypass surgery a few years ago, and his scar is shorter and much thicker. That scar FM sports is different. Razor-thin, with no indications of staples or sutures. There are marks on his ankles as well, which again I probably shouldn't have been admiring like I was. I should have legs as long and graceful. It looked like he'd maybe broken both shinbones and the scars were from the traction pins. Maybe he'd hurt his legs the same time he'd had the job done to his arm.
 
 

His arm. The crux of our relationship, that arm. He doesn't really like to talk about himself, which makes me just that much more curious, but he did tell me once about the incident back in '06. Said he was injured in a bomb blast. Yeah, right - injured. Arm just about blown off. Thank God for medical advances, is all I can say. I don't know how many operations it took, but they did manage to put Humpty back together. He kept that limb, and it sort of works. I mean, he can dress himself, and sit at a desk and make notes for his classes - I did finally learn to decipher his writing, if you can call it that, but it was a real challenge - though for his lectures, he needs me to stand at the board and write everything for the students to follow. Whenever someone asks about the necessity of having an executive assistant, he gives them that smile of his and says he could always use his left hand to write on the boards, but that he'd still need me there to interpret for everyone.
 
 

So I'm his hand. Some days I'm his whole damn arm. We're a team. I like working with him. He doesn't treat me like an inferior, which is really nice. I've worked with some men who tried to tell me how to breathe. FM treats me like a colleague, plain and simple. That respect had an impact. To be honest, there was a time when I was kind of infatuated with him, but that didn't last long. I've seen him with his wife. First time I saw them together, I knew what they had was special. What Hobie and I have is special too, that's why I'm satisfied with it. What FM has with the missus .... that's a rare thing, and it's beautiful to see.
 
 

AM. That's what I call her. Hey, it's fitting. See, the AM band gives you news and information and lots of talking, right? FM gives you music. Blues or opera or good old Rock. That's FM to a T. The missus .... she isn't music. At least, she isn't with me. Why should she be? It isn't her way.
 
 

AM heads the Pathology department over at the state university, next town over. She'll be retiring next year. She's a no-nonsense kind a person. People think she's a little cold and distant, but I don't see her like that, myself. She's just wary. The scars FM has on his body, she has on her soul. She's come close to losing him too many times. There's that Men In Black thing. She used to be his partner, so he's told me, but when he was hurt that last time, she couldn't take it anymore. Said if he didn't quit the Bureau and start living life like it was a gift and not a burden, she was going to take their daughter and leave him. So he quit. Just like that.
 
 

Makes me wonder how different things would have been had she just given him that ultimatum a few years *before* he almost acquired the nickname Lefty.
 
 

So they both quit, moved west to our little corner of heaven, and started living. Their daughter was in grade school at the time. Pretty little thing. Red hair, like her mother. Freckles. Tall, like her dad. And she has his eyes. Spooky eyes, really. They see what's there and sometimes what isn't. I don't mean she has X-ray vision or anything. She's .... old. How anyone so young can have such old eyes, I don't even like to contemplate. Kid says she's going into Obstetrics. Her mother's business is death; she says she wants hers to be life. And she smiles. Jesus, how like her father's that smile is.
 
 

Nice family. I'm glad they're going to stay around. Hey, it isn't like the kid won't have options for a decent pre-med program around here. I thought maybe they would take the opportunity to travel, FM and the missus. I know there are places *I* would like to see, given the time and funding. Have a cousin in Texas I haven't seen in twenty years. Hobie's family is from Oregon. I'd really like to see the Pacific before I die. And then there's the whole Europe thing. As unlikely as it might seem, I have a gramma who came from Scotland. So does FM, come to think of it. And AM has the Irish thing going. But are they interested in going and seeing those places? No.
 
 

The topic came up just this morning, as a matter of fact, down the hall in the faculty lounge. One of the younger instructors asked FM what he had on the retirement agenda. Roger Cormack. Jesus, what a dweeb. Anyway, he started asking questions. Are they going to take up golf? Yeah, right, I wanted to snort - with that arm? Not likely. What about travel? Take a cruise? Visit all those exciting ports of call in the Caribbean? Watch the pretty girls playing in the surf down in Mexico? Even if the body wasn't up to it anymore, the memories could be sweet, couldn't they?
 
 

Arrogant, short-sighted putz. I would like to have belted him for that one.
 
 

FM just smiled that wry smile of his as he sank back into the sofa. "Oh, we'll find a way to stay busy," he said. "No travel for us, thanks. We get into too much trouble when we leave home. Wife's taking a month off to help me .... uh, acclimate, I think is how she phrased it."
 
 

The young man scowled at that. "Really. Sitting on my ass for a month .... that would drive me nuts."
 
 

The bland smile. "I think that's why she's doing it, Roger, to keep me from going nuts."
 
 

"So what're you going to do for that month?" someone asked.
 
 

A slow, deep intake of breath. He glanced at me with a playful gleam in his eye. "Oh, I think it'll be at least a week before I get out of bed. Then I'll sit out by the pool and help her put sunscreen on her back."
 
 

The kid snorted. "Tired, huh? Yeah, I guess I would be too, if I was your age. A week of sleep sounds pretty good right about now, even to me."
 
 

FM nodded as he contemplated his tepid coffee. "Oh, I imagine we might get some sleep in now and again, yeah."
 
 

Laughter rippled around the lounge and doorway - I hadn't realized that a bit of a crowd was gathering. Guess I'm not the only one who's going to miss the old boy.
 
 

The kid was unimpressed. "Yeah, right. Don't bullshit a bullshitter, Dr. M."
 
 

Oh, the hubris of the young.
 
 

FM swung one long leg over the other, and I couldn't help but think of what he had cradled there between those thighs. "What makes you think I'm bullshitting you?" Another snort, and another patient smile. Oh, he was enjoying this - I could see it in his eyes, his expression, in his whole bearing. "What, you think just because I'm retiring, I'm out of the game? You think sex has to stop when the hair starts to go?"
 
 

Every eye in the room gave him a long, lingering once-over. Hm. Lots of hair yet. An obscene amount, in fact. Hobie should be so blessed. I looked back at the putz. He just sort of shrugged and waved a hand in a vague gesture. "You're full of it, doc. I'm just saying I intend to enjoy it while I can. Some things don't last forever, you know."
 

FM's smile widened minutely. "Then you're not doing it right. Or rather, you're not doing it with the right person. It isn't just an act, Roger. It's an expression, and as long as the emotions are there needing to be expressed, it does last. It's as satisfying now as it was when I was your age. Better, really."
 
 

The putz grunted softly, evidently discomfited by the turn the conversation had taken. Ah, the guy could talk a line about doing the deed, but to consider his elders doing the same thing clearly made his scrotum shrivel. It took me considerable effort to contain a derisive snort. "Yeah, whatever," was his comeback. Oh, how original, Einstein.
 
 

FM started to respond, no doubt some witty riposte that would silence the idiot for the rest of the afternoon, but something stopped him. I didn't have to look to know what that something was - or rather, *who.* My back was to the door, so I couldn't see who it was standing behind me, but I didn't have to. Only one person on earth makes him look like that. Jesus, those eyes. You can see right down into his soul through them. It was her. The missus. Must be here to meet him for lunch or something. Or maybe they'd go back to his office and get a head start on that retirement of his.
 
 

He wasn't bullshitting. This I know for a fact - I was a witness once, sort of. Well, an ear-witness, I guess you could call it. More than a year ago I was working late, trying to get things organized for mid-terms. I have my own desk down the hall in an office I share with another assistant. I'd said good night to FM hours before, so when I finished prepping the exam, I figured I'd leave it on his desk for him to look over in the morning. I was finished for the night anyway - I'd just nip in and leave it on his blotter, next to the ceramic alien-head coffee cup and the little desk plaque that read *I want to believe.* Gifts from the missus.
 
 

The door was locked. Not surprising - it was almost midnight. I started to fish my keys out when I heard it. A breathy sigh. Then a moan, deep and masculine, that stopped me dead in my tracks. Oh, hell. The tiny window in the door is frosted and beveled, but if you stand just so, you can just make out shapes. I could, too - two pale forms, slumped across the desk.
 
 

No, not slumped. Moving. Writhing.
 
 

Okay, so I couldn't see them very well. I'd have to be dead not to be able to hear them.
 
 

<God, Scully, you feel so good.> Soft thumps in slow, steady rhythm. A break between words, and I could imagine him kissing her. Her mouth, her neck. Hands under her thighs, holding her open, granting him access.
 
 

Her hands were visible even through the fogged glass, stroking through his hair as he rocked into her. <Mulder .... Mulder ....> She was almost mewling.
 
 

He sounded breathless, not like he was winded, but rather, choked up. <Missed you .... God, I missed you .... thought about this all day .... > The cadence of the thumpings picked up a little. <Tell me, Scully .... tell me ....>
 

Definitely mewling, *and* breathless now to boot. <Love you, Mulder .... love you .... oh God, don't stop ....>
 
 

Face flaming, I spun on my heel and walked away. Thank God I hadn't worn heels that morning. Nikes, nice and soft and mercifully silent. How long had I been standing there, listening? I couldn't remember. Not long, surely. Fifteen, twenty seconds. Long enough to hear more than I needed to.
 
 

He missed her? Where the hell had she gone? I'd seen her that morning dropping him off outside the Psych building. That was, what, fifteen hours ago? They didn't give me their daily itinerary or anything, but he usually mentioned it when she was going to be away, visiting her mother or brother, which are really the only places she ever goes without him. Besides, her family's in Maryland and California, respectively. No way she could have gotten there and back in time to be doing the wild thing with her husband at the stroke of midnight.
 
 

So she hadn't gone anywhere. Which meant she'd gone to work like usual, done her pathologist thing all day long, then met up with him at his office for a little after-hours playtime. Which meant he'd missed her not because she'd gone somewhere, but simply because she hadn't been with him.
 
 

God damn, they were lucky.
 
 

I thought about them on the drive home. Hell, after hearing what I'd heard, how could I possibly think of anything else? So I'm not a spring chicken myself, and Hobie is talking retirement in a few years. I got home and found him puttering around the kitchen. His smile of greeting was all I needed. I dropped my things on the kitchen table, took his hand and led him to the bedroom, where I proceeded to put another kind of smile on his face. So we didn't do it across his desk. So he didn't tell me he'd missed me. He did say he loved me. And he made me mewl. Not a bad ending, that.
 
 

Voices murmuring around me broke me out of that sweet reverie and drew me back to the here and now. Conversations were starting up around me. I smiled when I felt a hand on my shoulder. "Afternoon, Dr. Scully," I said without looking. I didn't have to. He still had that look, which on anyone else might have looked downright dippy but on him is heartbreaking in its purity. Has Hobie ever looked at me like that? Yeah, I think he has.
 
 

She touched my arm as she brushed past me, nodding a greeting or polite acknowledgment to faces she recognized before coming to a stop in front of her husband. Her hair was drawn back in its customary clip. You could tell from the heavy salting of gray in all that red that she was no longer what you can call young, but you certainly couldn't see it in her straight posture, or in the way she helped FM up out of the depths of that sofa. "Hey, partner," she said, raising her face and accepting his kiss on her cheek. "Miss me today?"
 
 

You've probably heard the expression bandied about, but I've seen it happen with those two more times than I can remember - he was devouring her face with his eyes. That's the key, I realized, and not for the first time: they adore each other. They exist as separate individuals, and they function perfectly well on their own; but they aren't truly complete until they're together. Jesus, what must it have been like for her, watching him accumulate all those scars.
 
 

He glanced at me, and I swear he winked. Okay, I've often wondered if he knew about my near-miss that night, but he's never addressed it directly, and quite frankly, I never wanted to ask. I don't see how he could have seen me - but I guess you never know what a good radio is going to pick up.
 
 

At least the woman I caught my boss with was his own wife.
 
 

She caught her hand around that scarred, wasted arm of his. "Here to take me to lunch?" he asked, and I realized something else: they may have been standing in a room filled with people, people talking and laughing and living their own lives, but for all intents and purposes, those two were alone.
 
 

She treated him to an eyebrow lift as they turned away. "No, you're taking me. Get your ass moving, G-man."
 
 

He flashed me a grin. "You're coming by for lunch next week, aren't you, Emma? You and Hobie?"
 
 

I shrugged and nodded. "Sure, FM. Just say when."
 
 

He exchanged quick glances with his wife, and I couldn't help but marvel at the silent communication between them. Then AM looked at me with one of her wide, toothy smiles, the kind that reveals the shadow of a dimple in her cheek, the kind she reserves for family. "Well, probably better give us a few days."
 
 

He elbowed me gently. "And call before you come over. We don't have frosted glass at home." No doubt about it this time - the boy winked.
 
 

I turned and watched them go. The others in the room were already discussing events on CNN, the current issue of Psychology Today, who was getting a little in the History department. I just watched my boss. He had his arm around her now, his hand at home on the lower curve of her back. As I watched, that hand slid just a tad farther south, and she gave a little girly squeal when he gave her ass a pinch.
 
 

Man, I hope Hobie and I are half as randy as those two when we're pushing sixty.
 
 
 
 
 

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end
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