HundredthDay.html*

Hundredth Day Series - 3 parts

Title: The Hundredth Day: Poetry Man
Author: Gina Rain (ginarain@aol.com)
Category: MSR
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Teeny one for Triangle. Season 7ish
feel.
Archive: Sure.
Summary: Some days, it's hard for a girl to control her desires.
Disclaimer: CC and Co. own it.

They were halfway to their destination when they discovered the poetry man.
Three-thirty in the morning driving down the deserted highway with little
more to do than play with the knob on the car radio.

"Stop," Scully said, hoping to halt Mulder's search for 'what else' was on.

"You want to listen to <this>?"

"Yes. Just leave it for a few minutes, okay?"

They listened to the soft male voice reciting his own poetry over a
soundtrack of falling rain. Originally, Scully thought it was as good a
station as any. A veritable feast for Mulder's wit and a nice workout for her
"I will not laugh and encourage his nonsense" muscles. But soon, the quips
died down and they were left with the feel of a cool spring breeze coming
through the opened windows, sets of "classic" 70s love songs and evocative
words delivered in urgently breathy whispers.

She looked over at Mulder. His eyes never left the road and his expression
was distant and unreadable. A small niggling feeling stirred in the pit of
her stomach as she began to mentally count the days. Ninety-six,
ninety-seven. . .

As they finally neared their destination, the sun rose so peacefully and
clearly, she forgot her momentary sadness over the poetry man leaving the
airways fifteen minutes before. She also lost her place in the countdown to
the hundredth day. It didn't matter. It really didn't work that way, anyway.
It worked more along the lines of averages.

Ninety-nine out of a hundred days, Scully had no problem dealing with
whatever life handed her. And life was generous in handing out challenges.
But on the hundredth day, living was easy. It brought the type of day that
most would rejoice in. These were the days Scully found most difficult. Dana
Scully no longer knew how to "do" easy. So, when life presented no other
challenge, her thoughts wandered to the biggest challenge of all: Mulder.

On those days, she wanted to bridge the distance that was always between
them--know him completely, uncover any mysteries that remained. She often
reminded herself that what she <wanted> was of little consequence in the
grand scheme of things. Ninety-nine out of a hundred days, she accepted that
reminder with grace.

As she watched him leave the sheriff's office with a big smile, her
suspicions were confirmed.

The hundredth day had arrived. Acceptance would be about as graceful as
pulling a steak bone away from a pit bull.

"No case," he said as he approached the car.

"No case?"

"Nope. Hey--I thought you were supposed to stay <in> the car, Scully. That
was our deal. I go in--you make sure the car doesn't roll down the hill."

"It's too nice to stay in the car. Besides, I can jump right in." She
punctuated her words by stomping her right foot on the runner below the door
on the driver's side. Leave it to fate to give them a car with non-working
emergency brakes.

"You can make a mad leap as the car rolls down the mountain? Well, it would
make for an interesting visual, at any rate." He shrugged his shoulders.

"Mulder? The case?"

"There is no case. In the words of the sheriff, it turned out to be a
'fraternity stunt by someone who watched too much Buffy.' Whatever that is."

"It's a television show, Mulder. Right up your alley, actually."

"I doubt that. I have very specific tastes in television viewing."

"I know. You prefer the literal interpretation of the 'boob tube.'"

He smiled. A warm smile--a smile of seven years of shared secrets; shared
intimacies dreamed of, yet never acted upon.

"So," she said, grasping at straws, "no kidnapping, no abduction?"

"Nope. Just three eighteen-year olds holed up in an abandoned building
downtown--concocting an elaborate abduction scenario. Unfortunately, the
cloud of pot smoke became so thick, it beckoned some homeless addicts. The
ensuing skirmish attracted the attention of some local cops. . .and the
teenagers are now very, very unhappy. Unfulfilled munchies and massive
headaches over the endless lectures they've been receiving. Not to mention
their parents collectively deciding to let them stew in the slammer for
another twenty-four hours before bailing them out. I stood there representing
the strong, but silent, long arm of the federal law as the sheriff expounded
the evils of dragging the FBI onto a bogus case."

"It should have been me."

"What?"

"I should have gone in. I have a sterner expression than you."

"We wanted to scare them, Scully. Not castrate them. Jeez--their balls would
be the size of raisins by the time you were through with them."

"Nice reputation I've got."

"Hey--you got your reputation the hard way. You earned it." He did a passable
impression of a very old television commercial. "So--five hour trip back,
huh? I'm not exactly in the mood for that yet. Do you want to have a
breakfast picnic or something? Relax for a few hours?"

"We should be getting back to work."

"What work is that? The expense report? We can knock that together in five
minutes. This was our big case of the week. Besides, we've almost clocked in
a full day travelling here."

"I guess."

"We're not breaking any rules, Scully. Live a little. Let's have a picnic."

"What is it with the sudden urge to picnic? I've known you seven years and
you're not exactly 'nature boy.'"

"I keep that side well hidden. Too much testosterone. It's overwhelming,
really. Besides, I liked that duck pond we passed on the way up here. Looked
peaceful. It would be a nice change."

"Are you sure the duckies can take the testosterone, Mulder?"

At the exact moment she was thinking of excuses to lessen their time alone
together on one of her most vulnerable days, the sun hit him full in the
face. Not a bolt of lightning, but a ray of sunshine was her undoing. He had
been looking down at her with a soft smile on his face and the sunlight
accented the green-gold aspects of his eyes.

After all these years, he still had the ability to literally take her breath
away with just a look.

"Scully?" He asked, his brow furrowing in concern.

She shook herself mentally and focused.

"I could use something to eat, I guess."

Their breakfast was slow and lazy. Mulder had managed to find everything they
needed for the quintessential picnic in a local general store. They even
managed to provide a nice selection of breakfast pastries.

After eating, Mulder laid back on the blanket. He was in no rush to get back
to D.C.

"You know, I was into poetry once, " he said, momentarily sitting up and
flinging leftover danish into the man-made duck pond. Three ducks flapped
their wings and scurried over to the floating food. Mulder resumed his former
position.

"Into poetry?"

"Yes. You know, moody teenager bordering on young adult. Seeks words of a
poet to soothe his soul.
Hoping to soak up the wisdom of the ages."

"Did you write any?" She could picture him doing such a thing. Easily. Even
now.

"No," he said, looking straight up at the sky. She knew he was lying.

"You did."

"Okay. I did," he confessed.

"Let me hear one." She was curious. She had listened to this man's words
almost every day for years and still. . .the thought of him revealing
something beautiful and straight from his soul gave her a small thrill. As if
this was a missing section in the Mulder dictionary. The one that would
define everything in no uncertain terms.

"Fine." He sat up, cleared his throat a few times, adjusted his shirt over
his belt, cleared his throat a few more times and then took a deep breath.
"There once was a girl from Nantucket who. . ."

"Mulder! Stop."

"What? You wanted poetry."

"I wanted your real poetry."

"That was my real poetry. What? You think that guy on the radio was talking
about anything different? I would think all those nipple references would
have given the game away. Amidst the pretty language, it still all boiled
down to S-E-X."

"Ah, but the pretty language makes the S-E-X love-making, which is a higher
realm of S-E-X. And why are we spelling things anyway?"

"I have no idea. How do you know my Nantucket lady wasn't about to make love
with her partner. . .um, significant other. Boyfriend. . .husband. .
.whatever."

He looked genuinely flustered. It suited him.

"It's all right, Mulder. I know there are times when the word 'partner' is
used in a context that doesn't quite fit the accepted terms of our unique
arrangement."

He looked at her.

"We have a unique arrangement?"

"Well, you know. . ."

"No. I don't. What do you mean?"

He could turn the tables in one split second. She would not play this game
and let him throw her.

She stood up and started gathering their trash to throw in the back of the
car until they found a more suitable receptacle. With her back half turned to
him, she answered his question.

"I mean--a mixture of a good professional relationship with a nice
interpersonal one."

"Ah," he said, closing his eyes and letting the sun soak into his skin.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"No one would ever accuse you of having a poet's soul, Scully."

She crossed her arms in front of her, clutching the trash to her chest.

"Should I be insulted, Mulder?"

He opened his eyes and looked at her. She had no doubt he had taken note of
her closed-off, defensive position.

"No. It's just a more pragmatic way of looking at things. It's just who you
are."

"And you are the dreamer? The misty eyed seeker of truths. . ."

He smiled and she knew the bastard had backed her right into a corner.

"You tell me," he said, softly.

"Yes. Well, I can see you having a poet's soul. Half of the time they couch
what they are trying to express in such language that it takes a couple dozen
scholars and a century or two to figure out what the fuck they were trying to
say."

She turned on her heel to go to the car, and managed to land her bare foot
right on the edge of a rock.

"Shit, shit, shit," she muttered, lifting her foot up and squeezing her eyes
shut as the pain radiated through the sole of her right foot.

Mulder was right besides her, grabbing her arm with one hand and relieving
her of the trash with the other.

"What? Can you move it? Is it broken?"

"I don't know. . .give me a minute."

He squeezed her upper arm as she waited for the initial pain to subside, then
watched as she gingerly put her foot on the ground. She could stand on it and
hobbled over to the car. Mulder opened the passenger side door and she sat
down, crossed her right leg over her left knee and started palpating her foot.

He kneeled in front of her.

"Well?"

A sharp hiss escaped her as she touched the arch of her foot.

"It's not broken."

"Are you sure? We'll find a hospital."

"No. I'm not spending hours in the emergency room. We'll just go home and
depending on the level of pain tomorrow--I'll decide whether I need to see my
own doctor. I'm pretty certain it's a strain or sprain in the arch."

She continued to touch her bare foot when she realized that Mulder was still
looking at her.

"What?"

"You are one of the most stubborn women I've ever known."

"Maybe because I'm the only one whose I.Q. is bigger than her bustline," she
countered. "Why did I take my shoes off?"

"Because I asked you to."

"Strike that bustline comment. Obviously, it doesn't apply."

He was still watching her.

"You can look all you want, Mulder. No hospital. It's a stupid freak
accident. It's nothing. Just a little pain."

Two hours into the trip back, Scully closed her eyes. Her foot still throbbed
but there was nothing much she could do for it. She knew it wasn't broken and
didn't need an x-ray to verify the fact. Mulder was annoyed with her
dismissal of his concern. Under the circumstances, things worked out for the
best. The pain gave her something negative to focus on and she would make
amends to Mulder for her behavior tomorrow. Mulder knew she was somewhat
irritable when sick or injured and wouldn't hold a grudge.

Mulder resumed his dance with the radio dial but this time, it didn't pay
off. No hidden gem of a radio show was revealed to them. He settled for news
radio. The same story, repeated in the same way, every twenty minutes.

She found herself drifting to sleep.

"My poetry sucks, Scully. It's dark and negative and no longer represents my
life."

She heard his voice through the haze of sleep. She felt his hand touch her
shoulder.

"We're home, Scully."

"What did you say?"

"I said, 'we're home'"

"No--before that."

"I have no idea. Must have been hours ago."

Liar. She could have sworn he said something to her. About poetry. Maybe he
just used her unconscious state as an opportunity to finish his dirty
limerick.

She opened the car door and put her foot out. It hurt more than before and
she put all her weight on her other foot as she leaned against the car.
Mulder came around to her side and snuck one arm around her waist as the
other hit the back of her knees. She was airborne in an instant.

"Mulder. This is completely unnecessary."

"Yes, I know."

"I can walk."

"Oh, I know that."

"Then why are you doing this?"

"Because you are such a delightful patient, I can't contain myself."

She smiled a bit and put her arms around his neck. Fucking hundredth day
wasn't quite over yet.

"Door," he prompted as they walked up the front steps. She turned the handle
and he gently maneuvered them through the doorway.

"Your keys?"

"I'll open the door," she said, as he tightened his grip in an effort to keep
her steady as she leaned over and inserted the key in the lock.

She had an absurd desire to laugh--at herself, more than anything else. Even
in a "helpless" position, she still felt a need to try and call the shots.

Finally, they made it through her doorway. He kicked the door closed and
moved her close enough to the locks so she could turn them herself.

"Couch, bed or bathroom?"

"I can take it from here--thanks."

"Nope. I'm delivering you somewhere."

"Mulder--put me down."

"Bed it is."

He quietly walked over to her bedroom and placed her gently on the left side
of the bed.

She felt his hands slide away from her knees and waist. Hers were still
draped around his neck. He made no comment, just quietly looked into her eyes
until she realized their position. She let him go and watched as he backed
out of the room. He promised he would return with ice for her foot.

As she made a small tower of pillows to rest her foot upon, she became more
conscious of the sounds the linens made as she rearranged them. Damn, it was
too quiet. The day was becoming closer--more intimate--by the moment. And
there was now a small sadness that was overtaking her more sensible side. It
was sad that this man--one she loved so completely--was right beside her, yet
worlds away. She flicked the remote and the television provided a nice white
noise in the background. Only three payments of $39.95 and she, too, could
have an air mattress for all of her many guests.

He came in with a bowl of ice, plastic bags, towels and gauze. He had
loosened a few buttons on his shirt.

"If Scully can't go to the kitchen. . .you'll bring the kitchen to Scully?"
she asked.

"Something like that."

He sat next to her upraised foot and began putting ice into a plastic bag. He
pressed the air out of the corner, as he zipped the bag closed and wrapped it
in a small dishtowel. He placed it under the injured foot and wrapped gauze
around both until she had a makeshift ice cast. Scully leaned up on her
elbows to watch him.

"How'd I do, doc?" he asked with a grin.

She swallowed hard. Why did some tears have an annoying habit of starting way
down in one's throat? If the eyes didn't give it away, the voice would.

"You did just fine. Thank you," she said quietly.

"Do you want me to stay? Help you to the bathroom--or, whatever?"

"No. It's all right."

"Then I'll pick you up tomorrow morning. If you need anything. . ."

"I'll call."

He gently gripped her ankle and stood up.

"Mulder?"

"Yes?"

"I'm so tired, Mulder."

There was no streaming sunlight but the green-gold was back in his eyes. He
looked at her. She was letting him interpret that statement any way he
wanted. She knew he understood what she was actually trying to say. He could
accept it or choose to be sensible and. . .

"I know, Scully. I am, too. Have a good rest."

. . .get the hell out of Dodge.

He went to the door. Her heart sank to her foot, so they could ache in
tandem.

She turned off the bedside lamp, which barely made a difference. It wasn't
dark yet. It was just past 6 PM but she found herself tired by the emotional
exercise she had been through. She felt the bed dip besides her and her eyes
flew open only to see his right above her own. He positioned his left arm
over her waist and his right supported the weight of his upper body as it
hovered over hers.

"Is this okay?" he whispered.

She nodded and watched as his face approached hers. She opened her mouth
slightly and he needed no further invitation. She was tired of sweet
mysteries. Today, she wanted an answer. Perhaps not a complete one but one
that at least set them on that path. His tongue was soft and warm and for a
few moments, she let him explore as she simply enjoyed the sensations. Then
she put her hands to his head and tried to push him closer. He was no longer
holding himself above her but lying with his upper body on hers. She began
exploring his mouth, groaning as he groaned, then laughing into his mouth at
their perfectly timed response to each other.

She put her hand on his shoulder and pushed--hoping he'd follow her request
and roll over but as she moved to roll with him, a groan of pain escaped as
her injured foot ached in protest. He pulled his lips from hers.

"Sorry, Scully. Here--let me," he said, going into full Nurse Mulder mode.

"No!" He stopped as she adjusted her foot against the pillows, and lay back
in her former position. She closed her eyes in defeat. Reality had returned
and the mood was broken. She should be grateful for that kiss. It was long
and wet and breathless. It was a kiss filled with longing. . .passion. . .
promise. Instead, she cursed her foot injury and felt like a petulant child
who had been given a toy only to have someone snatch it back.

He snuggled closer--laying his head on her pillow.

"I told you I loved you once," he said.

"Yes. You were stoned at the time."

"Was I? Well--stoned or not, it was--and is--the truth. When I wrote poetry,
I wrote flowery stuff about pain. But. . .I don't know. I think love is
enough. . .you know? It doesn't need embellishment. Do you need prettier
words, Scully? Do you need the poetry?"

"No," she lifted her hand to his hair and let the short, silky strands caress
her fingers.

"Good. Because I wrote dismal crap."

"Well, it wouldn't matter, anyway. I don't have a poetic soul, remember?"

His put his hand to her cheek and stroked her face softly.

"Oh, I don't know. I remember a beautiful spring day by a pond, soft breezes,
warm lips. Poetry just doesn't get any better than that, Scully."

He leaned forward and placed a small, chaste kiss on her lips.

"You are a romantic, Mulder."

"I know. And I don't have to resort to using the word, "nipple" twenty seven
times."

He slowly got up and went to the door.

"You going to be okay?"

"Fine."

"Good. Hey--Scully?"

"Yes?"

"There once was a redhead from Quantico. . ." he smiled at her. She smiled
back.

"You didn't stop me, Scully. Your line is, 'Mulder!'"

"I don't want you to stop. I want to know how it ends."

"It doesn't," he said, and winked at her, "it's a work in progress."

She watched the door close behind him.

They wouldn't discuss it tomorrow. Any of it. She knew that.

But tomorrow, she would begin the countdown again. Only this time, she'd look
forward to the hundredth day with a sweet anticipation.

the end

Author's notes:
I'm quite the big mouth lately with these notes.
All right. First--this is my last story while the X-files are still on the
air so I need to be slightly mushy. Whatever happens in the series finale,
the show has had a dramatic and wonderful effect on my life and there will
always be a place in my heart reserved for this experience. I'm still writing
but I'm just taking a moment to breathe in the entire experience while it's
still in "full flower." (You see, now, why my own career in poetry bit the
dust).
Second--this story is dedicated to a man who did, indeed, recite his poetry
every night between the hours of midnight-7 AM on AM radio in the 70s. I send
him thanks on behalf of a then young teenager who needed to hear the words of
romance. Hot summer nights in New York with no air conditioning were not
easy. His voice, and an occasional cool breeze through the window just before
sunrise made summers unforgettable.
Oh, and thank you to my muse--for being so damned weird that he/she/it
decided to take this one second memory that flashed through my mind one
evening and let Mulder and Scully react to it.

Visit the Rain Room...fan fiction by Gina Rain
http://www.geocities.com/ginarainfic

~~~~~~~

Title: The Hundredth Day 2: Make My Life
Author: Gina Rain (ginarain@aol.com)
Category: M/S UST
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Nada (set around season 7, though)
Archive: Sure.
Summary: A perfect moment is spoiled by email.
Disclaimer: CC and Co. own the whole enchilada (that's
the extent of my Spanish, by the way).
Quick note: You don't need to read the first part of
this series for this to make sense. (However, if you
want to, it's here:
http://www.geocities.com/ginarainfic/hundreth.html).
All you need to know is Scully hurt her foot on a day
when she was feeling very vulnerable in her attraction
to Mulder. He was sweet and kind and loving. She was
tired of fighting her feelings and some not-so-
innocent kissing ensued. They stopped because of foot
pain, basically (hey, it's better than a damned bee).
Still, everything was hunky-dory when Mulder left that
evening.
Okay, with all that in mind. . .
On your mark, get set, go. . .

Hundredth Day 2

Scully didn't come to work the morning following our
first kiss. Not surprising, considering the fact that
she could barely walk. No, I'm not flattering myself.
A misstep at an impromptu picnic sprained the arch in
her foot. Badly.

What was surprising was the email she sent me during
the night. The email explaining a phenomenon she
refers to as the "hundredth day syndrome." Apparently,
our kiss was due to some bizarre law of averages that
simultaneously makes her horny and me irresistible
approximately 3.65 days a year. Apparently, ninety-
nine out of a hundred days, she can control any stray
manifestations of said condition but this time, it
struck when we both happened to be at the wrong place
at the wrong time. Never mind that it felt so right.
Never mind the physical. . . gusto. . .of the kiss
itself, or the fact that we shared a pillow and I once
again confessed my love for her. Apparently, none of
that mattered because we were no longer in any danger
of a repeat performance. At least, for the next
ninety-nine days.

Or some such shit.

I sat there in front of the computer and deleted my
first, "Damn it, Scully. Your rationalization has now
ruined one of the best moments in my miserable life,"
response almost as soon as I finished typing. I mean,
how much of my own personal breast-beating was she
supposed to take?

The next email was a simple, "Well, if you want to go
on living in a fool's paradise, fine. But I know what
I feel and I'm pretty sure I know what you feel."

Delete. I told her I was no poet.

Then came the humorous one: "Okay. But if you'd like
to run another clinical trial on that little procedure
you're trying to perfect. . .I don't know what you
call it but, you know, the one where you tried to
remove my tonsils with just your tongue. . .I'm
available. Anything in the name of Science."

Delete.

The funny thing is, I wouldn't have said one damned
word about the whole kissing incident if she didn't
send that email. We both know that it's not our time
yet. We have work to do that's bigger than any needs
we might have--individually, or collectively. But the
email clinched it. Because she tried to explain
something that defies explanation. Because she can't
just sit back and believe. Not about us, anyway. She
won't let herself or. . .something. And that
rationalization, to me, is a denial of what exists.
And that denial is a lie--of sorts. An untruth. And
everyone and his mother knows how I feel about the
truth.

She wanted me as much as I wanted her. I don't want
her to explain it away. Not even to save herself.

I left her email unanswered and went to work,
expecting to talk about it in person, when I got the
call from Skinner's secretary informing me that Agent
Scully took a sick day. My email at work contained a
breezy message from Scully herself about her need for
one day of RICE and NSAIDS. Rest, ice, compression and
elevation and non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs.
As if I needed the spelled out version. After all this
time, I could read a hospital chart with the best of
them.

I chose not to answer that email as well.

Childish? Perhaps. But mother always said if you can't
say something nice. . .

And at that moment, my thoughts were not leaning
toward nice.

The day passed in a haze of paperwork. Periodically, I
checked my e-mail--including my home account. I kept
hoping that, even though I had already read her
message that morning--she still would have thought
better of it and clicked the "unsend" button. The "no-
-I won't cheapen the moment with words" key.

The message was still there.

Five o'clock rolled around and, for once, I left on
time. I needed to see how the patient was doing. First
and foremost, I had to make sure she was really all
right. It's something I should have done in the
morning but. . .well, I'm just a sensitive guy and my
ego got a boo boo.

By the time I reached her door, I wasn't sure that
coming over was a good idea.

I wasn't sure what to say; what to do. The night
before, in a rare moment of complete inner honesty,
she told me how tired she was. That was all she said
but the subtext was clear. She was tired of fighting
what we have. Of not having what we have. Fully having
what we have. She gave me an out. Gave me the
opportunity to be the strong, sensible one for a
change--and I took it. For about five seconds. And
then, I just got on the bed, trying not to squish her
or her injured foot too much, and kissed her. And what
a kiss. I literally thought we were going to fall
through the bed at one point. She was pulling me and I
was pushing her--all in an effort to get closer and
closer. . .and then--as with everything in our lives--
we were interrupted. This time, by her injured foot,
which picked just that moment to give her a huge
nudge. And that was all it took. One moment to break
the mood and bring us back to the reality we have
accepted as our lives.

Damn.

I knocked before I could stop myself. No answer. I
pulled out my key.

"Scully?" I called out to the seemingly empty
apartment.

"Mulder?" Great. She was in the bedroom.

"You alone in there?" Oh. She'll love that. I'm not
sure where my internal censor was when that came
tumbling out of my mouth but I guess he was thinking
that if the hundredth day was actually mistimed and,
let's say, the superintendent of her building was the
only man around. . .

"What?"

Good. Saved by thick walls.

She came hobbling out a moment later looking--cute.
Standing there in shorts and a sweatshirt with her
hair a bit rumbled. Maybe I should repeat that "are
you alone" question after all.

"Mulder--what are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see how you were. I knocked but you
didn't answer."

"I thought I heard something. I was watching an old
movie and I guess I fell asleep. I thought I was
dreaming."

<No, lover boy is right here, Scully, old girl.>

"How's your foot? Swallowed enough Advil?"

"It's much better, Mulder. Really. Thank you for
wrapping it for me last night. That and the Advil all
day---and the rest--has really helped a lot."

"I'm glad."

"Did you get my email?"

"Both, actually."

She looked down at her foot for a moment. Forgot about
the first one already?

"Good. I haven't had a chance to check my computer."

No chance? All day at home after dropping a minor
bombshell and no chance to turn on the computer and
check to see if I responded?

"Well, that's okay. I'm sure the links to "Farm Animal
Fun" and offers of penis enlargement will still be in
effect."

She smiled a little.

Well, this was cozy. She was standing in the doorway
of the living room, I was still standing about two
feet from her front door. We were both making small
talk like we had never spent more than five minutes
together in our entire lives. Yup. Cozy.

"I'm going to go. I just didn't have a chance to email
you today and. . .I thought I'd rather see how you're
doing in person. So--rest up. If you're not feeling a
hundred percent tomorrow, don't come in. Then you'll
have three whole days, with the weekend and all.
You'll be high-heel ready by Monday."

"No, I'll come in tomorrow."

"Scully. Nothing is happening in the office. Really.
I'm all caught up with paperwork and I'm just running
down old email and phone messages hoping to find a new
case. Stay home."

She stood there and stared at me. Of course she was
coming in tomorrow. I told her to stay home. She'd be
there if she had to crawl in.

"Whatever," I said, giving in. "Feel better and have a
good night."

I turned toward the door and grabbed the door knob.

"Want some tea?" she asked.

"Tea?"

"Coffee? Soda? Beer?"

<Go. Just go. Tomorrow, she'll be back at work and
you'll be a sensible human being once again. You'll
forget about her soft skin and the way her lips feel
pressed against yours. You'll forget what her mouth
tastes like and the grip of her fingers on the back of
your neck. . .>

"I could use something to drink."

The conversation continued in the same lively manner
over her tea and my beer. It was a mistake coming
here. I would have seen her at work tomorrow and
pretended nothing had happened and we'd take one of
those half-assed leads and be off and running once
again. Not a bad life. Maybe I'd get lucky in another
ninety-nine days or so.

I could save things right now. Start up a normal
conversation. Just tell her about my day at work and
begin the slide back to routine.

I could. . .

"So, hundredth day, huh?"

But, I didn't.

It was just a momentary loss of control but I saw the
mug shift in her hand before she gripped the handle
tightly.

If I wouldn't have been staring at her, I would never
have known that I got to her. For just a second.

She nodded her head in response to my question.
Clearly, she wanted the subject dropped.

"So, Scully. . .how does this thing work, anyway? I
need to know the rules so when it happens in another
98.5 days, I'll be prepared."

"Mulder. . ."

"No. Really. Explain."

"I did that in my email."

"You didn't explain. You damn near apologized." So
much for keeping things unemotional.

She stared at me in surprise.

"Well, if that's how you interpreted my message, I
didn't explain it as clearly as I was hoping to."

"I'm listening now."

She put her tea down and inhaled softly.

"After you left, I thought I owed you an explanation
for my uncharacteristic behavior. I refer to days like
yesterday as the 'hundredth day" syndrome because. .
.I don't know, it's just a pet name, I guess. There
are a handful of days a year that I find myself less
able to deal with some of the complications of our
relationship."

"Complications," I huffed softly.

"Yes."

"And on those days, it's my duty to reel you in?"

"You usually do."

"Do I?"

"All the time."

"So, I dropped the ball last night? Mixed-
metaphorically speaking?"

"I don't regret it."

"How charitable of you."

"Mulder. . ."

"Well, you should know that you didn't just make my
day, Scully. You damned near made my life. So. .
.please, don't downplay your lapse into the world of
emotions. Or sexual urges or whatever it was. . ."

"Mulder. . .stop. Don't make this bigger than it has
to be."

I needed to leave. Badly. Because I <was> making it
bigger than I had to. I knew that. In a moment, I was
either going to weep in frustration or have a hissy
fit worthy of old Scarlet O'Hara herself. And that's
not exactly an endearing thing to present to the woman
you love.

I emptied the rest of the beer in two quick swallows
and went to Scully's counter to throw out the bottle.
She keeps her trash in the cabinet under the sink.
Neat and tidy. That's my Scully.

When I straightened up, I nearly banged into her
knees. She had hoisted herself up on the counter and
was sitting there, watching me.

"Talk to me?" she whispered.

"I don't have anything to say, Scully."

"I think you have a lot to say."

"Yeah, well. Whether I do or don't--I don't want to
say it."

She looked at me in silence. Her expression had that
lovely unreadable quality to it.

"Would you rewrap my foot for me?"

"C'mon, Scully. You've been doing it yourself all
day."

"It's hard to do on my own. I either make it either
too tight or too loose. I've been trying to fix it the
way you did last night, but it's not working."

I didn't believe her for a moment but I went to
collect the supplies and pulled up a chair so my face
was pretty much level with her knee. I lifted my own
knee up a bit and had her rest her foot on it as I
rewrapped her pretty, albeit still slightly swollen,
foot in silence.

"Better?" I asked, as I finished.

"Much. Thank you."

I looked back up at her. There was a sadness in her
eyes. Even if I sometimes push her toward it, I don't
like seeing it when it finally arrives.

"What happens if I have my hundredth day?" I asked
her.

She just gave the smallest of smiles.

Well, as the kids say, 'duh.'

She's been reeling me in for years.

<Oh, brother.>

I smiled back without a trace of real humor. This
wasn't a funny situation. It was rather sad.

I stood up to leave and--well, I never could leave
well enough alone. I just had to test a theory.

I faced her and placed one hand on each of her knees
and gently pushed them apart. Then I stepped between
them. Not quite in the danger zone of touching but
close enough to make things interesting. She sat
there and watched my actions and her breathing hitched
a bit--as she waited to see what I'd do next. I looked
down and watched myself stroke her left knee with my
thumb and forefinger.

Part of me wanted to test her. See how she'd react
when I was the one who was tired. Tired of playing
games. Tired of not having what we have. Completely.
Rile her up a bit. Find out if she still wanted me
today or if it really was some crap that just happened
with the alignment of moon, earth, sun and stars.
But a larger part couldn't look her in the eye.

I watched my hand continue its caress of her knee and
listened to the rather heavy, uneven sounds of our
breathing in the silent room. Yesterday, I could hear
us as we lay on her bed kissing. The television was on
in the background but I still managed to hear the
sounds our lips made as they shifted against each
other--alternating levels of suction, the funny
smacking sounds of parting and coming together. The
gaspy breaths we were forced to take in order not to
disconnect this precious, first contact. Yesterday, it
was love. For me, it's still love. And if she's not
ready to own up to that entirely. . .

Then she's not.

And I don't want silly tests, or games, or scientific
terminology to categorize and file away something that
is way too precious to me.

I stop the slow caress and step away from her. My
hands push her knees together.

"Do you want a boost down?" I ask finally, meeting the
smoky blue eyes that became slightly narrowed in
confusion.

"No. I can get down on my own, Mulder."

"Of course you can. Well, I've got to go. You. . .rest
up and I'll see you tomorrow--or, Monday. Whichever."

"Tomorrow. I told you." she said softly.

"Yes, you did."

She made no move to get down from the counter. And I
think she felt that would somehow keep me there. She
was wrong.

"Goodnight," I said softly and didn't look back as I
walked to her front door and left her apartment.

Author's notes: Gasp! I left the story hanging--sort
of.
Part 3 of this series will come soon enough. After I
write it, of course.

________________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________________

Title: The Hundredth Day 3: Flying Fig
Author: Gina Rain (ginarain@aol.com)
Category: M/S UST
Rating: PG-13/soft R
Spoilers: There is one but I don't want to spoil
it. It's a season 6 reference. This story is
season 7-ish.
Archive: Sure.
Summary: Scully is confused (it's hot, expecting
me to be clever is too much to ask for).
Disclaimer: CC and Co. own everything. Or was that
Donald Trump?
Quick note: You don't need to read the first two
parts of this series for this to make sense--probably
(However, if you want to, it's here:
http://www.geocities.com/ginarainfic/).
Reader's Digest version of the first two parts:
Scully hurt her foot on a day when she was feeling
very vulnerable in her attraction to Mulder. He
was sweet and kind and loving. She was
tired of fighting her feelings and some not-so-
innocent kissing ensued. They stopped because of
foot pain, basically (hey, it's better than a damned
bee).
Still, everything was hunky-dory when Mulder left
that evening until Scully apparently got up in the
middle of the night and sent Mulder an email
explaining her little hundredth day theory. He is
insulted at what he feels is her over-
rationalization of their relationship. She is not
quite getting why he's so angry and tries to flirt
a little (in a very enigmatic way). He seems to be
falling for it but ends up leaving her high and
dry <VBG> on the kitchen counter.
Go for it.

The Hundredth Day 3: Flying Fig

Contrary to popular opinion, most doctors are not
walking PDRs. We don't automatically recall every
side effect a drug may have. Especially those of
us with practices consisting of the dead and a
single FBI agent who seems to like his pain
straight. I do know, however, even without a
Physician's Desk Reference at hand, that popping a
couple of Advil every few hours would not make me
lose my perspective on life.

So how, I asked myself, did things get so fucked
up within 24 hours, without me seeing so much as a
single sign of bad things on the horizon?

I carefully hopped off the kitchen counter and
made a beeline for my computer.

I needed to reread my email to Mulder. The email
that seemed to be the source of our problems.

I read the nearly two pages of text. There was
nothing wrong with anything I said.

I closed my eyes.

Pictured Mulder leaving my apartment last night.

After kissing me. After laying his head next to
mine and telling me he loved me.

He was pretty happy. So was I. We weren't going to
do anything about it but, at least, we both knew
we were on the same page in our relationship as
far as the level of our emotions and desires. I
pictured him waking up this morning to check his
mail and finding my note. The return email address
flooding his mind, perhaps, with certain
expectations of the type of correspondence within.
The type of correspondence one might expect after
a fairly momentous evening in the history of our
partnership.

Shit. It did sound as if I was rationalizing what
we did. And that wasn't my intention at all.

I crossed the room and picked up the phone. A
brief glance at my watch confirmed that he would
be halfway home if that's where he was heading
when he left my apartment.

A brief moment of panic overtook me as soon as I
hit the speed dial.

He picked up on the second ring.

"Mulder, it's me."

So much for listening to gut reactions.

"What's wrong, Scully?" His voice contained a
world weariness that was painful to hear.

"Everything. Come back. Please."

"Scully, we'll see each other at work in a few
hours."

"This is not a conversation for work, and you know
it. If you don't come back here now, I'm coming to
your place and sitting in the hallway until you
let me in."

"You're injured."

"There are cabs, Mulder. It would be better
for my foot if I didn't have to leave but--it's
your choice, really."

That should do it. I almost never play the guilt
card with Mulder. With him, it really is fighting
dirty but there was no way I was going to let this
brew one moment longer than it had to. This
situation was my fault, in some ways. Or the fault
of two people with two entirely different ways of
expressing themselves--caught in a moment of
classic miscommunication. I liked that second
choice better.

There was silence on the other line and then I
heard the slight squeal of tires. He had turned
the car around. Using the Starsky and Hutch method
of driving, apparently.

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

Good.

Now, how does one right a situation like this?

<Mulder--apparently I need to write a "Scully:
Between the Lines" Guidebook and hand you a copy.
No, I'm not making light of the hurt you obviously
felt. When you were here earlier, I was so shocked
that you were expressing these thoughts, I didn't
even begin to process the enormity of the
situation. I was still trying to figure out what
went wrong to begin with. How could you not know
what I was trying to tell you with my email?>

No, that wouldn't work.

<Mulder, all I wanted you to do was jump my bones
while we were at the counter. When we use words,
we mess up our interpersonal relationship but I
have a strong suspicion that if we ever truly shut
up and just acted on our emotions, we would do
just fine.>

Nah.

I was still considering options as I opened the
door. He walked in and I knew he was about to
launch into some sort of speech about whatever he
had been thinking of during the past quarter hour.
I didn't want that. I closed the door and chose the option
my heart had been pushing. I simply walked over
and put my arms around his waist and held him to
me as tightly as possible.

"Scul. . ." he stopped mid-Scully. I guess I caught
him by surprise.

Good.

"You think you know me so well, " I said in mock
reproach as I leaned my head against his chest.

"Scully--your foot."

Actually, I had shifted my weight automatically to
my other leg. But he didn't have to know that.

"My foot is fine."

He relaxed then--lightly placing his hands against
my upper back. I've known him for a long time and
we've been in situations that I feel pretty safe
in saying no one has been in. But he rarely smells
bad. After a day of work and running back and
forth to my apartment he just smells--warm. Like
his body heat is activating old aftershave,
deodorant, and whatever his clothes were washed
in. It's nice. It's Mulder.

"I do know you," he said, breaking the silence. "I
know you very well."

I ran my hands under his jacket and grabbed hold
of the back of his shirt. It was something I could
use to help pull him closer to me.

I felt him move his hips back a little and smiled
to myself as I countered his move with one of my
own.

"Scully. . ." a little note of warning in his
voice.

"Hips before hands, Mulder. Remember?" I said,
letting go of his shirt and running my hands down
the slope of his backside. I gently squeezed his
behind as I pressed myself more firmly
against his impressive--firmness. There was a good
possibility I was losing my mind but insanity
seemed like a very desirable option at this
moment.

"Scully."

He put his hands on my forearms and I realized he
was about to push me away. I hadn't given him any
reason not to.

I pulled my arms away from his butt and gripped
his forearms as he was gripping mine.

"I re-read my email and think I understand,
Mulder. I never meant it that way. After you left
last night, I was so happy. But I thought back and
realized that you said some things I didn't say in
return. And when I looked back over my actions of
the evening--I just thought I needed to explain.
On all kinds of levels. Number one--no matter what
I felt and how you responded, I didn't want you to
think I was disrespecting the work we've devoted
our lives to. That I was forcing you--in any way--
to make a choice between it and a more intimate
relationship. And yet, since I did initiate our
physical contact, I also wanted you to know that
even though I do control the emotions and feelings
and responses that are <always> there--there are
days that it's so difficult, that I no longer feel
I can do it alone."

He looked down at me.

"So, we're back to square one--with me pushing you
away when you get too close and you pushing me
away when I do the same," he said.

Why did that option seem so bleak?

"Do we have any other choices?" I asked, a hint of
hope in my voice. If anyone could think his way
out of an impossible situation, it was Mulder.

I looked at him and met his soft smile.

"Find a happy medium?" he suggested, as he bent
his knees and literally attached his lips to the
right side of my neck. My grip on his forearms
loosened as his arms went around my waist, which
was a fairly good thing considering the fact that
my knees were as close to buckling as they had
ever been. I closed my eyes and leaned my head
further to the left as he sucked a bit more of my
flesh into his warm, wet, slippery--fabulous
mouth.

"Mulder. This is not a medium. This is--me not
being able to give a flying fig over anything or
anyone but you if you don't stop. And God--I don't
want you to stop."

And for a glorious minute or two, he didn't. He
just shifted his beautiful mouth to mine and
lifted me off my feet as I wrapped my arms tightly
around his neck and my legs firmly around his
hips. Height difference be damned. Our second kiss
and we came up with a solution in less than sixty
seconds. This had to be a sign of good things to
come.

This and the wonderful feel of Mulder's erection
pressing in the exact place I wanted it. The wet
slide of our tongues as we both tried to gain
dominance in our mutual exploration. Very good
signs.

But all good things come to an end. I felt him
pulling his face away from mine and I followed in
the same direction long enough to tussle with his
mouth one last time before letting him disengage.

He turned us both around and leaned us against the
front door of my apartment. He probably did it to
help support the weight of my body but it had
certain happy repercussions that made me moan out
loud and pull his head back to my throat.

He didn't follow my lead. He was choosing to be
sensible. He was doing what I had requested.

Damn it.

He pulled back and looked at me.

"Flying fig?"

I laughed and buried my head in his neck.

"It was the only "f" words allowed in the Scully
household. However, they aren't the ones you
usually inspire."

"No?"

I shook my head.

"Tell me," he whispered.

"Friend," I said, giving him a quick peck on his
neck. The flesh under my lips was warm, moist and
salty.

"Fire," this time, I bit down slightly and ran my
tongue along the wound. My reward was my very own
Mulder moan.

"And?" he prompted, breathily.

"Fidelity."

"Fidelity? I was hoping for something a little
more--carnal."

"Um--that, too. But you do inspire fidelity. And
I'll wait for the carnal part forever if I have
to. Ah. 'Forever.' Another 'f' word."

"A nice one."

I unwrapped myself from around him and lowered myself
gingerly to the floor. Forever. I <would> wait--
hopefully not forever but if that's what it took.
. .

"Thank you, Scully."

"What?" I could hear the words but was not exactly
processing them at the moment.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For having your little hundredth day crisis. For
attempting to get through to me through your
email. For failing--miserably. Ouch. Don't pinch
me, woman. And for blackmailing me back here to
clear the air about what you were feeling."

"I managed all that?"

He nodded.

"Well, that's good but now, we <are> back where we
started," I said with a sigh.

"No--back, probably, to where we were last night--
but with a bit more certainty. That's progress."

It was my turn to nod.

"Plus," he continued, "now I know that you think
of me in that way. And I know how soft your lips
are and what your skin tastes like. That nice
little hip motion you've got going when you're
grinding against me." He cocked his head to one
side with a mischievous grin on his face. "And the
exact shade of red you turn when I tease you about
something sexual. And--I know you love me?"

The damned man still had a question in his voice.

"Yes." A simple declaration."You <did> learn a
lot."

"I had a good instructor."

"Glad to be of service."

He leaned down and kissed me softly.

"Good night?"

There we were in our endless ping pong match. It
was my turn to make the final shot. My decision if
we'd return to normal or move forward ahead of
time.

Ahead of time.

There was my answer.

It wasn't our time yet.

But I now had something to tide me over.

"Good night, Mulder."

I would not be kissing him good night again for a
very long time and we would keep each other
honest. But we both knew the truth--and that was
an amazingly huge step for us.

As I closed my door behind him, I heard myself
whisper the "f" word.

"Forever."

And it would be worth the wait.

I turned to find a Hefty bag for my foot. Injured
or not, tonight was a night for a very cold
shower.

The end.

Author's Notes:
This is it for this little series, kids.
And it's supposed to end this way. No real smut
but the promise of something in the future.
For this story, it's the right thing to do and
Gina always does what's right (well, almost
always).
Have a great Fourth of July. Consider this my
birthday present to you.

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________________________________________________________________________