By Audrey Roget
audrey_roget@yahoo.com

DISTRIBUTION:  Please forward to ATXC; archive at
Gossamer; others please flatter me by requesting
permission first.
SPOILERS:  Various; most significantly, Pine Bluff
Variant, Elegy, Ascension
RATING:  Varies from PG to NC-17
CLASSIFICATION:  SRA
KEYWORDS:  MSR, M/S/Sk friendship
SUMMARY:  Set between Pine Bluff Variant and The
End.  The traditional toss of a bridal bouquet at the
wedding of a colleague (yes, a cheesey situation, but
work with me here) sets Mulder and Scully on a
relationship slalom which causes them to question the
nature of truth in their lives.
DISCLAIMER: Indulge me a moment.  The principal
characters portrayed herein are ultimately owned by
Rupert Murdoch, spawn of Satan.  I thank Chris Carter
and company for bringing them to life and continuing to
oversee their development and ongoing existence.  At
the same time, Fox Television and 1013 Productions
would do well to acknowledge that, in the larger sense,
these characters belong to all of us, for without us,
there is no they.  With that in mind, I declare a
complete lack of intent to derive profit from the
production/distribution of the following material or to
infringe upon the ownership of the personages not
created from my own imagination.
DISCLAIMER OF A DIFFERENT STRIPE:  Humor me.
Scientific, geographical, historical and institutional
inaccuracies are most gratefully overlooked.
 
 

THE SHIRT
by Audrey Roget

Part 1/10

I check my watch for the third time in four minutes, but I
have no idea what time it is.  I hate these kinds of
functions.  Don't mind putting on a tux though.  It's one
of the few times I feel like I'm living up to the 007
image people tend to associate with the work I do.  I
just wish the occasion didn't call for a fun-filled evening
in the company of my fellow agents, most of whom are
also stylishly dressed, milling around the lobby of this
swanky Georgetown hotel.

I've never been particularly comfortable at large social
gatherings where one is obliged to feel festive.  If I had
any choice, I'd have made my excuses long ago, but a
request was made of me I couldn't refuse.  So I
concentrate on my duty to a friend this evening,
genuinely pleased at his good fortune and, knowing
the difficulty he has making personal requests of any
kind, honored that he has asked me to be here tonight.

Absently, I finger the chunky gold band in my vest
pocket, a little tempted to try it on for size.  But I'd
rather not relive any moments from the distant time
when I wore a ring like this one for real and - I thought
then - forever.  I think of the matching one Scully must
have on her somewhere and what these rings mean to
their owners.  Where the hell is Scully anyway? Not
like her to run late.

It was just like Skinner to say nothing about this
impending celebration until just a couple of weeks ago.
One morning like any other, he called us into his office,
but instead of briefing us on a new case, he gave us
the news that he and Sharon had reconciled and
decided to reaffirm their wedding vows.  I actually felt a
little surge of hope hearing this, for him and for me.

He delivered the information is his usual no-nonsense
way, so it took a minute to process that what he was
telling us had nothing to do with serial murders or
government conspiracies.  He was issuing an invitation
and a request - though it still managed to sound like an
order - that we, Scully and I together, stand up for him
at the ceremony as his "Best Agents."  Scully was
particularly flattered, going so far as to plant a kiss on
the  SOB's right cheek.  I swear he blushed.  I'm afraid
I blushed a bit myself, mostly in relief that there would
be one fewer in the pool of competitors for Scully's
attention.

Since her remission, the two of them have shared
some sort of quiet understanding, which I found
unsettling somehow. Standing in the AD's office that
day, offering a hearty congratulations, I knew that the
joy I felt was as much for me as it was for him.

Finally, across the room, I spot Scully by the coat
check.  She's late, but damn was it worth the wait.  I
start to rise to go meet her, but am pinned to my seat
as I watch her shed her black coat, revealing a fitted,
sleeveless evening gown, midnight blue, cut low
enough in the back to bare half of her creamy shoulder
blades and spine.  Before I know it, I'm on my feet,
striding over,  probably grinning like a fool, and trying
to come up with an appropriate opener.

"Hey Scully.  Nice threads," is the best I can come up
with.

"You clean up pretty nice yourself, Mulder," she
replies, then dips her head to hide the smile creeping
at the corners of her lips.  They look dark and sweet,
as if she's been eating fresh berries.  Her hair is a little
different tonight, too, falling in soft waves around her
face.  I stifle an intense desire to run my lips over the
gleaming crown of her head.

###

Mulder seems to be in good shape, though I can
practically smell the tension I know courses through
him when he's feeling awkward or out-of-place.  He's in
especially good condition, considering what I've been
overhearing in the lobby concerning last night's
bachelor party.  Let's just say the Bureau has made
many strides to officially welcome women into the
ranks, but sometimes you'd never know it from
listening to certain agents recount their weekends.

"Some shin-dig, huh?" observes Mulder, glancing
around the lobby.  Then, as if reading my thoughts,
leans in to add, "I'm surprised some of those guys can
even walk today."  An evil glimmer lights his eyes.

"Well, I guess Skinner knew what he was doing when
he chose you as Best Man," I reply lightly, fixing him
with a practiced look.

"Hey - I only provided the entertainment.  It was
actually a pretty tame evening while I was there," he
says somewhat defensively.  "Some Best Agent you
are. You didn't even show up."

"Thanks for the invitation, but I was sure you'd try to
talk me into jumping out of a cake, " I quip, and start
moving toward the ballroom.

Our familiar banter eases his edginess.  He trails me to
the head table, asking, "Just out of curiosity, Scully,
how hard would it be to talk you into that?"  Luckily, my
back is to him so he can't see the stupid grin spreading
across my face.  I refrain from mentioning that it would
take very little persuasion if it were for a certain
audience of one.

I am rescued from having to make a comeback as
someone steps to the microphone underneath a
canopy set up  on the dance floor, and asks the
members of the wedding to take their places.  Skinner
spots us from the far end of the table, and flags us
over.  We troop to the right side of the canopy, where
Sharon Skinner, her parents and the rabbi are already
waiting.

Mulder suddenly notices that I'm wearing the bride's
ring on the chain with my cross and reaches out to
examine it.  "Aw, gee, I thought you said you'd by /my/
date for the prom, " he cracks.

"They don't design women's formal wear with pockets
in mind," I complain.

"Where would they put them?" he teases, giving me
the once-over. My stomach flips as his gaze travels
over me, lingering just a moment longer than
necessary to prove his point.

I give him a disgusted sigh an start to remove my
necklace, when he steps behind me, saying, "Allow
me." He undoes the clasp, slips the ring off and
re-fastens it almost entirely without touching me.  A
little disappointed, I turn around to be confronted by a
glare from Skinner.

"If you're ready, Agent Mulder, Agent Scully, may we
proceed?"  I have seen Skinner's human side just often
enough to know of its existence.  I have to assume his
wife sees a good deal more of it, though I have my
doubts.  In my experience, even at his most sincere
and good-natured, Skinner's behavior is always closely
guarded.  His personal defenses make my own
substantial ones look like 3-foot chain link. Lately, I've
come to appreciate the respect we have for the other's
boundaries.

The Skinners' vows are simple and to the point,
naturally. Though I have never cried at a wedding in
my life, a hard lump rises in my throat when Mulder
and I hand over the rings.  I actually have to blink back
tears hearing them recite, "I am my beloved's, my
beloved is mine."

I steal a glance at Mulder, who is smiling gently to
himself, not altogether present. This is one of those
rare moments I choose not to speculate what is going
on in the complicated labyrinth of his mind.  Standing
close to him, I shift slightly to feel the soft wool of his
jacket against my bare arm and his warm breath on my
shoulder.

After the ceremony, the chuppa is cleared away and an
army of caterers hustle around serving dinner and
pouring champagne.  Reluctantly agreeing that Mulder
could speak for both of us when making the ceremonial
first toast, I stressed, perhaps a bit to strenuously, that
it should be short, sweet and sincere.  I reminded him
that attempts at humor could easily backfire, since
Mulder's wit is often razor-edged and not universally
accepted as funny.

"Here's to the happy couple," he addresses the fifty or
so guests. "Two people who have proved that, though
the course of true love never did run smooth, the truest
of loves never lose each other entirely."  He turns
directly to Skinner and continues, "Sir, on behalf of
Agent Scully and the rest of these good people, I'd like
to impart my best wishes to you and Mrs. Skinner for a
long, happy, healthy life together.  I can only hope
someday to count myself as lucky a man as you are
tonight." Raising his glass, he turns back to the other
tables.  "To Walter and Sharon."

As the guests echo his sentiment and raise their
glasses, I register what he has said.  Mulder wants to
settle down someday?  I never really thought of him as
the marrying type.  I imagine a scene like this
sometime in the not-too-distant future.  Mulder in a
morning coat, facing his glowing lace-bound
bride....and me to his right, in this same fucking dress.
Why does this image send a searing hot pain knifing
through my abdomen?  It's not just a case of `always
the best man, never the bride.'

Mulder takes his seat next to mine and leans in to
whisper, "How was that?  Did I work in all three /S's/?"
There's a faint gleam in his eyes, casting them a deep
green.

"Short, sweet, sincere. Works every time. "  I take
another sip of champagne to banish my waking
nightmare.

"Snappy Scully.  You could have your own
infomercial."

"Just so long as I don't have to demonstrate surgical
instruments on alien corpses."

After dinner, a little swing combo gets set up and the
lead singer announces the first dance.  The Skinners
take the floor.  He is surprisingly graceful as they
fluidly turn around the floor to `Our Love is Here to
Stay.'  Halfway through the song, Sharon's father cuts
in, while Skinner dances with her mother, and soon
other couples drift into the fray.

Mulder and I are standing well off to the side.  He
hasn't asked me to dance, even out of courtesy.  I
glance up at him several times and clear my throat,
waiting for him to take the hint.

The song ends and he finally says, "Well Scully, I
guess that's my cue."  I turn to him, holding out my
hand, already humming the strains of the next song,
`Cheek to Cheek.' More like cheek to sternum in our
case, which is fine with me.  He grabs my hand, gives
it a squeeze.  "Night Scully.  Don't stay up too late.
See you in the morning."

He's well on his way toward the door before it sinks in.
As soon as it does, I'm skittering after him in this damn
narrow skirt, vainly trying to catch up with him, as
usual.

"Mulder - where the hell are you going?"  I almost have
to shout to be heard and I'm not bothering to hide my
disappointment.  He looks surprised by my question,
my attitude.

"My work here is done, Scully," he tells me as if he's
wrapped up a cut and dried case.  "Vows, rings, toast.
What else is there?"  He shrugs.  Maybe it's the
lighting, but I can't tell if his nonchalance is genuine or
smartly contrived.

"It's only 8:30, " I sputter.  "I can't believe you're
leaving already, just like that."

"What am I, your date?" He almost looks amused. I feel
like I've been slapped.

"Oh.  Excuse me.  I didn't realize you had something
more important to attend to."  Angry, embarrassed heat
rises in my cheeks.  "What?  Did Langley pick up the
latest issue of Licanthropy Enthusiast?  I hear Miss
May is a real dog."

He's a bit chagrined, but continues in full retreat,
completely blowing me off.  I bring down the volume
but sharpen the tone.  "But how could I expect you to
endure something as mundanely enjoyable as a
party?"  I turn heel and head back toward the dance
floor, not waiting for an answer, and not really
expecting one.  Still, it stings when I realize he's not
going to follow me.

Once my anger has cooled a bit, I find myself inwardly
reciting one of Mulder's own admonitions: /Go with it
Scully/.  But it's been quite a while since I've faced
down a big, loud party. Or any party, for that matter.
I'm still mulling over my options when a nice-looking
fair-haired man around 35 approaches me.

"Doctor Scully?"  Doctor.  Not Agent.  Must not be with
the Bureau.  Actually, I've noticed that the great
majority of guests seem not to be connected to work.  I
nod in the affirmative.

"David Rosen."  He sticks out a hand. "Sharon's
brother? Walter has told me a bit about your work," he
says.

"Don't hold it against me," I reply dryly.  He looks
puzzled by my remark, but asks for a dance anyway.

"I've, uh, always been fascinated by the paranormal,"
he tells me.

"You'd probably rather be dancing with my partner,
then," I quip, which elicits another perplexed face.
"Not that it isn't fascinating, of course," I feel compelled
to add, "and challenging.  But even after all this time,
I'm still a die-hard skeptic."  I try changing the subject.
"What do you do?"

"Real estate risk management," he answers, without
much enthusiasm.

I nod vaguely in response, causing him to grin
self-consciously and explain, "Which may tell you why I
have a hobby like freaky phenomena."  We chat
politely through the next song.  He asks me about
memorably bizarre cases, and I pull out a few
anecdotes, steering clear of any mention of shadow
governments or alien colonization.

It's a pleasant fifteen minutes or so, but I can't help
feeling like something's missing.  David seems
perfectly nice.  What is wrong with me that that isn't
enough?  When did tall, paranoid and oral retentive
become my criteria for attractiveness?  And there's
something else.  Given David's relationship to Skinner,
I'm getting the feeling I've been set up.  Christ, I'm
beginning to subscribe to conspiracy theories in social
situations. Where will it end?

As the song winds down, I hear a familiar throat clear
itself.  Out of the corner of my eye, I see one lanky arm
tap David on the shoulder.  "May I?" Mulder asks.

I thank David for the dance and, almost without
missing a beat, a new song has begun.  "How High the
Moon."  My right hand rests in his left, my left on his
shoulder, his right rides cautiously at my waist, and
even though we've only done this once before, it feels
like coming home.
 

END PART 1/10

The Shirt - 2/10

DISCLAIMER, etc: See part 1
 

It's rare nights like these when I wish I'd let Mom
push me into going to those cotillion dances
Sundays on the Vineyard.  But I didn't stop to
consider the fact that I'm probably the worst dancer
in this or any other galaxy until now.  I wouldn't
even be thinking of it now if something hadn't
caught my eye after Scully stomped off and I
turned back toward the door.

Two men were following her progress across the
room.  Damn that dress.  One was a blond, wiry
guy who looked about 17 but must be at least forty.
The other was Skinner, hunched over, whispering
something in the guy's ear to send him scurrying in
Scully's direction.  For the second time tonight, I
was rooted to the spot, watching my partner.
/What did you expect, asshole?/ a voice says from
somewhere behind my eyes.  Once freed of my
temporary paralysis, my legs carried me here of
their own will.  There must be something in the
files about involuntary movements of limbs or
digits.

OK.  I came of age in the dark, overlapping days of
disco and punk.  With one memorable exception, I
haven't been near a dance floor - or a mosh pit, for
that matter - in I don't know how long.  But I strode
down here like Fred Fucking Astaire, and here I
am, barely lifting my feet for fear I'll crush Scully's
toes.  And lovely toes they are, painted a delicate
pink, peeking out of her high heels.  Staring at our
feet gives me a few seconds to figure out what to
say.  She beats me to it.

"I thought there was somewhere you had to be?"
she asks guilelessly.

"Yeah - uh," I pat the jacket pocket where I usually
keep the phone.  "Byers called.  The boys are all
down with the flu.  Very contagious.  They didn't
want to infect me, too."

"Mmmhmm...that's a shame."  She cocks her head.
"Maybe we should go by there, see if they need
anything from the pharmacy.  This new South
American strain of influenza can be lethal.  Here -"
she reaches for my breast pocket "-let's call them,
make sure they're all right."

I quickly bring my hand down over hers, over the
empty pocket.  "Can't.  Battery's low - I lost the
connection talking to Byers."  I call her bluff.  "Why
don't you use yours?"

She shrugs innocently, enjoying every second of
my squirming like a live specimen under her
microscope.  "I left it in the car, Mulder.  I told you -
no pockets.  Besides, who brings a phone to a
wedding?"  She can't resist a victorious little
half-smile.  Seeing that smile, I don't even care.

This little exchange lets Scully put me in my place
while simultaneously letting me off the hook.  How
does she do that with such grace?  And why?  It
has also distracted her enough to allow herself to
relax a little in my arms.  She leaves her hand on
my chest, with my fingers curled around it.
Meanwhile, the band has shifted into a
down-tempo number.

With the speed of a glacier, I slide my hand around
to the small of Scully's back and pull her an inch or
two closer.  We're still dancing at a respectable
distance.  A prom chaperone would approve.
Something about her posture and sudden
quietness tells me she wants to be even nearer,
but the situation and her own sense of space hold
her back.

I can't help thinking, that though I've held her
closer on more than one occasion, there is
something slightly unsettling about the way we
cling to each other now.  It's as if our bodies exert
a gravitational pull on each other and only our own
inhibitions keep us from colliding and erupting in
flames.  We feel the heat of these flames, even as
we chastely sway on a crowded dance floor, our
easy conversation dissolved into a heavy silence,
and neither of us daring to look the other in the
eye.

Still, now that an opportunity to be this close to
Scully has presented itself, I'm sure as hell going
to enjoy it.  I lean imperceptibly closer, breathing
her in.  Her scent is warm, sweet and a little
earthy, like sun-ripened apricots.  Her bare arms
and shoulders glow under the soft light, her skin
supple and soft-looking.  I ache to slide my hands
along the length of those arms, following with my
lips and tongue, tasting every inch, fingertips to
collarbone.

I picture Scully getting ready for tonight, stepping
out of the shower, smoothing a fragrant lotion over
her arms, shoulders, neck, belly, breasts.  /Whoa,
whoa whoa/.  Too much.  Too far.  I shake my
head slightly to clear the steam from between my
ears.

Scully gives me a confused look.  "No, what,
Mulder?  Are you feeling all right?"

There's genuine concern in her voice.  I smile
sheepishly and in a thick voice assure her I'm fine.
She doesn't know what to make of the expression
that must still hang on my features, probably
somewhere between dazed and confused.

"Are you sure?  You look flushed.  Do you have a
fever?"  The hand I'm not holding presses against
my forehead.  She can't be taking the Lone Gun flu
seriously, can she?  Maybe she's starting to buy it.
That would be typical Scully procedure:
Immediately dismiss anything implausible I throw
out, then chew on it for a while and reconsider if
any hard evidence turns up. I've come to rely on
that process, to need it.  Need her.

"Seriously. I'm great," I say a little too loudly, then
confess into her waiting ear, "I - I'm glad I decided
to hang around for a while."

Her answer is a smug, mildly surprised grin.  But it
does bring her eyes up to mine.  Looking down into
her face, I'm picturing that fogged-up bathroom
again.  But this time, I'm there too, spreading lotion
across her shoulder blades, kissing my way down
the curve of her spine.  I'm on the verge of circling
my tongue around the tiny dimples above her ass
when I suddenly feel a pang of uneasiness.

A familiar hot swelling between my legs comes as
no surprise.  But I realize all at once that while I've
immersed myself in a fantasy, the real live subject
is directly before me, rocking side to side, her hand
over my heart.  A cool flood of shame washes over
me.  I've fantasized about Scully plenty - and with
increasing frequency as the years have passed -
but never while she was physically this close.  Yet,
for some reason, instead of backing away, I am
emboldened.

I have touched Scully in comfort, in friendship, and
now, in a way that could be called social
obligation.  But never without an excuse, never in
any way that couldn't be innocently explained
away, even as that contact later launched any
number of uninnocent daydreams. And, I should
add, that though touching her and having her
touch me is always pleasant, I have never touched
her sheerly for pleasure.

The hand that has been resting at the small of her
back begins to slide slowly upward, along the
zipper of her dress, resisting a passing but
powerful urge to grasp it and pull for all I'm worth.
Instead, I trace the edging lightly with one finger
before slipping the whole of my splayed hand
further up and across the silky expanse of her bare
back.  I let it wander in a wide, lazy circle, over one
shoulder blade, to the nape of her neck, then down
along the other side, slowly, so slowly, and back to
the center, where my thumb draws tiny
figure-eights over her spine.  I know I'm crossing a
line here.  A line so deeply ingrained, so
long-standing, that the sands of time have all but
covered over it, erased it completely.  I'm trying to
work out a way to say all of this to Scully when she
breathes in sharply, blinks hard, and tries to
suppress a tiny shudder.

###

"Mulder."  It takes a moment to get his attention.
Almost the entire time we are dancing, he looks
like he is a million miles away, off in another solar
system or a black hole.  What is going on in that
skull of yours, Mulder?  Where is it you want to be
instead of here, dancing with me?  Who is there
with you?  What is putting the beginnings of a
self-satisfied smile on your lips?

"Mulder," I repeat, "the music has stopped."

He resurfaces, stops shuffling, and offers a
half-shrug.  "Oops.  Forgive my faux-pas.  What
can I say - I'm a dancin' fool."  From the slow, soft
delivery of these words, if I didn't know better, I'd
say he was stoned.  But his eyes are clear and
focused.

On me.

All at once, the answers to my questions gather on
the horizon.  It's me.  We've been right here on a
dim dance floor the whole the time, volleying little
electric sparks back and forth, with him absently
caressing my back, sending arctic grade shivers
down my spine.  But in some well-lighted room in
Mulder's mind, we were somewhere else entirely.
And I get the impression now that we weren't
chasing down a band of extraterrestrial bovine
exsanguinators.

I'm suddenly overly aware of every point where our
bodies are touching, especially where my hand
rests over his heart, feeling its strong, steady beat
and the smooth muscles under his clothes.
Glancing down, I notice one of my sandals planted
squarely on Mulder's toes.  He doesn't seem to
notice.

"Scully - uh - I'm kind of particular about these
shoes.  And you're about to crush two of my
favorite toes. "

I mumble an apology, dropping my arms away from
him, somehow embarrassed now that the song is
over.  Within seconds, the band is onto another
tune, this one bouncy and oddly familiar.  Mulder's
broad hand is against my back, stilled, but
unmistakably there.  I must be wearing a
too-serious expression, because he pushes out a
short laugh and asks, "What's the matter?  Not up
for the Hokey Pokey?"

"I'm up for just about anything," I challenge.  I know
he's caught my tone, but looks as if he hasn't
heard correctly, and gives a strange little cough.

"You want me to put an end to all the speculation?"
he furrows his brow, realizing how that must
sound.

"What speculation, exactly?" I push the parallel
conversations one degree further.

"The speculation that Spooky Mulder has no sense
of humor.  Especially when it comes to himself."
He grins - in relief? - and leads me to place in a
wide semi-circle just as the bandleader begins to
croon, "You put your right foot in, you put your right
foot out..."

This is absolutely surreal.  Far rarer than a
hundred Human Blockheads.  I laugh almost
without break at the sight of Walter Skinner, an
Assistant Director of the Federal Bureau of
Investigation and a few fellow Fibbies wriggling
their ankles like seven year-olds.  I laugh to see
Mulder, too, watching his long, beautiful limbs
flailing loosely about, an open-mouthed, all-out
smile having taken over his entire face; at myself,
thoroughly and utterly silly and un-self-conscious,
for the first time in far too long.  It feels so good to
let go like this.  I am momentarily...liberated.

I am unbelievably turned on.

The game ends, Mulder and I still grinning like
fools.  This is one of those moments in
overwrought, idealistic  romance novels - okay, I'm
not proud to admit I've read one or two - where the
hero and heroine give each other a meaningful
look, draw each other into a fierce embrace and
finally confess their mutual love and admiration.
Which, if they'd simply done two hundred pages
earlier, would have ended the story right there.

As if I need reminding, my life is most definitely
/not/ a romance novel.  And, as if to prove it to me
yet again, Mulder claps a hand lightly on my
shoulder, laughing, "Look at you Special Agent
Scully - who knew you could Hokey like a pro!  I
don't think I've seen you smile so much since they
doubled the number of women's toilets in the
Hoover Building."  Oh Mulder, you hopeless
romantic.  Nevertheless, my spirits remain high
until the bandleader calls out, "All right, all you
unattached fillies out there - it's that time.  Come
on up to the bandstand and let's see which one of
you lucky gals will be the next to hire Big Bob and
the Boppers!"

Absolutely not.  My shoulders slump and I make a
face of pure disdain.  Mulder gives me a look of
mild, mocking surprise.  "What? Don't tell me
you're not going to take a shot at the coveted
bridal bouquet?"

I cross my arms before me.  "I'm certainly not going
to line up like a piece of chattel hoping I'll get lucky
enough to be the next one harnessed to the yoke."
Wow. All-time land speed record for breaking the
mood.  Way to go, Dana.

It gets a laugh from Mulder, though.  He puts his
hands on my shoulders and turns me around,
ushering me over to where a tight knot of a dozen
or so women, presumably unattached, are waiting
for Sharon Skinner to fling her flowers over her
shoulder.

"Mulder..." I offer a feeble, whiny protest.  I am
already attached, I want to say.  More married than
half of the wives I know.  Or so it seems for the
moment.

"Listen Scully, there's somewhere else I have to
be.  You can get yourself home?"

"Of course, but -"

He looks apologetic and relieved all at once.
"Good luck.  I'll see you in the morning."

Having delivered me into this crowd, he gives me a
little wave and turns toward the door.  I'll be
damned if I'm going to chase after him a second
time tonight. And I know with a sinking surety that
this time, he's not coming back.

I'm still fuming when a forest of arms rises up
around me, my own among them.
 

END 2/10

The Shirt - 3/10
DISCLAIMER:  See part 1
 

I glance back toward the dance floor just before
pushing through the ballroom's double doors.  I spot
Scully with her arms waving in the air, giving in to the
competition of the moment because she just can't
resist the pull to best anyone in any situation.  There
is a look of pure determination on that gorgeous face,
ignited, no doubt, by her fury with me and my abrupt
exit.  I hang by the door just long enough to watch her
spring off the floor, arms reaching high, higher,
snatching the flowers out of the air, thwarting the
attempts of the statuesque dark-haired woman
directly behind her.  Back on terra firma, a 1000-watt
smile of triumph flashes across Scully's face, and she
high-fives the tall colleague, who has at least six
inches on her.  Spontaneously, I raise my fist to her
victory, chuckling to myself as I head out into the
chilly spring evening.

It's not as if I don't feel like a real shit for bailing on
Scully.  But feeling shitty is virtually second nature to
me.  Most of the time, I take little notice of it, letting it
run its course through me like a low-grade fever.  And
if I don't exactly enjoy it, at least it's familiar.  Scully's
ire, though unpleasant, will pass.  I don't look forward
to the day when she finally decides not to forgive me
for one of these little stunts.

She doesn't know the favor I'm doing her by getting
the hell out of Dodge while I had the chance.  I
completely let my guard down tonight, starting with
that moronic fantasy and working up to the Hokey
Pokey.  At some point in between, I noticed that the
shitty feeling had disappeared.  That was a red flare,
because it's whenever I feel unburdened of that
constant weight that I know the sky is about to cave
in.  Happens time and time again.  I usually get just
enough time to let the lightness settle over me before
the mushroom cloud erupts.  This time, I didn't want
Scully standing in the bull's-eye.

Not to sound too cocky, but I could see where the
night was headed. One more slow dance like that last
one and I would've been leading Scully to a room
upstairs where I would have devoured her with teeth
sharpened on five years' attraction and denial.  And
then....what?

Even assuming the fair Dana would have let down
her own inhibitions and allowed herself to act out of
pure, untempered instinct - and I pause here to
consider that assumption fully - I repeat: Then what?
Watch the Bureau separate us again?  Let the men
who took her from me and nearly let her die an early,
agonizing death pit us against one another?  Not to
mention what substantiated rumors of fraternization
with her partner would do to her career.  The Bureau
is brutal on its female agents who don't play by the
book.  Scully has already put her reputation on the
line more times than can possibly be healthy.
Because of me.  As I walk the six blocks to an
appointment at a bar in another hotel, I predict the
entire meteoric rise and crash of our phantom love
affair, knowing that our friendship, our jobs and our
lives would inevitably follow. I set this meeting for
tonight on purpose, to give me a marginally justifiable
reason to make an early exit, should anyone have
asked, before things could progress too far to turn
back.

Jesus.  I can't believe I let him get to me.  That
bastard, Skinner.  He has to make sure everyone's
following the rules.  After making his little
announcement two weeks ago, he dismissed Scully
and asked me to stay back.

"So," I rubbed my hands together, "I know
strip-o-grams are popular these days, but I think I can
find something much more interesting in the celluloid
vault."

Skinner was wholly unamused. "Agent Mulder, what
in the hell are you talking about?"

"Planning the bachelor party?"

He regarded me stonily.  "Later."  His tone softened
slightly.  "You understand now why I've been
somewhat distracted lately.  I haven't been tracking
your work closely since your infiltration of the militia
group.  Anything new to report on that front?"

"You tell me, sir," I reply.  Immediately regretting the
flippancy in my tone, I scramble to add, "You heard,
of course, of the untimely and unnatural demise of
Jacob Haley."  He nods.  "Scully has been
researching every pathogen she can identify that
shares characteristics with the bio-weapon tested in
Ohio.  Through unofficial sources, we've had reports
of similar-sounding agents in California and Alabama,
but we've only been able to obtain microscopic tissue
samples from the bodies.  Agent Scully continues to
carry out further lab analysis, but I don't really see the
point."  My voice takes on a bitterer edge.  "We know
who was responsible for the deaths in Ohio and
Folger Park and there's not a goddamn thing we can
do about it."  Recalling my own role as patsy in that
scam brought a fresh rush of shame up my spine.
"Other than that, we've just been working background
on some stalled projects."

"And Agent Scully.  How is she dealing with Dara
Kernoff's death and the subsequent...events?"

I shrugged, noting the concern in his voice,
wondering what brought that up.  "She seems to be
holding her own well enough.  She took a couple of
personal days, but you know her.  She says she
needs work to feel whole."

"Is she still taking advantage of the Bureau's
counseling services?"

"I think so, but I haven't asked how regularly."  This
little rap session was beginning to feel familiar, like
the regular updates I used to give him during Scully's
illness.  It was oddly comforting then to have
someone to discuss her condition with.  No matter
how deep his concern, and how deeply sublimated,
that stoic exterior let me deal with the turmoil a little
more calmly.  Scully didn't like discussing the
particulars much and worked hard at protecting both
me and herself from careening out of control on that
narrow, twisting emotional highway.  Near the end of
the ordeal, when push literally came to shove,
Skinner forced me to find a solution, instead of letting
my anger and grief consume me.  But I could tell he
had an agenda that morning, was heading
somewhere I didn't want to go.

"Sir, shouldn't you be asking Agent Scully all this?"

"If I wanted to ascertain Agent Scully's physical or
psychological state, I /could/ ask her, or simply
consult her personnel record.  What I've been trying
to determine, Agent Mulder, is /your/ level of
communication with your partner and /your/
impression of her well-being" he explained, as if to a
developmentally disabled six year-old.

The son of a bitch wanted to know how we were
getting along, probably whether we were sleeping
together, as there are certainly rumors to that effect in
circulation.  Of all people, he knew how it tore me
apart to keep my involvement in the Bremer
investigation a secret from Scully.  He could damn
well have taken some responsibility for any lapse in
trust that might have engendered.

Even though I knew the answer before asking, I
decided to force the point.  "With all due respect, sir,
may ask where you're going with this line of
interrogation?"

He registered my sarcasm, chewed on his options
and finally said,  "I'll be frank with you, Mulder.  I'm
concerned about the path I see your relationship with
Scully taking.  I've fought tooth and nail to keep you
partnered up in the X-files, because you make one
hell of a team.  Your devotion to  the work and to
each other is admirable, but potentially extremely
dangerous.  Given the losses and near-misses you've
both already sustained since you became partners,
I'm sure you're all too aware of the peril to which you
subject each other."  Then he used the phrases I've
been trying to get out of my head ever since.
Fraternization.  Protocol.  Policy.  Sexual harassment.
Lack of propriety.  Objectivity.  Reputation.
Departmental integrity.  And my personal favorite:
Self-Preservation.  Mine.  Hers.  His.

I listened as politely and coolly as I could, for as long
as I could before interrupting.  "A.D. Skinner, not that
I should have to tell you this, but let me assure you I
have considered all of these issues."  I fought to
retain my composure.

"And Agent Scully?" he asked, glaring at me narrowly.

"I have no doubt that, if she feels they are relevant to
her, she has thought them through."

"'If relevant?'  So you are saying these issues do hold
relevance for you, Agent Mulder?"  And when did you
stop beating your wife?

I have no reply, so he answers for me.  "From what
I've observed, they do.  For both of you."  He paused
and took on a confessional tone.  "I'm a man who has
finally made some peace in his personal life, Mulder,
set some priorities straight, so maybe these things
are foremost in my mind and are making me go out of
my way to see situations, connections, that don't
exist."  He paused for a moment, considering his own
doubts.

"I've given the two of you a lot of leeway to pursue
investigations as you've seen fit.  Your results have
been consistently above Bureau standards, and when
they're not, it has been sufficient in my mind that
you've raised necessary questions, even when the
answers have eluded you.  For that reason, I'm
generally reluctant to interfere with your methods or
question the dynamics of your partnership.  It is
imperative you understand that I personally am not
interested in what you - either of you - do off duty.
But I must ask you directly:  What is the nature of
your relationship with Agent Scully?"

A thousand replies sprang to mind.  Lust.  Ache.
Unquenchable thirst and insatiable hunger.  Safe
harbor.  Love.  Truth.  Redemption.  I voiced none of
these things, said nothing at all.

Gingerly, and with visible discomfort, he finally
reached ground zero and dropped the bomb:  "Are
you in love with her?"

In a tight voice, and without raising my eyes to his, I
answered as simply and truthfully as I could.  "I
respect Agent Scully.  I trust her.  I care about what
happens to her."  My control began a long slide down
a slippery slope.  "She is the finest agent I've worked
with, one of the sharpest minds I've ever
encountered, and probably - no, definitely - the best
friend I've ever had.  I can't imagine ever doing
something stupid enough to jeopardize that."  Shakily,
I stood and made for the door to the outer office.

"That's what I thought," he said quietly, then handed
me a parting shot.  "Back during Watergate, we called
that a non-denial denial."

I refused to turn around, to give him the satisfaction
of my anguish, even though I knew perfectly well that
my own interests were foremost among his concerns.
"Call it what you want," I said quietly, striding across
the floor and closing the door behind me with a quiet
click.

Leaving Skinner's office, I didn't feel like going back
to the basement, couldn't face Scully given the denial
I'd just endured.  Instead, I made my way through the
bullpen and leaned into the glass double doors,
heading out without direction, just needing to move.

Story of my life.  Keep moving.  Don't stop, don't even
slow down, or you're dead.  But the joke's on me,
because for all of this motion, I'm not getting
anywhere.  At least I didn't give Skinner an opening
to ask what would surely have been his next
question.  `Does she love you?'  Well, does she?
How would I have answered, without sounding cocky
or deluded, or both?

`Of course she does, sir.  Haven't you seen the looks
she gives me, especially when she thinks I'm not
paying attention?  But you have to watch carefully, sir
because we're the only two who can feel it, and the
really high-voltage stares only happen when no one
else is around.  Scully's not one for lavish displays of
affection so you'll almost never catch her groping my
ass.'  Unspoken sarcasm is the bitterest kind.  `No,
Mr. Skinner, she hasn't told me in so many words, but
we share this quasi-telepathic means of
communication.  If we didn't love each other, how
else on earth could we have put up with each other
this long?'

I walked around the city for nearly two hours that
afternoon before returning to my office.  At one point,
I collapsed on a park bench, reliving moments I could
point to as proof of the depth of our connection,
knowing that, even if she truly wanted it, openly
giving Scully my love would be, at best, a dubious
gift.

I thought back to the night Scully poured out all of the
reasons she was bound and determined to fight her
cancer.  Among them all, she didn't list the sheer
delight of being with me.  She didn't have to.  I saw it.
I felt it when her arms encircled my waist, under my
jacket, not just resting her head on my chest, but
burrowing into it.  Or maybe I am delusional.  Maybe
she just needed someone - anyone. If Frohike had
held vigil outside Penny Northern's room that night,
would she still have been momentarily mollified by
platitudes about truth and salvation?

Scully's brother was right.  I am one sorry son of a
bitch.  He flattered me.  I'm not just sorry, but sick.
One sick bastard, that's me.  Because in that empty
hallway, exhausted and scared, and clutching at my
partner, I was unbearably aroused.  That's right, tell
me you have a terminal disease and I'm poppin'
wood.

No.  Her show of strength and vulnerability all
wrapped up together was what did me in.  I wanted to
take her home, into my bed, as if fucking her with my
whole body, my whole soul, would make it all go
away.  As if I could make love to her with such
passion, give her such pleasure, and finally confess
how completely I love her, there wouldn't be room for
anything else.

It was an rare instance where we were able to open
up to each other at the same time.  Normally, in terms
of emotional disclosure, Scully and I have
spectacularly lousy timing.  She risks laying herself
open to me and I'll crack a joke or pretend I haven't
heard; I somehow know to reach out to her just as
she's looking for the nearest exit.  We put physical
and emotional distance between ourselves in the
belief that it will keep our partnership untainted.  And
how else to define love than by the ache that comes
with separation, voluntary or enforced?  I know.  Sick.
Sorry.

So I'm sitting here in the hotel bar, nursing an iced
tea, catching the odd glance from the bartender,
probably wondering who the freak who just left was.
No.  Freak is too harsh.  Deranged, deluded even.
Probably in need of serious psychiatric intervention.

We sat here for two hours while he gave me
"information" so fantastical, and more importantly, so
illogical, ill-conceived and patently disprovable that
even I couldn't take it seriously.  Funny how people
who can sound so reasonable and credible in an
e-mail message can turn out to have only a passing
acquaintance with reality.  The icing on the cake was
when he asked me to autograph an article that
appeared several years ago in a MUFON journal.  It
wasn't even my article.

So now I've proved myself a schmuck twice in one
night.  I hang my head, letting the tip of my nose
touch the glossy wood of the bar.  I consider ordering
something stronger than tea, thinking the burn of
whisky in my throat might bring me some clarity.
Instead, I opt for the thudding ache of self-pity.

I contemplate the span of my life for a moment, which
I tend to do when I've just had a fresh reminder of
how far removed it is from...normalcy, I guess.  Was
Neil Young right?  Is it better to burn out than to fade
away?

Am I going to be doing this when I'm seventy years
old?  Waiting in bars and back alleys and deserted
parking garages for some shadowy figure to leak the
one crucial piece of information that will finally bring
this quest to an end?  If I were to meet the individual
tomorrow who could give me definitive proof of
exactly what happened to Samantha - why she was
abducted and how she came to call Cancer Man her
father - what would I do then?  After everything I've
seen, knowing how wide the net of obfuscation and
injustice is spread, how complicated this web we're
caught in is, would I be satisfied with that?  With
finding the answers to just one of a hundred-thousand
mysteries?  Could I just walk away - put away
everything I've experienced?

Let's dream big for a minute.  Let's say, thirty years
down the line, the Bureau finally acknowledges the
legitimacy of the work we're doing - that feels so
oddly right to say "we" in terms of the far-off future,
but I'll consider Scully separately - and they give me
autonomy over the X-Files division.  I'm 67 years old.
I've got a whole staff of young, brave investigators.
Do I become the Matlock of the paranormal?  Creep
around suspicious DOD facilities with my flashlight in
one hand and my oxygen stroller in the other?

And what about Scully?  If we were somehow ever to
pinpoint the criminals responsible for her abduction,
her cancer and the tragedy of Emily's life and death,
then bring them all to justice, would this all end for
her?  Will she leave me when her own mysteries are
solved?  Will she need me then?  And do I believe
any longer that we can ever achieve those aims?  I
want to believe we can...or do I, if it means facing the
possibility of losing Scully to a `mundanely enjoyable'
life?  Better that than to lose her irrevocably when her
nine lives eventually run out.

My tea is long gone.  I've even chewed through the
last of the ice, my tongue numb.  I raise my head from
the bar top and glance around.  The place has mostly
cleared out, save for a huddle of post-grad policy
wonks in their power ties over in the corner.  Nothing
like asking yourself the big questions after midnight
on a Monday morning.  I suddenly feel exhausted.  I
pay my tab, slide off the stool and go off toward the
Metro stop and the Alexandria station.  I climb on the
train, hoping that, once home, sleep can claim me for
a few hours, that blackness can absorb some of this
loathing.
 

END 3/10

The Shirt 4/10
DISCLAIMER: See part 1
 

It was an early night, sort of.

I politely waited around for the garter toss, with its
accompanying striptease soundtrack and
testosterone-induced hooting.  Actually, none but the
drunkest had the guts to make cat-calls over
Skinner's round of territorial glares.  That, at least,
was entertaining.  Mental note:  Demand and destroy
all copies and negatives of the traditional
bouquet/garter-catcher photo.

I was home by eleven and in bed a half-hour later.  It
was difficult to let go of the anger I still harbored over
Mulder's abrupt departure and couldn't stop trying to
imagine where he had taken off to, whom he had to
see.  Around midnight, I broke down and tried calling
his apartment, and got the machine.  I didn't leave a
message.  I managed to convince myself I had too
much self-respect to try reaching him on his cel
phone.  Besides, I don't think I really want to know
where he was or with whom.  Unable to settle down, I
found myself channel surfing and finally drifted off
during a Discovery Channel documentary on the
mating habits of the praying mantis.

I made a point of rising a little before usual this
morning so I could hit the lap pool in the gym before
the early crowd amassed.  There's something about
the rhythm of moving through water when I have the
pool all to myself that lets me focus my thoughts.  The
soothing sounds of lapping water and my own
breathing let me sink into a meditative state.  Even
when, like today, I don't arrive at any conclusions, I
still come out thinking straighter that when I went in.

A little later,  Mulder looks surprised that I've beaten
him into the office (arriving first being precisely my
other reason for getting up at the crack of dawn),
though he is apparently eager to get a jump on the
day as well.

"Morning," he nods, hanging up his coat.

"Morning," I reply, turning back to my computer
screen.

I can't, I won't be the one to open for discussion the
events of last night.  The air is alive with tension.  He
wants to say something, I can feel it.  He's afraid to
ask outright how the rest of the reception turned out,
and he's certainly not going to apologize for taking
off, let alone tell me where he went.  At least, not
without a hell of a lot of prodding. I'm not in the mood
to play Spanish Inquisition.

Besides, the sight of him in my favorite shirt is
distracting.  I wonder if he knows I have favorites
among the items of his wardrobe.  I doubt it.  I don't
imagine he has his clothing categorized according to
What Drives Scully To Distraction.  That shirt would
always be at the top of the laundry rotation, if such
things were up to me.  It fits him like nothing else I've
ever seen him wear.  The fabric is fine cotton and
drapes his body as if his muscled shoulders were
doing it a favor by allowing it to grace him.  But it's
the color that makes it remarkable.  A deep
blue-gray-green, it is exactly the hue his hazel eyes
take on when he's lost in thought, rolling a complex
riddle around in his head, making connections,
looking like he's about to coax the secrets of the
universe out of the Sphinx.  It's a pleasure to watch
him in that state, even when I'm shooting down
whatever theory results from it.  Not often, but every
once in a while, I catch him fixing me with that dusky
gaze, as if he's processing some piece of information
that will finally unravel the enigma that is Special
Agent Doctor Dana Katherine Scully.  Good luck, pal.

The casters of his chair squeak painfully when he
collapses into it, breaking my reverie.  He starts rifling
through the piles of paper on his desk.  Collecting a
stack of files, he catches me watching him on his way
to the file cabinet.  He twitches his eyebrows as if to
say `What are you looking at?'

"You look like hell, Mulder," I toss off, peering over
the tops of my glasses.  He does.  It hurts to look at
him.  Hurts more to consider the possible reasons for
his unfocused state.  Wherever he escaped to last
night must not have turned out according to plan.

He lets out a squeaky, self-deprecating laugh.  "Not
all of us can look so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on
so little sleep."

"Strange words from a man whose personal definition
of R.E.M. is `Ready Ever Mulder," I try to inflect a
casual tone.  "And why do you assume I didn't get
much sleep last night?"  I pause for a second.
"Because to told me not to stay out too late?"  Damn.
I didn't mean to go there.  I'm going to be sorry for
that.  But he doesn't zing back, despite a perfect
opening.

"Should've taken my own advice," he replies quietly,
sitting down again.

I don't know how to respond. I came out punching but
he just threw up his hands and collapsed against the
ropes.  God, I feel like a bully.

###

So Scully had a late night, did she?  I'm not even
going to ask myself, let alone her.

Paper.  I'm drowning in it.  If I weren't so paranoid, I'd
requisition a file clerk to put all this crap in order.  My
inability to focus this morning exists in sharp relief to
Scully's even cooler, calmer and more-collected self.
I'm making all kinds of conspicuous busy-work
noises:  Slamming drawers, feeding outdated files
into the shredder, shuffling and re-shuffling piles of
paper.  No remark from Scully, just a sideways glance
or two.

After a couple of hours of uncomfortable near-silence,
I decide to venture what should sound like a little light
conversation, but quickly turns into something else
entirely.

"So...," I start, "didja catch the bouquet?" That's
mistake number 1, pulling up the thread of a
conversation she obviously didn't want to continue in
the first place.

She makes that little noise in her throat that means
I've caught her off guard and she isn't sure how to
answer, if at all.  "No." She sips at her coffee and
won't meet my eyes.  "Cindy Duran. Over in Hate
Crimes?"

My turn to be unprepared.  "Well, don't feel bad.
She's...uh...pretty tall, isn't she?"

"She's got quite a reach," Scully agrees too readily.

"She could play for the Sparks," I add lamely.

"Three-time All-American at UCLA, I believe she
said."

"There you go," I say, trying to sound casual, but
getting more and more pissed off by the second.
What the hell is going on with you, Scully?  Why lie
about something so inconsequential?  Then, and
epiphany.  I pushed her to into it, and she's refusing
me the satisfaction of having won.  What the hell,
let's see how far I can go down this road.  "How `bout
the garter?"

"Huh? Oh...uh...David Rosen, I think - Sharon's
brother."

I nod. "That the guy you were dancing with?"

"Yep."

"I'll have to stop over by Duran's desk, see if she's
got the photo of her and Rosen.  They'd make quite a
couple, with the height difference and all..."  Her eyes
widen almost imperceptibly, then narrow to shoot me
a sideways look that would shrivel cactus.  Finally a
response. The last five years have given me a certain
amount of practice in cracking that shell, but it is
amazingly durable.

She arches one eyebrow and responds dryly, "Don't
laugh, I saw them catching a cab together as I was
leaving."

Is that it? Was she getting her hopes up for /him?/

"Well, I hope they find a better band for their wedding
that Bob and the Boppers," I say, immediately
regretting it.

Scully rolls her head back on her shoulders, then
finally faces me head on. "Is there a point to this
conversation?" she asks.

I purse my lips and start to shake my head.  But the
words come out before I can stop them.  "Just
wondering what's got you so freaked out about a
bunch of flowers that you'd have to lie about it."

###

My blood turns to ice water.  My turn to go to the mat.
I'm trapped in his accusatory glare, his eyes nearly
black with anger and - what - pain, betrayal? Over
something so pointless?  So pointless I had to
fabricate a goddamn story.  I sigh and turn away,
rising out of my chair.  I pull off my glasses, rub at my
eyes.

"Forget it," he says, not meaning it.  I hear him wheel
his chair around and push out of it.

"So you do have eyes in the back of your head," I
say, turning around, sounding colder and more
accusatory than I intend.

That gets him to face me.  "I'm sorry," he offers
angrily.

"For what?" I counter, "I'm the grown woman who
made of spectacle of herself participating in a ritual I
don't even like.  A supposed adult acting like a damn
fifteen year-old who couldn't handle her best friend
leaving the party for a better offer.  I'm the one who
should be sorry." My throat begins to constrict.

At the words `better offer,' Mulder lets out a short
bitter laugh and shakes his head.  After a moment he
ventures, "The Church teaches that there are sins of
omission as well as commission, isn't that right?"

I nod, sensing I've missed a segue somewhere.

"If I were to let you assume I had done one thing, but
really done another, and avoided telling you the truth,
that's just the same as lying, isn't it?"

Searing cold flashes through me.  What does he think
I did last night, anyway? "Yes, but, I'm telling you
now, I admit caught the stupid thing, and I went home
by myself twenty minutes later.  I didn't mean to
suggest that I was out all night with David Rosen or
anyone else.  And it's debatable that leaving out the
details of the rest of my evening is even relevant
here.  How is it that even a discussion of my personal
life turns into a philosophical discourse?"  Only after
the words tumble out do I realize I've said far too
much.

He flinches at the words, `my personal life' as if I don't
have any business having one.  Truth be told, I don't
really have one, anyway.  Mulder heaves another
sigh, as if trying to explain something to a two
year-old, his patience evaporated.  "I didn't mean to
parade the sacred cow of /your personal life/ before
the USDA, Scully, and it /is/ beside the point.  I'm
trying to apologize for last night."

Last night.  I wanted to avoid this at all costs, but
we're already in too deep.  I must still look perplexed.
"You weren't talking about me just now?"

He shakes his head.  "I had an appointment with a
potential source last night in Georgetown and it was a
fiasco," he says quietly.

"And you didn't want to tell me about it because you
knew it was a specious lead to begin with."
Momentary relief sweeps over me, replaced in quick
succession by anger, annoyance and frustration.

"I had my suspicions, yes."

"And because you knew how I'd react if you'd just told
me that up front."  My own voice has become softer
now, too.

He nods, still angry with himself and me.  Despite the
quieter tone our discussion has taken, I feel anger
again bubbling below my skin, though I'm not sure I'm
entitled to it.  Neither of us says anything for several
moments.

Finally, he asks with wrenching sincerity, "How do we
keep ending up back here, Scully? Selectively
wounding each other with what we hold back?"  This
question runs much deeper that the trivial issues we
have ostensibly been arguing.  A bridal bouquet, a
fruitless meeting.  He's venturing into uncharted
territory, here.  As usual, I'm reluctant to follow
without knowing the lay of the land first.  I can't take
the intensity of his eyes on mine, so I drop my head
to my chest, choosing the road more traveled.

"Mulder, is it logical or fair to compare what we do in
our off-hours to what goes on in relation to our work?
Do you honestly see our lives as being that closely
intertwined?"  Posing this last question feels like
leaping from a cliff.

His only answer is to turn his back to me and snort,
"Logic..."

That does it.

###

I can feel her stare shooting through my back.  That
was mistake number 2...or number 37, I've lost count
now...deriding her precious logic.  There's nothing
logical about how we operate, surely it can't have
escaped her notice.  I thought, deep down, she had
come to terms with the randomness of our lives -
excuse me, /my life/.  I've reached something far
beyond that inside of her, and she's hanging on for
dear life to the rock she knows best:  Reason.

"Mulder you become frustrated with me for keeping
things to myself that you perceive as essential to our
partnership."  I turn to face her.  "And for those
instances where our work has suffered because of it -
and I could count those instances on one hand - I
apologize.  But don't come after me with platitudes
about honesty unless you're willing to live up to them
yourself."

Pulling the sword from my gut, I try to explain.
"Scully, this guy I met with last night sounded so
promising on paper, but he was out of his mind -"

"I'm not just talking about last night," she cuts me off,
exasperated and humming with ire, "or even
instances where you feel the need to remain
secretive because of some misguided, albeit noble,
desire to protect me.  Here's a little honesty for you:
You can't." She immediately looks like she would like
to take it back, if she could.  If it weren't true.  Her lips
move soundlessly, searching for words.  Getting past
it, her forehead creasing, she adds more gently, "And
even if you could, that's not what I expect of or even
want from you.  That's not your job."

Oh, but it is.  And not just a job, but an adventure.  "I
expect you to protect /me/ on occasion," I manage to
slip in.

"But then you're talking about very specific,
immediately life-threatening situations."  She shakes
her head and sighs.  "I'm only trying to point out that
you say you want absolute truth, but the reality is that
there are things we /never talk about/, either because
we can't find the words to use or because we know
we can't deal with them honestly."

Red-hot warning signals go off before my eyes.
Where is she going with this? "Are you calling me a
hypocrite?"  I ask, barely controlling my temper.

"No. Never," she answers emphatically, then softly
adds, "just...human."

I'm caught off guard by the melancholy in her tone,
which causes my heart to clench.  Oh God, I want
nothing more at this moment than to erase the space
that separates us, to throw my arms around her, plant
a kiss on the mouth that can't tell me these truths and
make her show them to me instead.

The alarm on Scully's watch goes off.  She lets out a
frustrated groan and throws her head back.  "I have to
go," she says, gathering up her coat and keys.

I can't let her leave with all of this so up in the air.  I
make it to the door just as she's about to got through
it.  "Scully," I say, barely above a whisper, laying a
hand on her shoulder.  She turns her head, reads my
expression, and nods.  We'll finish this later.  I
manage a small smile as I reach down to squeeze her
hand.  She surprises me by leaning up to lay a fast
kiss on my cheek before closing the door behind her.
 

END 4/10

The Shirt - 5/10
DISLCAIMER: See part 1
 

Karen Kosseff knows me well.  An odd thing to say
about someone with whom I've held perhaps a dozen
or so conversations in five years' time.  But she
knows things about me that no other single person on
the planet does.  This doesn't disturb me because I
know it's her job.  She's a keeper of secrets, harborer
of other peoples' fears and angst, like a confessor
without a collar.  Her office is a safe place to voice
the thoughts that won't emerge in front of other
people.  People like Mulder and my mother, who have
a personal stake in these thoughts.  I have been
recounting the events of last night and this morning.

At one point, she asks, "We've talked in previous
sessions about your concerns that your partner feels
that you are his responsibility, that he may perceive it
his role to look after you, somehow.  But let me pose
this to you:  Would you say that censoring what you
tell your partner and others about your anxieties or
desires is a way of protecting them, as well as
yourself?"

"I suppose so," I say slowly, trying to absorb exactly
what she's getting at.  "To keep them from worrying
about my well-being, for instance."

"That's one example.  Or to avoid upsetting the
balance of the relationship, or altering its dynamic,"
she offers.

I pull in a deep breath at her acuity.  "Yes, though I
think my motivation in the latter examples is spurred
as much by a egotistical need to control certain
aspects of my life as by a concern for others."

"Of course," she agrees, "but often, so are the
motivations of others."

"You're saying that my partner, besides wanting to
protect me from possible injury or anxiety, may also
want to simply avoid getting into an argument, or
dealing with the consequences of having told me
something that might alter my own perceptions or
actions."

"Sounds like that's what you're saying."

"Got me." I smile a little to myself.  But something she
said about not being able to express my desires has
me perplexed.  I tend to be pretty upfront about my
goals and ambitions. They don't shame me like fear.
"When you suggested that I'm not forthcoming about
my desires, what did you mean?"

"Why don't you tell me?  Does the risk of expressing
what you want, or of pursuing it seem too great?" she
asks in her ultra-rational but sincere way.

"I never used to think so," I mumble.

"What's changed?" she asks gently.

I think hard on this before responding.  "The goals I
want to achieve. The person I want to be once I get
there." I say, and quietly add, "who I want with me."

"Tell me about that, Dana."

"It's funny.  On one hand, self-determination has
always been my guiding principle, despite, or maybe
because of, the presence of major players in my life
who hold substantial influence over me.  And part of
me seems to need that - it's part of how I define
myself - even as the other side demands total
autonomy.  Until a few years ago, that was my father,
and our relationship was pretty typical.  He was strict
but loving; I was eager-to-please but with a rebellious
streak.  After his death, I thought I had transferred
this dynamic to the relationship with my partner.  But
this man - whose opinion carries more weight with me
than I care to admit, by whom I measure myself, who
demands so much and needs so much I wonder
whether I can ever possibly be enough - is constantly
asking me to shake loose the ties that bind me."  A
notion that's been forming in my head for some time
now suddenly coalesces.  "Here's the paradox:  He
acts as if he wants me to let down my guard, be less
rigid in my standards, more open to `extreme
possibilities.'  But what he truly needs from me is
structure and stability.  So when I rebel against his
ideas, his plans, am I doing it to assert myself in the
face of his expectations, or out of a desire to fulfill
them?"

"Where your partner is concerned, is your desire to
meet his expectations one that you've had trouble
expressing?"

I take another deep breath, giving myself time to
think.  "Among others."  An encouraging look from
Karen prods me forward.  "It's hard to explain, but
one of the ways I've changed is that, deep down, I
like being challenged to push my limits, to push the
boundaries of my world-view.  I like the way my
partner, in particular, does the pushing.  I...I think I've
come to depend on it."

"You've spoken before about coming to terms with
relying on your partner's strength, his drive, and now
about he ways he motivates you to stretch yourself.
Your growing ability to accept these things seems to
me to reflect that you're becoming more comfortable
with a certain level of intimacy in your relationship."

I consider her words carefully and recognize the
essential, if fluctuating, truth of them.  I shrug, then
nod.  "It varies.  There are times when I feel so close
to him that words aren't even necessary.  Other
times, he's an utter mystery, and language isn't
sufficient to bridge the chasm that separates us."

"Is there a constant across that spectrum?  A
common thread woven into all of those perceptions?"

Karen is fond of saying that each of us knows how to
solve our own problems, that whatever truth we seek
is already deep within us, and just needs to be
allowed to come into the open.  When I nod and open
my mouth to answer her question, I realize how right
she has been all along.  "Love," I whisper.  She
smiles slightly.  She knew it was coming down to this.
"I love him."  I finally say aloud what I have known to
be true for a very long time.  And it feels good to say
it.

Right.

"I would like you to do something for me, Dana."  I
look up at her.  "The next time you're sharing one of
those intimate-feeling moments with your partner, do
your best to put into words the things we've been
discussing here today.  It isn't always best to rely on
silence to convey what you're thinking."

"Which part?" I feel it necessary to ask.

"Any of it," she smiles warmly.  "All of it."

###

I find Scully in an otherwise vacant lab spooning
cheesecake yogurt and peering into a microscope.
Her back is to me and she doesn't hear me come in.
For a long minute I admire the straight line of her
shoulders, the casual way she hooks her heels on the
rungs of the work stool, since her feet don't touch the
floor.  She brings her hands around low on her back,
stretches her spine, then slowly rotates her head a
few times.

I wonder if she knows how often I've taken to doing
this very thing.  Roaming the miles of Federal
Building corridors, hoping to spy the gloss of her
head bent over a specimen.  Seeing her like that, hair
tucked behind her ears, totally focused on a puzzle
always undoes me a little.  I feel a pounding in my
chest, then hear it in my ears.

Without warning, Scully wheels around to find me
looking at her, not quite managing to hide her
surprise at finding me here, watching her.  "Hi," she
says in a small voice.

Today, fortunately, I have a legitimate reason for
tracking her down.  "Hey," I answer, taking my cue to
move toward her on my suddenly rubbery knees,
unsure of whether my appearance is welcome.  "You
get cable on that thing?" I ask, indicating the
microscope, lobbing a soft one her way and getting a
little grin in return, a minor victory.

"Fifty-seven channels and nothin' on," she quips
back.  Any conversation where the Boss is quoted
can't turn out badly.

"I take that to mean the sample isn't yielding any
clues about the specific nature of the pathogen?"  I
segue into professional mode.

"Only that the decay was swift - we already knew that.
I just wish we had access to larger samples.  I
appreciate the trouble your contact took to get these
for us, but these cells just don't let me draw any
conclusions." She looks dejected, but I think I can
cheer her up.

"Well then today is your lucky day.  Larger sample,
you say? How about an entire body?"

Her eyes brighten at the prospect.  How can I be so
turned on by a woman who thrills to cutting open
corpses?  She's still pissed over not being able to get
her hands on any of the bodies from California or
Alabama before they were destroyed.  There was no
way for her to confirm that the substance that killed
another 11 people was the same as the one
unleashed in a small-town movie theater in Ohio.
Even though I have my doubts about being able to
unravel the covert government operation that has
continued to develop these bio-weapons, it still
seems crucial that we track their progress, learn what
they know, try to bring them into the light.  And the
renewed fire in Scully's eyes is all worth it.

"Up in rural Pennsylvania.  I got tipped to a body
found this morning by state troopers displaying what
sounds like remarkably similar indications of tissue
decay."

"Oh my God.  Did you warn them about how easily we
think it might be spread in its active state?"

"According to the troopers, they took one look, called
the medical examiner, and he went out in full
bio-hazard gear."

"And the M.E. hasn't alerted the CDD?"

"Not yet.  I convinced them to keep the body warm -
cold - just for you.  But we have to get down there this
afternoon."

A look of frustration passes over her.  "I'm still waiting
for the computer to finish running my data.  Will we
have time to stop at my apartment for my overnight
bag?"

"I hate to waste any more time than necessary.  I
don't think you're going to need it, anyway.  It'll only
take an hour and a half to get down there.  You can
look at the body, take some more substantive
samples, and we're outta there.  We'll be back
tonight."

She considers my timeline for a moment before
agreeing.  She gets that look in her eyes that tells me
she's excited about the potential of this little road trip.
I haven't seen that look in far too long.  It makes my
heart swell a little and I smile down at her.  She takes
it in for a second, acknowledging that the bond we
share is intact, if a bit mangled.

"So, why don't we meet up in the basement in an
hour?" she suggests.

"Sounds like a plan," I reply.  She goes back to her
scope, and I turn to leave, but am wrenched
backward by a loud, sharp "CHRIIIIIIIIST!"  I spin
back.  Scully's face is contorted in pain and she's got
one elbow pointed up behind her head as if trying to
work a cramp out of her neck.

A shot of sympathetic pain rings through me.  "Jesus,
Scully, what did you do?"

"Too much time spent hunching over stiffs," she tries
to joke, panting, her voice tight.

I try to say something soothing and figure out how to
ease her discomfort.  Slowly lowering her arm, I guide
her back to the stool.  "OK. Easy does it."  I lay my
hands on her shoulders, feeling the ache of her
tension in my own fingers.  I press them deeply
against her muscles, trying to get her to let go a little.
"Just take a few deep breaths," I croon, exerting more
pressure, really digging in with the heels of my hands.
I see her wince at the strength with which I knead at
her muscles, but in typical Scully fashion, she sucks it
up and doesn't make a peep of protestation.

I do my best not to notice that, at this angle, I can
look directly down the front of Scully's shirt, the little
bow at the top of her bra peeking out, the creamy
swells of her breasts just barely in view.  "Just think of
going limp," I murmur calmly, wondering which of us
I'm trying to convince.

Soon, the tightened muscles unknot, becoming softer
and more pliable.  Her shoulders lower in relief, and
her head bobs forward, revealing the tiny, raised
white scar at the nape of her neck.  My insides lurch
and unconsciously, I begin to lower my head to press
my lips against it.

###

The pressure of Mulder's large, warm hands through
the thin fabric of my blouse slowly but surely eases
the muscle spasms in my back and dispels the
accompanying panic.  Though my breathing returns
to normal, my heart is racing.  I worry that he can feel
it under my skin.

I'm facing a wall lined by glass-doored storage
cabinets.  In them, I can clearly see our reflection.
The determination on Mulder's face as he labors over
me is almost unbearable to watch.  I can't help
imagining what it would be like to feel him caress me
this way all over.  My center turns to liquid at the
prospect.

My head begins to pound and I lower it to my chest,
but I can't take my eyes off of the reflection before
me.  At this, Mulder's pace slows and lightens, his
hands moving slowly up the center of my back.  Then
I realize what has distracted him.  I forget it's there
myself, sometimes.  His head dips toward me as if to
get a better look, then snaps back.  I watch in
astonishment as he raises one hand to his mouth,
kisses the fingertips, then smoothes them over my
nape with such inexpressible tenderness, sudden
tears spring to my eyes and threaten to fall.

I realize I've been holding my breath and let it out.
Mulder catches me wiping the dampness from the
corners of my eyes.  He leans down, and in voice
filled with a matching tenderness says, "Scully, I'm
sorry.  Did I hurt you?"

I can't turn to face him yet.  I can only shake my head,
and say thickly, "No, no.  Really.  You helped.
Thanks."

He's silent for a second or two, perhaps arguing with
himself whether he should say out loud what comes
next.  He swivels the stool around so that we face
each other, almost eye-to-eye.  "Scully, if I did
something to hurt you, I wish you'd tell me.  I won't
think you're weak."

My heart stops altogether now as I consider his
meaning.  He isn't talking about a too-vigorous
massage, is he?  Taking courage from his last words,
I begin, "Mulder, thank you for getting rid of my back
spasm. you didn't hurt me just now, and I feel better."

I'm not finished yet, but he can't resist prodding me a
little.  "Just now?" he repeats softly.

This second, right now, is one of those moments I
told Karen about.  I can feel its current as if I were
wading in it.  It would be so easy to verbalize only a
vague remark and let the ocean of unspoken
meaning wash the tension out to sea, as we so often
do.  I let my eyes rest in his a few seconds longer
before looking away.

"You did hurt me last night."  I shift my gaze back to
his face.  It's his turn to stare off into space.  I
continue, "When you left last night, it stung to
recognize that there might be someplace else you'd
rather be."  Especially after the looks and caresses
you bestowed on me, I think, but decide against going
so far as to say out loud.  He brings his eyes back
into focus as if to protest, but I go on.  "Maybe if I
were less skeptical of your sources, you would have
been more comfortable being up front about where
you were going."  His expression clouds, and I clarify,
"I say this as a statement of fact, not as apology."

"That's not why, Scully," he says quickly.  " I wait
while he scrubs his face with both hands and lets out
a quiet, guilt-ridden sigh.  Letting his hands drop, one
of them comes to rest comfortably on my knee.  "I
purposely set the time and date for the meeting so
that I would have an excuse to get out of there."

I should have known.  And he must've shown up late
to meet his "source," since he came back to dance
with me.  "I know those kinds of affairs aren't easy for
you.  But I think we did Skinner proud."  I manage to
smile a little, savoring the word `we.'

"And I suppose the disastrous result of that meeting
could be my penance for a sin of omission?"  He
allows himself a small relieved grin.

Back to secrets and lies.

"I hope the penalties are never more severe than
that, "I reply more seriously than intended.

He catches my tone, gives me a quizzical look.  I let
my head drop to one side

"It's not as if I have a spotless record," I admit, almost
to myself.

His hand leaves my knee and comes up under my
jaw, caressing it gently and bringing our eyes to meet
again.  "What are you not telling me?" he asks, again
in that same tender voice which moves me so deeply.

/Any of it./

I find a place to start.

"A while back - it must be over a year ago now - we
had an argument because of something I'd held back
from you."  I watch him search his vast memory for a
bit before continuing.  "You were angry because you
thought I didn't trust you enough to tell you what I'd
seen, to admit I doubted my own perceptions."  He's
remembering  a late-night conversation in the sloping
hallway of a psychiatric hospital.  He doesn't see yet
why I've dredged up this, of countless arguments
debating faith and belief we've engaged in over the
last five years.

I continue, "To strengthen my trust - which you
already had, by the way -" at this he nods, "you told
me you knew what I was afraid of, and that you were
afraid of the same thing."  He doesn't like my bringing
this up, I know.  Doesn't like to be reminded of how
close death hovered, and how helpless he felt in the
face of the cancer.  His eyes grow deep green with
buried sadness.  I hope saying what comes next can
wash some of that away.

"You thought I was afraid of what the visions of those
girls meant - that the end of my life was imminent,
that the cancer was working faster that we thought it
would.  And that did scare me, but I let you assume
that was all there was.  I couldn't let myself admit that
what you were saying to me was the essence of much
greater fears.  Fears that predated the cancer, the
abduction, that go back almost to the beginning of our
partnership."  I am careful not to sound accusatory, to
inflect these words with kindness . Above all, I don't
want him to make himself responsible for my fears.

This time, he breaks our gaze.  I reach for his hand
and twine my fingers with his.  Even this minor
contact makes me tingle uncontrollably.  But it's this
contact that lets me finally get to the point.  "When
you said that by keeping information from you, I was
effectively working against you, I felt everything
slipping away.  Among my greatest fears is that of
disappointing you, of somehow failing you.  Of failing
myself in the process by proving that I'm not tough
enough or fast enough or smart enough to keep up
with you.  Of losing you."

At this last, Mulder's eyes slam shut and he shakes
his head violently.  "No no no no..."  He repeats the
word over and over, then takes my face in his hands.
"I was right then, and I didn't even know it," he says
tightly.  "We /are/ afraid of the same things."  He pulls
me against him in a fierce embrace.  This is sensory
and information overload.  I can't process it all at
once, so I bring my arms around his waist, reveling in
the lifting of this great psychic weight.

After a moment, I pull back, and ask the inevitable.
"The $64,000 question, Mulder, is why are we so
afraid of losing each other?"

He answers with another question, my own.  "Do you
see our lives as being so closely intertwined?"

Before I can formulate an answer, the ancient
dot-matrix printer on the counter across the room
explodes to life, noisily spewing out page after page.
We both erupt in nervous, relieved laughter.

"I think your data's up," Mulder croaks.

"Yeah, I guess," I snort.  "I'll get this and meet you the
basement, OK?"

END 5/10
 

The Shirt 6/10
DISCLAIMER:  see part 1

The ride up to Nicodemus, Pee-Ayy is quiet, partly
because Scully takes the opportunity to catch up on
lost sleep.  I take the opportunity to let the gray cells
catch up with what's happened in the last 18 hours.  I
glance over at her dozing form, curled up against the
door.  She deserves to rest.  She's had quite a day,
had some close call.  I have come as close as I ever
have to telling Scully that I love her.  But at the first
distraction, I lost my nerve.  Then again, she seemed
as relieved as I was.  Can't blame her there.  That's
quite a burden to saddle anyone with.  I'm still reeling
from the stream of epiphanies that flowed out of her.
I don't know whether to feel elation or relief or dread.

"Municipal" is a figurative term in this part of
Pennsylvania.  Kind of the reverse of calling Chicago
a "toddlin' town."  The Nicodemus Municipal hospital
looks more like the Baltimore City College student
health center.  Scully catches the attention of the
desk clerk and asks directions for the morgue.

"Morgue?" he asks between snaps of gum. "Like for
stiffs?"

My partner and I exchange one of those looks.  "May
I speak with the attending physician who was on duty
yesterday evening?" Scully inquires frostily.

The clerk's eyes roll back in deep concentration.
"Ummm...that would be...Arnold.  Yeah, Arnold.
Lemmee see if I can get him up here for ya."

Several minutes later, a bespectacled guy around 30
appears at the desk.  "Hi.  Can I help you folks?"

"Special Agents Mulder and Scully, Federal Bureau of
Investigation," I answer for both of us.  "I spoke with
Sheriff Alberts this morning about a body that was
brought in late yesterday afternoon."

"It would have shown signs of extreme decay,
perhaps appearing as a fungal intrusion," Scully
adds.

He appears reluctant to answer for a moment, then
bursts out, "Oh, wait - yeah.  /Yeah/.  Sheriff said they
found the guy in the woods two, three miles from
here.  Probably been out there at least 48 hours.
Most of the guy's face was just eaten away.  Gnarly.  I
called the biohazard team from down in Hagerstown?
That's the closest authority for this kind of thing.  I
mean, it's not like we could keep the body here," he
says, sweeping his arms out, "this is pretty much it.  1
ER bay, 1 OR, 1 birthing room, a coupla rooms for
the occasional overnighter."  Arnold shrugs.  "I'm not
sure why the Sheriff thought we'd be holding the body
here."

"So the biohazard team took it back to Hagerstown?"
Scully interjects, sounding a little impatient - with
Arnold, the Sheriff and, I suspect, me.

"Uh - no.  They said they couldn't transport
unidentified biological hazards across state lines.  I
mean," he gestures at us, "I don't have to tell /you/ all
about that."

Scully shoots me a sharply arched brow, which tells
me - Well?  You got me into this.  She turns her
attention back to Doc McCoy of the Starship
Hicksville.  "So where /would/ it have ended up?"

He puffs his cheeks out, befuddled.  "Look, Sheriff
Alberts said he was gonna call some folks up from
D.C. he'd heard of who might have some expertise
with this kind of thing, and that I should let them
inspect the body when they got here."

"That would be us," I point out.  When I finally got
around to checking my voice mail at the Bureau this
morning, I heard Arnold's message and called him
right back.  "I talked to the Sheriff this morning.  He
said, as far as he knew, the body was still here."

The doc actually scratches his head in confusion.
"Well, but the crew from D.C. was here before lunch.
The Sheriff ordered me to release the body to them."

Shit.

"Do you have any idea where they might've taken it?"
Scully demands.

He looks at us warily, but decides it might just be in
his best interest to be helpful.  "It might take a while
for me to look up the paperwork, track it down.  Mind
waiting?"

"Do we have a choice?"  Scully's voice slashes the air
like a finely-honed scythe.  I love that no-bullshit tone
when it's directed at somebody else.

The guy smiles feebly, offering an apologetic, "I'll do
my best."

I steer Scully over to the plastic chair waiting area.
But waiting is not my strong suit, so I tell Scully that
I'm heading over to the Sheriff's office to see if he has
any information.  I ask her to call as soon as the ER
doctor has anything.

When I get to the Sheriff's station, which is in the next
town over,  he refuses to see me.  After a few vague
threats to the desk officer about the possible career
implications of  impeding a federal investigation,
Alberts peeks his head out of his office door.  And
turns into Andy Taylor.  The one from TV.

"Well, now...I sure am sorry I didn't get a chance to
give y'all a ring after they came to get the body.  But I
kinda assumed you guys had sent `em.  I tell ya, I
can't tell one federal agency from th'other these
days."  He didn't drawl when we spoke this morning.
And he didn't seem to have any trouble picking out
`FBI' in the phone book last night.

In the car on the way back to the hospital, I check in
with Scully.  Still nothing.  She's been paging through
the Jurassic-era magazines in the waiting room.

"Well it's been nice catching up on Twin Peaks," she
says tartly.

"I wouldn't have figured you for a Peaks fan, Scully."

"Oh, yeah. I got totally caught up in it when I was a
resident.  I used to tell my colleagues I joined the FBI
so I could meet a guy like Dale Cooper."

"You're saying David Lynch determined the course of
your life?"

I hear her crack a half-grin through the phone.  "Know
what ruined it for me?"

"Finding out Bob was a spiritual manifestation who
could be seen in his true form only by his victims, and
entered unwitting physical bodies to commit murder?"

"Nope.  The whole thing with the cross-dressing Fed.
Completely unrealistic and inane."

###

Mulder comes through the hospital door just as
Marcus Welby finally reappears.  The expression on
the doctor's face signals that we're not going to like
what's coming.  Nervously, he appeals to Mulder.
"Gee - I'm sorry it's taken so long.  I had one heck of
a time getting through all the bureaucratic crud."

"But you don't have to tell /us/ about /that/," smirks
Mulder.  Playing good agent/bad agent with Mulder is
always fun, since we tend to switch off without
warning.

"But you did get through to someone who knows
where the body is?" I demand sweetly.

"Oh - oh yeah.  Finally got through to some clerk at
the Pentagon."

My partner and I exchange an apprehensive look.

"The body's back in DC?" I ask, incredulous.

"No ma'am," Arnold shakes his head, "It seems to be
at an Air Force facility near Fort Washington.  They're
still working on a positive ID?  But figured they'd
probably get a match on the dental records by day's
end."

Dammit.  I've got to get a look at this corpse.  But if
the DOD is involved, there's no way they're going to
admit me.

The afternoon has grown a little warm and sticky, and
on the way out to the car, I slip off my trench as
Mulder fills me in on his visit to Sheriff Alberts.
"There's something rotten in Denmark, Scully.
Alberts sounded pretty reasonable on the phone this
morning -"

"Yeah, well a lot of idiots seem helpful until you
actually meet them," I say, frustrated and feeling the
effects of little sleep.

Clearly stung by my remark, Mulder continues
anyway, " - and turned into a know-nothing bumpkin
by this afternoon.  They got to him, Scully, I'm sure of
it."  He ignores my rolling eyes.  "He admitted that,
once he mentioned having contacted us, he was
ordered to give out no information about the condition
or collection of the body.  They wouldn't even tell him
where they were taking it.  It's a miracle Doogie
Houser in there was able to track it down."

"Regardless.  This is something we are not meant to
see," I tell him.

He's already pissed off, and takes my words more
fatalistically than I mean them.  Still, I'm stunned by
his reply. "That's a load of crap, Scully.  If you want to
go home, take the car and I'll find a way up to Fort
Washington."

"Hey - just because I'm not /supposed/ to see it," I
clarify, "doesn't mean I don't /intend/ to see it for
myself.  But if you're going to behave like this, you
can sure as hell find another ride."  I grab for the keys
in my coat pocket, fingering the one on the Apollo 11
ring next to the key for Mulder's apartment.  Worked
into a pissy lather myself, I push him away from the
driver's side.  He looks amazed, though somehow
satisfied, by my reaction.  I want to shove him again,
harder, to wipe that damn smirk off his face. The one
that says `Scrappy Scully's so cute when she gets all
worked up.'  If he says one word, I'm prepared to hit
the auto locks and peel out.  Fortunately, he trots
over to the passenger side and slips in without so
much as a mutter under his breath.  Actually, he is to
be applauded for remaining studiously poker-faced as
I fling my coat into the back seat and adjust the seat
and mirrors.

###

I'm smart enough to keep my mouth shut for a while
when we get back on the road.  Scully's driving faster
than usual but taking the curves of this winding rural
route well.  I don't say a word about the speed.  Or
the bank of dark clouds moving in on the eastern
horizon. I don't have to.

"I'm trying to out run that storm," she says nodding
toward the window.  And I've slept more recently than
you have."

I don't point out that I am more accustomed to not
sleeping than she is.  In fact, a wave of exhaustion
breaks over me, and I recline the seat, intending just
to rest my eyes for a few minutes.

Not too much later, a deafening clap of thunder
rouses me.  "Christ," I mutter, shaking off the
remnants of sleep.

"You've been missing quite a show out there," she
says unflappably.  But her knuckles are white as they
grip the wheel, and our pace is significantly more
cautious.  I sit back up in time to see a purple-silver
thunderbolt spike the horizon.  The asphalt beneath
us rumbles with a close-following explosion of
thunder.  Scully's eyes widen slightly, remaining
frozen on the road before us. I reach for my seatbelt
just as a torrential rain begins to slam against the car.

The wipers are going at full speed, barely keeping up
with the streaming water.  When pea-sized hail starts
bouncing off the pavement, we slow to a crawl.

"Dammit!" she yells, releasing the day's pent-up
anger.

"Why don't you pull over at that turnout up there?" I
suggest in what I hope is a soothing tone.

Her jaw tight, she nods in agreements. But before we
reach the indentation at the curve of the road,
another blinding bolt flashes not a hundred yards in
front of the car, instantaneously felling an enormous
pine tree, which bounces when it hits the highway.
Luckily, we are going slowly, and Scully reacts
quickly, but the road is too slick.  The car spins twice,
missing the tree, and comes to rest in the roadside
ditch, which is already at least a foot deep in mud.
Amazingly, the car doesn't go head-first into the ditch,
just lands there intact, without so much as an airbag
inflated.

After a short, stunned silence, we turn to look at each
other, jaws agape.  Within another second, we are a
tangle of arms and lips.  Only the bucket seats keep
us from getting horizontal.  My fingers tangle through
the fire of her hair.  Her arms are tight around my
neck, fiercely gripping my coat collar.  Her mouth is
hot, pulling greedily at mine.  A purple shock of
lightning flashes through /me/, slamming into my
groin.  Then, as suddenly as it began, it's over, and
we are in the furthest corners of our respective seats,
mute, the only sounds the wind and rain pounding
into the roof.

"Dammit!"  Scully explodes again, punching the wheel
and flinging the door out.  Actually, the door only
opens about a foot before digging into the muddy
slope of the wash.  She mutters a few more select
curses and begins to clamber out of the car.  Looking
down at the light gray silk of her jacket as she is
about to climb out, she rolls her eyes and pulls it off,
flinging it into the back.  Sinking knee-deep into the
muddy water, she inspects the car for damage, and is
quickly soaked to the skin.  I reach under the seat for
the umbrella she stashed there months ago.

Pulling my coat collar up around my ears, I follow her
out of the car, shouting to be heard above the storm.
"Scully! Let's get over to that shelter."  I gesture
toward the rest area fifty yards up the road.  She
stands stock-still staring at the Taurus, anger and
shock and disgust written large on her features.  All at
once it occurs to me that the expression and her state
are as likely the product of our actions in crash's
aftermath as of the crash itself.

Slogging toward her, I reach for her elbow.  She
wrenches away, scrambling out of the ditch and
heading for the shelter.  I follow behind, pulling out
my cell phone to call the highway patrol.

END 6/10

The Shirt 7/10
DISCLAIMER:  see part 1

I'm freezing, trying to hide the fact I'm openly
shivering, soaked to the bone.  It's not working.
Goosebumps appear up and down my arms.  And
they're not the most prominent things popping up.  My
silk tee-shirt is almost transparent and clinging to my
skin.  Embarrassed, I fold my arms across my chest
and sit on top of the sheltered picnic table.  My
favorite shoes are a total loss.  Oh, they're definitely
going on the expense report.

Mulder tries to offer his coat, but I shoot him a look
that would stop a stampeding elephant.  I'm not angry
at him.  I am furious with myself.  First for the
accident.  I've never been at the wheel in a collision.
That's usually Mulder's prerogative.  What possessed
me to keep going even as the spring shower became
a monsoon?  Then, losing control.  Twice.  Three
times.  Yelling and screaming like.../a hysterical
woman/.  As if that were going to solve anything.  And
then.  My stomach is still in knots.  Despite a violent
case of the chills, I can feel the red flush that lingers
on my chest and cheeks.

I could be injured, in shock, but I won't let Mulder
near enough to check for signs of disorientation or
bruises.  I'm sure as hell not up to doing my doctorly
duty to examine him.  We got a pretty close
inspection of each others' tongues a minute ago.  I
felt great for a few seconds there.  He felt pretty
good, too.  But I can't take comfort in his coat.  I need
some distance.  Being wrapped in his residual body
heat, his scent, allowing myself the luxury of his
concern - these are not things I can handle right now.
He doesn't get it.  Just sits there looking pouty, like
I'm pissed at him and stubborn for no reason.  After a
few minutes of frigid silence interrupted only by the
occasional chattering of teeth, he pushes out a
disgruntled sigh, hops off of the table and jogs back
to the car to retrieve my coat.

Before long, the storm has almost let up entirely, and
evening begins to settle in.  The gushing stream that
was merely a drainage ditch is dropping in volume.
The highway patrol apparently told Mulder that there
is a power outage and a number of serious road
mishaps due to the storm.  It might be a while before
they can get to us.

There's no place I'd rather be than a goddamn rest
area in the middle of nowhere, courting pneumonia,
with a man I love desperately but to whom I can't bear
to say more than two words in succession, without
even an historic archive of People magazine to keep
my over-active mind occupied.  And the
aforementioned man, my partner, probably thinking
my nasty attitude is directed at him - for jumping me?
- when the reality is I was on him like wet on water.
Mostly, I'm scared to death it will never happen again,
that I've kissed my soulmate for the first and only
time, and I didn't even have a chance to enjoy it.
God.  Five seconds of pure heaven.  That sexy curve
of a mouth on mine, electric.  One hand tilting my
head up to his, the other pressed over my left breast,
like it knew instinctively where to go, how hard to
squeeze.

###

All in all, not the most congenial two hours I've ever
spent in Scully's presence.  Anger and shame fairly
seeped out of her pores.  She refused to look at me.
Just grunted when I told her the tow-truck would be
delayed, and again when I flung her coat at her.  It's
nearly dark by the time the rain clouds clear out.
Another hour after that, we finally see headlights.

The driver pulls up alongside the ditch, climbs out,
and shakes his head in disgust.  Scully leaves her
perch on the picnic table, pulling her coat tightly
around her.  She turns back to me and says quickly,
"I'm sorry I lost it back there."  Back to the Scully cool.
She trots over to the truck to converse with the driver.

I'm dragging my heels, feeling defeated.  Not only
have we wasted half a day chasing down a corpse
we'll probably never get to examine - another piece of
the puzzle hidden from us - but I've proved my own
lunacy yet again by jumping my partner.

It's not like she was squirming to get away,
but...Jesus.  Practically all I've been thinking about
for the last two hours is how her body felt pressed
against mine.  The silkiness of her hair, softness of
her lips, yielding and demanding all at the same time.
The sensual weight of her breast as I lifted and
kneaded it.  And /she/ apologized for losing it.  Do I
take that to mean she's sorry for the clinch or the
blow-up afterwards, or - and this just occurs to me
now - for creating an awkward situation?  Only sorry,
maybe, for bad timing? - my heart starts making like
Ringo - sorry that, given the immediate
circumstances, we weren't in the ideal setting to take
things to their logical conclusion?  She`s sure as hell
not giving anything away now, having securely
re-installed the Special Agent Scully public interface
to give the tow-truck driver her AAA number.

The driver is making small talk while the car gets
dragged up out of the muck.  "...sure are lucky! Must
notta been goin' too fast, huh?"

"No," Scully replies, "the hail was really starting to
come down, so we were crawling.  But I didn't even
think about the car sliding on it."

"Yeah, yeah.  Dangerous stuff alright."  The driver,
whose uniform has "Buck" sewn over the pocket,
looks up as I approach.  "Alrighty, y'all can ride in the
cab with me into town.  Ready?"

/Town/ is a farming village of fewer than 1,000 souls.
There is one mechanic, whose shop is closed up for
the night.  Buck Elam, the truck driver, swears the
garage will be open by six a.m. to check the car out,
make sure it will be safe to drive back to DC.  There
is one motel, the Hi-Hill Motor Inn, owned by Elam's
sister-in-law.  The motel is a group of stucco
bungalows scattered in a wooded area, connected by
a winding gravel driveway.

In this one-mechanic, one-motel town, there is but
one motel room available.  With one bed.  The rest
have been rented to a band of 4-H kids in town to
show their livestock.  Fortunately, the cottage given to
us is upwind from the animal trailers.

Scully wraps up details with Buck while I check us in.
Nell Elam apologizes for the lack of space, offering us
the government rate for her best - and only - room
available.  She apologizes that there are no roll-away
beds to offer.  She's sure, though, we'll be very
comfortable.  In the Elvis Fantasy Honeymoon Suite.
I think I actually blush as I sign the register, tempted
as hell to put down "Mr. and Mrs. Spooky," but
remember that this little ditty gets handed in with our
expense report.  I grin slightly, picturing the reactions
that might get in accounting.  That image is replaced
by Scully's reaction to my registering the two of us
into a honeymoon suite as Mr. and Mrs. anybody.
Hell, I'm afraid just to tell her about our
accommodations.

When she asks about them as I step out of the office
door, I just point up the hill.  She's rescued our
laptops and briefcases from the car before the truck
dragged the pathetic thing away.  Slinging hers over
her shoulder, she mutters, "No time to stop for your
overnight bag, Scully.  We'll be back before dark..."

"Hey, I don't even carry a toothbrush in my case, like
some people I know.  Besides, the lady at the desk
said we'd find everything we need in
the...our...rooms."

###

We reach the last cottage on the path, the largest
and spiffiest of the dilapidated bunch of them, before
Mulder pulls out his room key.  I'm catching a weird
vibe from him and my stomach flops to and fro.
"Uh...Mulder...can I have my key, please?  I'm beat."
Last night's sleeplessness is catching up with me.
I'm hungry, too, but have absolutely no appetite.

He stops, glances at me quickly, then fixates on the
key in his hand.  "It turns out this is the only cottage
available.  The Future Farmers of America here have
everything else booked."  He finally turns his face to
mine, holding up a hand to silence the complaint he
knows is coming.  "But I'm sure you'll appreciate the
historic status of this particular motel."

"I don't see any signs saying George Washington
slept here."

"Oh, no presidents, Scully.  But I understand this
particular room is fit for the King."  With that, he flings
open the door and flicks on the overhead light.

Speechless.  I was prepared to be pissed off all over
again, but I can't sustain it in light of the sight before
me.  I manage to suppress a smile until we're inside.
As soon as the door clicks behind us, a silly-sounding
giggle bubbles its way up from somewhere deep
under my ribs.  Mulder, for his part, breathes a sigh
that is equal parts relief and awe.  Like a pilgrim at
Mecca.

Larger than it seemed from the outside, the room
seems to be almost half bed.  It must be two queen or
king-sizers shoved together, made up with black satin
sheets and animal print spreads and pillows.  There
is a curved bar near the door, circled by high leather
stools.  On the other side of the room sits a long
white leather couch, replete with silver-studs along
the edges.  And the pice de rsistance:  A portrait of
the King himself - on black velvet - in a heart-shaped
frame hangs just above the headboard, as if blessing
the union of whoever might inhabit it.

"Ho Mama," Mulder breathes in his best Memphis
drawl.

I snort out another stunned laugh.  "What the hell...?"

His lips twitch before speaking.  "Legend has it Elvis
slept here some time in the early fifties.  When he hit
the big time, the owners cashed in by calling this
place Elvis' home away from home, and kept a room
open for him at all times."  He begins strolling around
the room, inspecting things.  Checks out the
wide-screen TV, sticks his nose into the
complimentary fruit basket.

"Let me guess the rest," I venture, laying my case on
the gold-record coffee table.  "After his death -" a
teasing glare from Mulder makes me hedge -
"supposed death - the owners turned the room into a
shrine.  They get much demand for such a room in
this part of Pennsylvania?"

"Desk attendant said there was a wedding in town on
Saturday.  Guess where the happy couple chose to
launch their life of love?" he muses lecherously.

A spirit of fresh consummation lingers in the air.  "I
trust they've laundered the sheets since then?" I feel
compelled to ask.

He shrugs, takes off his coat and hangs it on a
guitar-shaped coat rack.  Somehow, the absolute
absurdity of our surroundings has broken the tension.
I shrug out of my trench and hang it next to his.  I
bend down to slip off my shoes, grieving their loss. All
at once, fatigue covers me like a canopy and as I
lean over, I feel light-headed, lose my balance and
wind up on my ass.

Mulder hears me thunk down to the floor, drawing his
attention away from the montage of photographs and
memorabilia along the opposite wall.  He sees me
press my head between my knees and rushes over.
"Scully?" He rests a hand on my shoulder.

The ocean roars between my ears.

###

Shit.

My heart is slamming into my ribs.

Maintain, boy.

Focus.

Fuck.

She was injured and it's just now hitting her.  God
dammit, why didn't I demand she see a doctor?

"Scully, are you going to throw up?  Is your vision
blurry?"  I palm her forehead anxiously.

She raises her head and I slide my hand down to the
nape of her neck to cradle it.  Her hair is still damp
underneath.

"I'm okay...I'm okay...," she says foggily.

"And yet you choose the zebra skin rug to collapse on
instead of the nice comfy couch," I mumble.

"I just - lost my balance, I guess.  I felt a little
light-headed."

I think back over the afternoon.  Neither of us has
eaten since before leaving D.C.  I jump up to grab a
banana out of the basket on the bar.  As an
afterthought, I take an apple for myself.

"Good choice."  She curves her lips slightly when I
hand her the fruit and settle on the floor next to her.
"I probably just need the potassium."

We eat in silence, her focus and my heartrate
normalizing with every bite.  Inwardly, I applaud
myself for not gawking at Scully as she devours the
banana.  After this afternoon, the old self-control
mechanism is clipping along as it should.  Don't look
at her for too long.  Don't touch her unless absolutely
necessary.  Don't think about the shape of the fruit as
she wraps her full lips around it, looking like she's
consuming manna from the heavens.  We finish our
little picnic and I toss the remains into the trash.
Getting to my feet, I offer a hand to Scully, which she
ignores as she struggles stiffly to stand. She's
exceeded her daily capacity for allowing herself to
need anyone's help.  Especially mine.

Looking down at her still-damp and stained trousers,
she announces, "Shower.  What I need is a shower.
And sleep.  Mind if I go first?"  I shake my head in
answer, and she turns toward the bathroom.  She
starts to slip off her jacket, and stops midway.  "Crap,"
she lets out an exasperated sigh.

"What?"

Her back still to me, in a small voice, she says, "I just
remembered I don't have any other clothes."

My mind races at the implications.  And the heat of
our embrace hits me all over again, flashes through
me, making /me/ momentarily light-headed.  There's
only one answer.  I lose my jacket and tie, and free
my shirt from my trousers, glad I thought to pull on a
tee-shirt this morning.  "Here."  I come up behind her,
holding out the dress shirt on one hooked finger.  "I
can't guarantee springtime freshness, but at least it's
dry."

She swivels her head back to offer a subdued
"thanks" and shuts the door behind her.

###

The bathroom is every bit as outrageous as the main
room.  Interesting, considering Elvis bought it in the
bathroom.  Oversized (naturally) bathtub with dual
showerheads and built-in water jets, huge fluffy
towels, bright, tropical-themed frescoes on the walls
and ceiling.  Blue Bayou, I think.  Or Blue Hawaii.
Anyway, there's a lot of blue.  Another goodie basket
sits on the counter, this one filled with tubes of bath
gel and shampoo, loofahs, even toothbrushes and
paste.  This is quite a leap up from our usual
accommodations. Normally, we're lucky to get the
little strip around the bowl that says "sanitized for
your protection."

I go to hang Mulder's shirt on the doorknob, but first
close my eyes and hold it to my nose.  It's not
laundry-fresh, but infinitely better.  It smells of him, a
faint, warm mix of soap, after-shave, detergent, the
burnt-pop-tart-and-coffee smell of his apartment, the
slight dankness of the FBI basement...and...whatever
indefinable Mulderness that lurks inside his cells. I
open my eyes to the sight of myself in the mirror and
am immediately humbled by the sorry-assed vision:
smudged eye-makeup, frizzy-damp hair, filthy, limp
clothes, my face buried in Mulder's shirt, as if I were
an Elvis groupie with one of his jumpsuits.

With a sigh of disgust, I ditch the shirt and begin
peeling off my own clothes. Though I had the
foresight to protect my jacket, my tee-shirt is still
damp and sticking to my skin.  Same goes for the bra
and briefs underneath.  It feels sinfully good to step
out of them and into the hot bathwater.  Without
hesitation, I flip the switch on the wall which activates
the bubble jets.

Finally allowing myself to relax, my brain throwing off
alpha waves, my mind wanders.  Guess where it
winds up.  If I hold my breath, I can feel the electricity
that was in the air around us and passing between
our bodies.  Part of me would like to write off that kiss
as spontaneous combustion resulting from our years
of mutual attraction, kindled by the events of a
particularly frustrating day and sparked by a
potentially life-threatening incident.  It only makes
sense that, rattled, partners - friends - would grasp
blindly for each other.

Right.

That all sounds logical, until I remember that the car
just wasn't going that fast.  And how many scores of
real traumas have we suffered or narrowly averted
and yet never reacted that way?  Our argument this
morning and reconciliation this afternoon must have
affected us more deeply than either of us realized.

There are few, if any places, on earth I feel more
welcomed, more secure, than in Mulder's embrace.
Some combination of his natural empathy and his
own profound loneliness allows him to open his arms
to me so easily, seeking my warmth even as he offers
his to share.  And then there are times, instances
where the chemistry turns on a dime.  When the hand
at the small of my back, guiding me through a
doorway glances lower than expected, leaving a trail
of sparks down my spine.  Or an unassuming,
comforting hug that should last a few seconds goes
on for a minute or more, causing us to become quiet
and too-aware of our bodies.  Then we part, feeling
either that we've left something unfinished or as if
we've escaped one more treacherous situation by the
skins of our teeth.

I think of today's session with Karen.  How do I
reconcile these internal conflicts?  When I'm feeling
loose from the moorings, lost or alone, it's always
Mulder I want with me.  Why am I afraid to ask him for
what he so badly wants to give me?  I curse my
neediness, yet don't much begrudge Mulder his
insecurities.  I suppose the tragedies that were visited
upon him so early in life provide obvious explanation,
justification, for them.  By contrast, it seems that the
close-knit family life I enjoyed as a child, my parents'
unquestioned, unconditional love, my siblings' loyalty
which I always took for granted, should have sealed
my security.  Not that my family could measure up to
the Nelsons or the Bradys, as Mulder seems to think
it did.  For better or worse, I know my determination
to keep even those closest to me from suspecting my
own human fragility is as much a product of genetics
as early training.  You don't have to look any further
than Ahab to confirm that.  Or my mother.  As warm
and loving as she was and is, it was her nerves of
steel and inner strength kept us together, made us a
family, when Ahab was at sea for months at a time.

Besides, I always had to be tough for Bill and Charlie
to let me tag along.  One tear, one shriek of alarm or
any misgivings about our little adventures was all the
excuse they needed to leave me behind.  To be
called a crybaby was the ultimate humiliation, second
only to hearing my mother's voice cautioning them,
"Boys, you play nicely with Dana and don't be too
rough.  Remember, she's a /girl/."  God, those words
and their implications have haunted me my whole life.
I wonder sometimes if I chose pathology sheerly for
the shock value.  Secretly, I love the looks of disgust
and surprise I still get from people when I tell them
what I do, knowing they're thinking - `but you're a girl!'

It occurs to me that this journey Mulder and I are on
has flung open those secure-seeming gates, leaving
me vulnerable, making me needy.  But the idea of
returning to some other, idealized existence, where
safety, security and blind rationalism are the walls
that hold out evidence of deeper and darker truths, of
miracles and secrets of the soul, no longer holds
much appeal for me.  I'm a richer person for traveling
this road, that is a certainty, though one I am often
hard-pressed to argue or explain, sometimes even to
myself.  I only wish that those I hold most dear
weren't subject to the grief that befalls me.  It just
seems horribly selfish to feel I've profited somehow
from the pain of others, even if the pain is mine, too.
Perhaps, ultimately, this is what keeps Mulder and
me from becoming lovers.  Ironic, isn't it, that the fear
of harming each other surpasses even the fear of our
own heartache?

Any of it.

All of it.

On some level, I'm fairly certain that Mulder knows I
love him, and that he loves me.  But if we say
nothing, we don't have to deal with those feelings in
the open.  Neither of us has to risk being wrong.

Despite the continued internal conflict, my body has
responded to the magic of the warm, frothing water.
Groggily, I haul myself out of the tub and dry off, then
slip on Mulder's shirt.  It's comically oversized, the
tails practically touching my knees.  A little thrill goes
through me, feeling the softness of the fabric.
Allowing myself the comfort of being surrounded by
Mulder that I denied earlier, I try to convince myself
that our kiss meant nothing.  I rub my hair with
another towel and rinse out my underwear in the sink,
hanging them out of the way on the top rung of the
towel rack to dry.  Mental note:  From now on,
/always/ carry spares in the briefcase.

When I come out of the bathroom, Mulder is sprawled
on the sofa, channel surfing, the remains of another
banana and some grapes on the coffee table.  He
glances up at me, watches my progress across the
room for a few seconds before going back to the TV.

"All yours," I announce.

"Thanks," he mumbles, then addresses the tube,
"fucking Yankees. They're gonna break my heart this
year.  I know it already."

###

A cloud of steam precedes Scully out of the
bathroom.  She shakes out her hair, looking scrubbed
and refreshed.  Seeing her in  the shirt I offered to
her makes me buzz pleasantly all over, though it
reveals just a tiny glimpse of carved ivory thigh.

"All yours," she tells me, meaning the bathroom, but
given that I'm trying not to think about her bare legs, I
am momentarily confused.

"Thanks," I finally say.

I wonder if she knows that's my favorite shirt.  I
wouldn't give it up to anyone but her.  But then, it
achieved favored status only because she once said
she liked it.  Actually, what she said was, "Nice shirt,
Mulder," giving me one of those analytical appraisals
over the rims of her glasses.  It was clear she was
thinking a lot more than she'd ever say.  And that one
phrase was enough to spark a month's worth of
fantasies, most of which started with that phrase and
progressed to one or the other of us destroying it in a
frenzy to rip it off me.  In any case, I wear it an
average of 1.48 times per week, depending on how
often the laundry gets done.  Good thing I did a load
on Saturday, or I wouldn't be gawking at the way
Scully's auburn hair glows against the collar.

I roll off the sofa and lope into the can.  As I open my
fly, I remember sickly that I didn't think to throw in any
boxers when I washed the shirts.  This morning, the
red Speedos seemed a better solution than running
shorts.  Now I'm glad I didn't go with option three:
free and breezy.  If my tee-shirt were a little longer, or
the trunks any color but red...fuck it.  I'll sleep in my
pants.  Not like it's the first time.

When I come out, Scully is checking out the
memorabilia wall.

"Do you think they'd miss this picture of Presley and
Nixon?" I ask, pointing over her shoulder.

"Thinking of taking home a souvenir?" she arches a
brow at me.

"Well, I was thinking it would look great on the
bulletin board alongside the photo of Carter shaking
hands with an alien," I reply.

She chuckles softly.  "I must be tired," she says
glancing up at me, "I thought that was funny."  She
punches me lightly on the shoulder and walks around
to the far side of the bed.  Scully pulls back the
covers and makes herself comfortable.  I envy those
satin sheets as she slides her body in against them.
"I hate to admit it, but this place keeps getting better
and better.  Almost worth explaining it on our expense
report."  She is suddenly silent, then utters, "Oh My
God.  Mulder...did you see this?" she demands.

"Huh?" I swivel my head around to her, then follow
her gaze upward.

"There is a mirror.  Over the bed."  She sounds
amused behind the shock.  It's ce