In Heels

By bellefleur
bellefleur1013@yahoo.com


DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: sure
RATING: PG-13
CLASSIFICATION: V
DISCLAIMER: Not mine; they belong to CC, FOX, etc.
SUMMARY: A chauvinistic detective disrespects Scully, and
pays the price.

Notes: This is a slightly belated present for my birthday
twin and uberbeta, Mimsy.  I wasn't going to play, but my
muse got loose, and after I'd so successfully kept it in
check all these weeks since we posted the challenge.  Oh,
well, some battles you just can't win.

This is also dedicated to Nancybratt.  It's not the
challenge fic you asked for, but I thought it was
appropriate that a story about one heroic woman be
dedicated to another.    

*****
*****

"No one can make you feel inferior without your consent."

Eleanor Roosevelt

* * *


Men.

I shoved the door shut behind me.  The echoing slam only
fed my thirst for violence.  I wrenched my arms from my
jacket, balled up the fabric, and threw it at the bed.  The
soft thud was far less satisfying, but I made up for it
with the loud thump of my kicked off shoe ricocheting
against the far wall.

The door to the adjoining motel room opened, and Mulder
stood there watching my other shoe rebound off the plaster.

"Bad shoe day?" he joked.

I ignored his comment.  "You shouldn't be walking around."

Mulder limped the few steps over to the table and slumped
into a chair, propping his left foot on the chair opposite
him.  His ankle was wrapped in a towel, which hopefully
sheathed a bundle of ice.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Nothing."  I tossed my gun onto the dresser and tugged my
shirt out of my slacks.  I really wanted to strip naked and
jump into the shower, but first I had to tend to my
accident-prone partner.  "Unless you count an overdose of
testosterone."

"Let me guess--Detective Pittard?"

I scowled and nodded.    

"Guess he won't be winning Feminist of the Year," Mulder
said.

"You could say that again."  

"Guess he won't--"  At my glare, Mulder stopped and
grinned.  He quickly sobered and asked, "So, what did he do
this time?"

I crossed to my suitcase and started digging for the Ace
bandage I usually kept on hand.  "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me," he said gently.  "And it obviously
matters to you."

With a sigh, I clenched the rolled bandage in my hand and
closed my eyes.  If Mulder started acting sweet, my shield
of anger might melt away, exposing the hurt, and I really
didn't want to start crying right now.  

I needed a distraction, so I turned my attention to
Mulder's ankle.  I walked over and lifted his injured foot
to sit in the chair it was occupying.  Then I placed the
foot in my lap and started to unwrap the towel.

"How's it feeling?" I asked.

"Sore.  But it's starting to go numb."

Underneath the towel was a bag of ice, slightly melted.  I
set the bag on the table and carefully inspected Mulder's
ankle.  It was swollen and turning a nice shade of purple.  

"Oh, Mulder," I groaned.  He would certainly be out of
commission for a while.  "Next time, look before you leap."

"I'll try to remember that," he said dryly.

"I guess this means I'm stuck working with Pittard for the
rest of this case."

He looked at me with sympathy.  "That bad, huh?"

"'Bad' was when he refused to look at me--like I wasn't
even there.  Worse is that, now he's finally acknowledging
my presence, his eyes can't seem to make it any higher than
my chest."

"At least he's looking at you."

I slammed the ice back onto his ankle, which quickly turned
Mulder's smirk into a wince.

"And to top it all off," I continued while I bandaged the
ice pack to Mulder's ankle, "he thinks the theory about the
avenging ghost of the spurned lover was all my idea."

"This guy doesn't have a sense of humor, does he?  I meant
that as a joke.  But I do think it was a spurned lover
directing an entity--"

"Entities don't leave DNA.  With that and the witness's
description, we should be able to catch our suspect."

"It doesn't bother you that you can't explain the cause of
death?"

I met his perturbed gaze and said quite definitively, "No."  
What bothered me was chauvinistic detectives, and partners
who couldn't stop tilting at windmills long enough to check
what was on the other side of a wall before vaulting over
it.  

"Scully?  I need a wrap, not a tourniquet."  

I didn't realize I had been taking out my frustration on
his poor ankle.  "Sorry."  I let up some of the tension and
bound it more gently.

Mulder said softly, "Don't let that guy get to you, Scully.  
He's just insecure.  A man like that feels threatened by a
strong female.  He's afraid to admit that you're more of a
man than he'll ever be."

I looked up to see the genuine concern in his eyes,
accented with a teasing glimmer.  I couldn't help but smile
a little.  "Thanks, I think."

He leaned back in his chair.  "One of these days, it'll
catch up with him, and he'll come to regret it.  They
always do."

I couldn't help but think of Detective Cross in Cleveland,
slimed by a fat-sucking vampire.  I would never wish that
on anyone, no matter how much I disliked him.  I just hoped
that in Pittard's case, Mulder's words weren't prophetic.

* * *

I can't believe the bastard ditched me.  

I muttered under my breath every curse a good sailor's
daughter should know while I slowly drove through the quiet
warehouse district looking for Pittard's car.  You'd think
by now I'd be used to getting ditched, but with Mulder, it
was never about gender.  Sure, he was trying to protect me
from taking the same stupid risks he was, but not because
he thought I was a liability.  That doesn't mean it didn't
piss me off, but this--this one was a personal insult.  And
I don't like being insulted.

I added a few German expletives I'd learned in college, for
good measure, as I continued through the neighborhood.  
It's not like I had been dallying in the bathroom fixing my
make-up.  All I did was go down the hall, to the small
conference room where they'd relegated me, to retrieve my
jacket.  When I got back to the bullpen, Pittard was long
gone, chasing after the anonymous tip that might not even
pan out.  Good thing I'd thought to ask about the location
before I left for my jacket.  Unless he lied to me about
that too.

Finally, I spotted his car parked next to a narrow alley.  
I pulled to a stop behind it and readied my lecture.  When
I found this guy, I was going to rip him a new one.  

As I opened my door, shots rang out.  Instinct took over,
and I raced toward the sound.  Around the back of a
building near a deserted loading dock, I found Pittard on
the ground with a man standing over him, holding a gun to
Pittard's head.  Brown hair, thin mustache--it looked like
our suspect.  But even more telling were the crazed gleam
in his eye and the sneer twitching at his lip.  I knew what
he planned to do; I didn't hesitate to act.

Three shots to the chest, and the suspect was down.  I
rushed over to Pittard.  Blood was seeping through his
shirt, and his eyes were glazed over, but for the moment he
was still breathing.  I quickly checked the suspect for
vitals and kicked his gun out of reach before I dropped to
my knees beside Pittard to assess the damage.  

I unbuttoned his shirt to find an oozing wound in the upper
left side of his chest.  The hole was far enough to the
right that didn't think the bullet had hit anything major.   
Then again,  I wasn't really worried about his heart
because I was sure he didn't have one.

"Detective Pittard, can you hear me?  I need you to focus.  
Stay with me."

I pulled off my jacket since it was the best thing
available--lucky for him I had gone back for it--folded it
up, and pressed it to his chest.  He sucked in a breath,
likely in pain, but it was enough to get his attention
where I wanted it.  His eyes began to focus as he looked up
at me.  I took great pleasure in seeing his humiliated
expression when he realized who his avenging angel was.

"Agent Scully?"  

I fumbled through the folds of my jacket with one hand,
trying to pull my cell phone out of the pocket without
letting up on the pressure.  "Don't try to talk right now.  
You took a bullet to the chest."

"Tell Maureen--" he started shakily.

"Tell her yourself, detective.  Sorry to disappoint you,
but you're not dying on my watch."  Triumphantly, I finally
managed to wriggle the cell phone free.  I wasted no time
dialing 9-1-1.

While a recording told me that all operators were busy and
to wait on the line, a wracking cough shook his chest
beneath my hand.

"Pittard?  Do us both a favor and keep breathing, because
there's no way I'm giving you mouth to mouth."

He huffed out what I think was a laugh.  I was just
grateful that he followed it by sucking in another breath,
albeit unsteady.  

I had never been more relieved to hear the words: "9-1-1.  
What is your emergency?"

* * *

It was a long night, first at the hospital, then at the
police station.  When morning broke, I was on my way back
to the hospital, this time with my partner in tow.  I'd
returned to the motel to find his ankle even worse, and I
insisted that he get it x-rayed.  The films confirmed that
it wasn't broken, only badly sprained, but I still
convinced the doctor that it would take more than Mulder's
willpower to keep the ankle immobilized.  I got tired of
Mulder's whining about the temporary cast, so I left the
room and sent the prettiest nurse I could find to go deal
with him.

I was in Pittard's room, looking over his chart, when
Mulder caught up with me.  He hobbled up alongside me on
his crutches, and for a moment we watched silently over the
sleeping man.  There were no flowers in the room, no cards,
no company--and no sign of anyone named Maureen.  Even the
other cops had left off their vigil after Pittard was out
of surgery.  It was hard to hate the man when he obviously
deserved pity.

"How's he doing?" Mulder asked quietly.

I put the chart back and explained in layman's terms, "He
lost a lot of blood, but the bullet didn't hit any major
organs.  He'll live."

"Thanks to you."

I shrugged and looked back to Pittard.  "I was just doing
my job."  

"Agent Scully?"  Pittard's eyelids fluttered a few times
before he was able to open them fully.  I felt Mulder's
hand on my shoulder and glanced over at him.  He gave me a
warm, supportive look, and then turned to shuffle out into
the hall.

I moved around to the side of the bed so Pittard could see
me better, but I left the conversation topic up to him.  I
hoped that crow would be on the menu.

"Guess I dodged one this time, huh?"  He smiled weakly.

Apparently he was referring to the proverbial bullet, not
the one they removed from his chest.  "Next time, try
ducking instead of dodging."  

He attempted a chuckle.  "Yeah."  I waited patiently as he
appeared to gather his thoughts, probably still wrestling
with the pain killers.  "How's the perp?"  

"In the morgue.  He forgot to dodge."  

"Was it our guy?"  

"We'll have to wait for the autopsy results to be sure.  
Hopefully the DNA will provide a definitive match and we
can put this case to rest."  

He just grunted.  That seemed to be the end of the
conversation, so I turned to leave.  Now that the man was
awake, I was no longer feeling any warm thoughts toward
him, so I didn't see any point in lying and wishing him
well.

"Dana?"  

That caught my attention.  I turned back to him, my brows
still raised in surprise, and inquiry.

"Thanks for...you know," Pittard said.

I supposed that's as good as it was going to get.  "It's
what I do," I answered.  I turned then and left; nothing
more needed to be said.

When I exited, Mulder was waiting just outside the door.  
"And you do it so well--in a skirt and three-inch heels, no
less."  

That answered my question: yes, he had been listening to
every word.  I ducked my head to hide the smile his comment
had provoked.  If Pittard had said that, it would've been
an insult.  But from Mulder, I knew it was nothing but
admiration.

I put on my game face and looked up at him.  "You ready to
get out of here?"  

He nodded and handed me a small piece of paper covered in
doctor scribbles.  "I don't really need this prescription,
do I?" he whined.

It was a scrip for pain meds, only slightly stronger than
what he could get over the counter.  "Not if you follow the
doctor's directions and stay off your foot."  

Through the thin paper, I noticed some writing on the back,
so I flipped it over.  There was a name and phone number
written in much more legible handwriting.  

"Who's Nancy?" I asked.

Mulder smiled.  "That cute little nurse you sent to take
care of me.  She had a different kind of prescription in
mind.  Think I should call her?"  

I didn't care if the twinkle in his eye told me he was just
teasing.  I shoved the paper back into his hands and turned
on my heel.  

Men.

*****
*****

Notes: This is basically in response to our birthday
challenge: Scully puts a chauvinist in his place.  Mims
wrote about her part of the challenge (see "Things
Intangible"), so I wrote about mine.  


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bellefleur1013@yahoo.com

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