The Actor: Prologue A.I. Irving vsmith@ischemia.card.unc.edu NC-17 (for profanity, sexual allusions) S, R (Scully/Other, Scully/Mulder) Disclaimer: (1) Most of the characters and many of the concepts in all parts of this story are absolutely the property of Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox. I intend no infringement whatsoever. (2) The character of Stuart Novak is based, in physical appearance and in some biographical details, on the actor Patrick Stewart. I have used a few terms that are the property of Paramount, and again, I intend no infringement whatsoever. I also apologize to Mr. Stewart. I'm not sure why I chose him, but apparently he was in the right place at the right time. Summary: After Mulder's soul searching in Apison, Skinner offers Scully the opportunity to make some changes in her professional and personal life. Skinner rose from his desk and took a weary turn about his office. He paused in front of the portrait of the Attorney General and stretched, reaching his muscular arms high above his head and rising up on his toes, loosening the taut muscles in his back and legs. He let out a grunt of satisfaction as he resumed his normal posture. It was after eight o'clock. He was tired of working, at least for this day. He pulled his jacket off the hanger on the back of the door and slipped it on. Standing in front of the window, he adjusted the fit of the jacket and tightened his tie. He absently took in the flickering lights of Constitution Avenue, cabs and cars, ambulances and limousines, all waiting their turn to pass through the intersection with Sixth Street. The street lights were beginning to flicker on in response to the encroaching darkness. Skinner's view of the setting sun was obscured by the heavy- shouldered buildings of the Smithsonian across the street. Nonetheless, the mauve light of the Indian summer evening managed to creep around the sidestreets and grace the street corner opposite Skinner's window. There wasn't much to see in this aseptic block of government office buildings besides traffic and a few scrawny Bartlett pear trees planted in small gaps in the sidewalk. Skinner had pondered that corner countless times during the four years he had occupied this office. Tonight was the first time, however, that he found himself entranced by the sight of a female jogger, her auburn ponytail bobbing against her back as she approached the corner. She jogged in place as she waited for the traffic light to change, giving the Assistant Director ample time to assess her well-toned legs, pale below her tight black lycra shorts. Her torso was hidden by a baggy gray tee shirt emblazoned with "UNC MED". She blew her panting breath through full, rosebud lips that looked as if they might be inflamed by too many kisses. As she set off across the street, and she flashed a stunning smile at a familiar face as she approached the Hoover building. Skinner smiled too. He knew her well, thought not as well he as he sometimes wished. He hadn't realized that she was a runner. That explained the trimness of her shapely body, which had not gone unnoticed by him in their many meetings in this very office. He had, in fact, spent the last three hours considering the report of her most recent case. She had been very much on his mind. He rushed to his desk and picked up the telephone. "This is AD Skinner. Would you please stop Agent Scully as she enters the building and tell her that I'm on my way to meet her in her office. Thank you." XXXXXXXXXXX Scully received the message from the guard as she walked into the building. She paused in front of the hulking man with the sweet smile, trying to catch her breath, and nodded. "Sounds like I'm in trouble again, Pete," she said with a wry smile. "I thought that was Agent Mulder's department," Pete said, cracking a wide grin. "Guilt by association," she said. "I shoulda gone to law school instead of medical school, you know?" "He didn't sound mad," Pete said by way of comfort as she trotted away toward the stairs. Her running shoes squeaked on the hard vinyl tile floor as she wound her way through the maze of box-lined corridors. She knew there was no chance of cleaning up before she saw Skinner. He had seen her in worse shape than this, she mused. Nonetheless, she hated to be wearing such abbreviated armor when he began his tirade about Mulder's behavior in Tennessee. She could guess what he would say. Why didn't you stop him. You have no control over him, Agent Scully. I thought you were the only one he listened to. I can't trust you to handle Mulder anymore. He jeopardized his own life and the lives of others.... "Oh, so what's new?" Scully moaned aloud as she opened the door that bore her partner's name. She began to peel off her sweaty tee shirt and nearly had it over her head when she heard a purposeful cough behind her. "Sir, I --" "You got my message?" "I did. I just thought I could put on a clean tee shirt before you made it down here," she said, smoothing the shirt back down over her belly and silently thanking God that she was wearing a modest athletic bra instead one of the usual lace demi-cup models she favored under her conservative suits. She looked up at her boss and was surprised to see that he was wearing a small smile. That caught her off guard. Maybe this wasn't going to be the nightmare she had predicted. "You wanted to speak to me, sir?" "I've spent the afternoon reading you report on the case in Apison, Scully," he said, closing the office door behind him. "And, since I was there on this one, I wanted to talk to you about what I saw." "You saw something that conflicts with my report?" she asked in her steady, professional demeanor. "Not at all. Like all of your work, Scully, it was thorough, precise, well-reasoned." He tugged at his tie and popped the top button on his shirt. Then he gave her his shy smile again. "I wanted to speak off the record, which is why I wanted to meet here, instead of upstairs. Have a seat, Scully." She watched him carefully as he sat on the creaky old sofa Mulder had salvaged from the renovations of the Director's conference room. Skinner stretched one arm across the back of the sofa and leaned casually into the corner. She continued to watch him even as she went to the small refrigerator behind her desk and pulled out a bottle of water. "Water, sir?" "No thanks. How far did you run?" "I'm not sure how far, exactly. I was gone for an hour. I went down to the Lincoln Memorial and across to K Street and then back here." His brows peaked into his forehead. "That's quite a ways, Scully. You planning on doing the DC 10K next month?" "What? Oh. No sir." She sat in Mulder's swiveling chair and turned it around to face her visitor. She not unaware of his eyes straying down to her bare knees as she crossed her legs. "Then why so far?" he asked. "For the runner's high?" "No. It's pure agony most of the way. I do it to -- well, because I need to be fit for my job. And it helps me sleep." "Mulder's a runner too, isn't he?" She nodded as she drained a third of the bottle of water. She had no clue as to what Skinner wanted. He was acting strangely, and she wondered if he'd been drinking. She just hoped he hadn't come to express his concern for her partner. She had met her quota of worrying about Mulder, at least for this month. "Scully. Dana." Skinner saw her eyebrow pop up at his use of her first name; he continued nonetheless. "Mulder treats you like shit." She gaped at him as if he had told her that aliens had landed on the White House lawn. "Forgive me for delving into your personal affairs, but after what I saw in Apison, and what I didn't see in your report, I......" "What are you talking about, sir?" He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and locked his brown-eyed gaze on her. "It's easy enough to see that there's something between you and Mulder. Something other than the usual bond of partnership. Now, hear me out. I'm not here as your boss. I'm here as a friend. I sense that your work doesn't allow you many hours to spend with friends on the outside." Scully's stomach was beginning to knot. She put a protective hand over her belly, and was amazed to see Skinner's eyes follow her hand and linger there for a moment. Finally he looked back to her face. "Dana. I don't know what he saw in that Ephesian woman, other than the big brown eyes, the helplessness, the craziness -- some men are driven to try to save women like that. I know about that past lives bullshit. I know he believes in that, in all kinds of things, and more often than not his unconventional beliefs result in really impressive work for the Bureau." She nodded numbly. "Sometimes even the best agents get too involved in a case. It's happened to me, it's happened to you, and I guess it's happened to Mulder many times, including last week. I -- are you all right? You look a little green." "I feel a little green," she admitted, dropping her head into her hands and leaning over her knees. Skinner reached out and pulled Mulder's chair toward him until they sat knee to knee. He touched Scully's forehead with the backs of his fingers. She was clammy from her run, and her the roots of her hair were dark with sweat. "Maybe you overdid it on the run," he murmured. "Just take a few good breaths." She did as he instructed and soon was able to lift her head. She looked at him with bleary eyes. "Sir, I really don't want to talk about this." "I know you don't. But I think you need to." Scully reached up and pulled the elastic band out of her hair, allowing the copper thickness to cascade across her shoulders. With the release of her hair seemed to come the loosening of her back and shoulders, followed by a deep sigh. Skinner watched her fingers pull nervously at the elastic. He put a large hand over both her small ones, ostensibly to still them. "Dana, I believe that Mulder feels very deeply for you. And that you feel the same way about him. But he's hurt you -- again -- with his one-track mind. He's a genius. He can also be a real asshole." He lifted a hand to touch under her chin, tilting her face up toward his. "I'm here to tell you that you don't have to work with him anymore if you don't want to. You have a great future with the Bureau, or wherever you want to take your talents. We can rewrite your job description. We can send you out of town for an extended assignment. Whatever it takes for him to wake up and stop doing this to you. You mean a lot to me, Dana. I hate to see you suffer because of him." Two enormous tears escaped from her eyes and dripped onto his hand. Skinner immediately wiped away the succeeding tears, and then allowed his hand to slip into her hair. He pulled her closer, and leaned across to place a gentle kiss on her lips. "Sir....." she gulped. "Please don't sue me, Dana," he whispered. "I've wanted to do that for years. I swear it'll never happen again." She put a tentative hand on his knee, so close to her own, and then kissed him back to show him that she understood his intent. Skinner blushed from his collar to the top of his bald head. She pushed the chair away from him and stood a little unsteadily. She coughed to clear her throat, and then spoke. "Thank you, sir. You're right. I needed to.....for someone else to notice. And I would like a change. Shall I write up a plan for you?" He stood in front of her and looked grimly into her eyes. But before he spoke, he indulged in one last fantasy. He put his arms around her small body and pulled her into a firm embrace. He heard her sniff once or twice as he stroked her hair. Finally he patted her gently on the back and released her. "Just tell me what you want, Scully, and I'll try to get it for you. On my desk, Thursday morning?" She nodded, her eyes glimmering with tears. Skinner tugged at the lapels of his jacket and smoothed down the tails of his tie. "Well then. I'd better be on my way. You go home and get some rest, Scully. I'll see you tomorrow." XXXXXXXXXXXX The Actor, 1: Falling A.I. Irving vsmith@ischemia.card.unc.edu NC-17 (for descriptions of sexual activity and profanity) S, R (Scully/Other, Scully/Mulder) Please see the Prologue for disclaimers. Summary: After taking Skinner up on his offer, Scully meets a man who truly appreciates her. Author's Note: The hotel mentioned here and in future chapters is based on the Ritz-Carlton on Massachusetts Avenue in Washington, DC. As far as I know, there is no such hotel on Capitol Hill. The Folger Shakespeare Library is very real indeed. Every Sunday morning since the first of October, in spite of a few weeks of miserably hot and humid Indian summer, and copious rains drifting in off the Potomac, Scully had taken the Metro down to the Mall to run. On this morning in mid- November, however, the temperature was unusually frigid, but Scully was not deterred. She was running for the health of her heart -- both literally and figuratively. As she saw her thirty- third birthday looming only a few months in the future, she was struggling to maintain her physical endurance and to stabilize the emotional arrhythmias caused by her job. In the cold November dawn, she piled on layers of polar fleece and Goretex, silk glove liners and double socks, even the much- despised watch cap to keep herself warm. As she emerged from the Metro station, the sun had only just begun to crest in the sky. She set off in a moderate pace along one of the walkways that crisscrossed the Mall between the East Wing of the National Gallery and the Smithsonian Castle. She rarely saw anyone on these Sunday outings. That was the point of coming all the way downtown to run. She could run in her own neighborhood, uptown, but there was the risk of running into people she knew -- people she would have to be nice to. After these many years of chasing bloodsucking, cigarette- smoking, Gap-dressed alien clones -- they all ran together in her head now -- she was feeling twinges of misanthropy. She actually hated running as a form of exercise, but the discipline required to continue in spite of the physical pain it caused her (she had a vulnerable spot in her right hamstring from an accident during her Academy days) was enough to keep her mind off her troubles. Ice was forming on the bare trees along the sidewalk and the wind was picking up as she climbed the slope up to the Capitol grounds. She jogged in place at the intersection, her warm breath clouding in front of her face as she waited to cross the street. There was very little traffic at this time of day, so she was soon off and running again. The cold was making her wish she had stayed in her bed when she was distracted by the sight of a male runner coming toward her. She was calculating a plan to avoid him when he ran across a patch of black ice and fell with an agonizing twist to the unyielding cement. Scully ran to him, carefully avoiding the ice herself, and knelt on the pavement beside him. "Are you okay? That was a nasty fall," she said, resisting the impulse to examine him. The runner scowled and replied breathlessly. "I feel like an idiot. Didn't see it coming. Nothing broken -- at least I don't think so." "I'm a doctor. Want me to take a look?" "Thanks." She ran her hands over his legs, not unaware of the outline of powerful muscles beneath the sleek black lycra of his pants. She grasped an ankle with one hand and rotated his foot with the other. "That hurt?" she asked. He shook his head and she tried the same operation on the other foot. "What about this one?" "No. It's fine. However, I think my pride needs major surgery. I've been running for twenty years, and the first time I fall it's in full view of a beautiful woman. I'm horrified." Scully grinned and offered him a hand up. He was not a particularly tall man, but his vivid eyes, silvery beard, and chiseled face drew her attention to the exclusion of everything around them. Once he was on his feet and standing in front of her she could clearly feel a river of carefully controlled energy pouring off him. The sidewalk seemed to unfurl itself for him, the trees hung on his every word, the Capitol itself dwindled in the background as Scully pondered the crackling current he seemed to emanate. He had spoken again, but all she heard was the crisp British accent and deep, silky voice with which he formed the words. "I'm sorry.....What did you say?" "It's snowing," he said, laughing up at the sky. "Let's get out of this. I'll buy you breakfast, doctor. It's the least I can do." "Wait. I think I've met you before." She gazed at his face, the broad, facile mouth, square chin, imposing nose, piercing eyes, and slightly protruding browline. "I think I met you at a pathology conference last year. You gave a paper on --" "It would have to be something about Shakespeare, because what I know of science would hardly amount to a lecture." He grinned at her as if delighted with her error. "No, my dear, you're off by a mile. I look familiar to you because I'm an actor. I'm on television every week, every night in some areas. Stuart Novak. How d'you do?" Scully took his hand but continued to stare. An actor. That explained, at least in part, the aura of intensity about him. "I don't recognize the name. I'm sorry. I work all the time -- I'm rarely home to watch TV." "Good for you. Don't want your brain going soft. Come on, then. I'm freezing. These pants aren't much between me and the elements." Scully followed him into the street. A cab stopped as if on cue and they climbed in. "Ritz-Carlton Capitol Hill," Stuart Novak intoned. The cabbie peeked at him in the rear view mirror. "It is a great honor, Captain," the cabbie said in his own Anglo- Asian accent. "But would you have me beam you to the hotel instead?" "I think ground transport will suffice," Novak said good- naturedly. He turned to Scully and smiled. "But you haven't told me your name yet." "Scully," she replied. "Scully?" he repeated, slightly puzzled. "Dr. Scully?" She watched his lips as he spoke her name. His teeth were even and very white. "It's Dana Scully, actually, but no one calls me Dana." "No one?" She smiled, a little embarrassed, and sat more erectly, crossing her blue lycra ankles demurely. "My mother, I suppose. That's about it." "What a pity," he murmured. "Forgive me for asking, but why is that?" "Well....in my job, we tend to go by last names because.... because......" Because my partner hates his first name, she thought. I let him determine my identity based on his own myriad neuroses. The name's just the tip of the iceberg. "Because it implies a certain professional distance. It's important not to form personal attachments with your coworkers." He glowered at her, and she realized the absurdity of what she had said. "I'm a forensic pathologist. I work for the FBI," she confessed. "It's a very -- dark -- job and it's best to keep it out of your heart." "I don't believe for a moment that you keep much of anything out of your heart," he said quietly. Scully shifted under the steady gaze of his deep blue eyes. "You just met me. How --" "I'm an actor. Character study is my life. And my heart is very much involved." Scully's quick mind whizzed with the effort of changing the subject. "Are you making a movie in Washington?" "I'm finishing up a fellowship at the Folger Shakespeare Library. I made three films last year -- that's rather a lot -- and this has been my sabbatical." "Hm. So you're teaching?" "Teaching, directing, acting, writing. Bit of everything." His eyes flickered down to her hands and back up to her face. "Do you like the theatre?" "I do. I go when I get the chance. Maybe I'll come see you." "I'd like that. Here we are, Dr. Scully. My erstwhile home." The wide glass doors were opened silently for him. They crossed the plush lobby to the tall mahogany desk, where a dark-haired woman in a dark green uniform wordlessly passed a bundle of messages to him. He smiled his thanks, and the clerk smiled back. Scully had endured enough painful crushes to know one when she saw it. She smiled sympathetically at the woman and, cautiously stealing a glance at his muscular backside, followed Stuart through a pair of paneled doors to a small dining room reserved for breakfast and afternoon tea. It was decorated in a traditional English style, full of down- cushioned sofas and chairs in varying patterns of yellow, apricot, and green. Three wide, mullioned windows hung with a sea of flowered yellow chintz offered a view of the somber, low edifice of the Folger Library and the feathery snow swirling down from the sky. "This is my usual spot at this time of day," Stuart said, directing her to an overstuffed wing chair next to the fireplace. He took the matching chair opposite her, and a waiter brought a round table and placed it between them. Another waiter slipped a thick white cloth over the table, and yet another one brought flatware and dishes. A squat crystal bowl filled with yellow roses and a pot of tea were placed on the spotless white tablecloth. "Tea, Earl Grey, hot, sir," the last waiter said, blushing. Novak nodded a little wearily. "Yes, thank you, but I really do prefer Ceylon Breakfast, if you have it." The waiter cocked his head like a confused puppy. "But --" "You must be new here," Novak said gently. "On television, you see me drink Earl Grey. But this is reality, and here I prefer Ceylon Breakfast. We're very hungry. Dana?" "Er -- poached eggs, toast, fruit." "Same for me." The disappointed young man left them alone with each other. Novak pulled off his polar fleece beret, revealed a rather peaked bald pate with a light fringe of silvery white hair. Scully had to smile -- he reminded her of her boss. She pulled off her own hat and fluffed out her flaming hair. She was surprised to hear him emit a small gasp at the sight of her hair. "Sorry," Novak murmured, faintly embarrassed to be caught looking. "I've always had a fondness for ginger-haired girls. When I was a boy I was enchanted by my cousin Moira. She had mass of red ringlets, freckles, and a tiny nose. Now I think she manages a Ford assembly plant outside of Leicester." "Are you from Leicester?" He shook his head. "I was born in Yorkshire, but I grew up near London. My father was an officer of the Royal Navy." "Oh, really? My father was a Captain in our navy," Scully said. "Let me guess: you've lived in San Diego, Norfolk, Guam --" "Charleston and Annapolis. How did you --" "I had a part in one of those Tom Clancy films. Had to do an accent. I hate doing accents, except for my own, of course." He touched the petals of one of the roses. "How did you end up in the FBI rather than the Navy, Dr. Scully?" A new pot of tea had arrived, and Stuart poured for them both. Scully held the cup in her hands, savoring the warmth as it spread through her chilled fingers. "I wanted to fight crime," she said with a sheepish smile. "It sounds trite, I know, but that was my plan." "And has you plan succeeded?" he asked, raising an eyebrow as he peered at her over the rim of his cup. Scully sipped the steaming tea. "Some days -- some years -- are more successful than others. But generally I have a very good resolution rate. And I've been able to conduct some research around the edges. I can't complain." She could see that he wasn't buying that last sentence. "You seem quite alone," he said softly, fixing his dark eyes on her face. "As I said, my job is very dark," she said quietly. "I hardly have time to get my hair cut, much less meet anyone." "Unless someone falls on his ass right before you eyes." "You said it yourself," she said laughingly. "Usually only my partner does that." "Your partner?" "We we've worked together for five years. He's a bit -- clumsy. He's the only live patient I work on these days." "Well then. Now you can count me among your live patients," he said, rubbing his hands together. His eyes had a devilish light in them. "Perhaps I'll come up with another injury that requires more a extensive examination." Now it was Scully's turn to question him with an arch of her brows. Just then, breakfast arrived, and she was too hungry to take time to quiz him about his intentions. XXXXXXXXXXXXX With the light breakfast and several cups of tea in them, Scully and Stuart had warmed up. The fire in the hearth was beginning to be a source of discomfort. He suggested that they leave, and before Scully could talk herself out of it, she was walking with him to the elevator, allowing him to kiss her palm and the tips of her fingers as they rode up to his floor. He held her hand in his and took her down the hall to his room. He did not kiss her until the door closed behind them. She leaned against the heavy door and inhaled deeply his scent of soap, sweat, and tea. He touched her cheek, her hair, her pale ear lobe. "Dana, I never actually stopped to ask you...." She laid her palms flat against the front of his sweatshirt and read the Royal Shakespeare Company logo that had nearly faded over years of wear. She reached up to grasp his broad shoulders. She wanted to feel the thickness of the muscles there. Slipping her arms around his neck, she pulled him to her, delighted that he wasn't over six feet in height. He could bend down to her lips with ease; she hardly had to stretch to kiss him. His mouth was wide and his lips generous. She kissed him lightly and tasted on his lips a hint of the melon and pineapple they had shared at breakfast. "What time is it, Stuart?" she asked breathlessly. "Bit after nine, I think. Why? Am I keeping you from something?" "No, not at all. I was wondering how much time we have." "That sounds like a line out of 'Casablanca'," he said. "It could be.....I have to catch a plane early tomorrow morning. I need to get home in time to pack." "I think I can get you where you need to be," he murmured, leaning in for another kiss. She gently pushed him away. "What's you HIV status?" "Negative," he replied huskily, unzipping the high collar of her anorak. "I have my doctor's phone number handy. It's about three o'clock in London. Let's ring him." She reached above her head so that he could pull the anorak off of her. "I'll take your word for it," she said, and shimmied out of her turtleneck faster than he could get his own sweatshirt over his head. She stood in her black athletic bra and lycra running pants, laughing softly. This was actually fun, she thought. When was the last time..... "What is it, Dana?" "Women must throw themselves at you all the time. How do you handle that?" He chuckled and ran a finger under one of the wide black straps of her bra. "I catch them," he replied, his eyes twinkling. Dana pulled the tight bra off with one graceful sweep of her arms and tossed it over Stuart's shoulder. He immediately covered her pale breasts with his hands. "Three hours ago I never would've thought I'd be doing this with anyone, certainly not a famous British actor who lives in the Ritz-Carlton," she said. "I've never done this so -- precipitously -- either," he said, peeling off his tee shirt to reveal a magnificently defined chest and abdomen. "I haven't had time for a relationship in at least two years, and suddenly there you are.....a flame-haired physician....Dana, are you sure? I know this is all rather abrupt- -" "To say the least," she murmured, her hands caressing his pectorals and slipping around to his back. "We could defer...." Scully bowed her head to nuzzle the silvery curls in the center of his powerful chest. She licked him and, tasting salt, trailed her tongue to one pink nipple and then the next by way of an answer to his offer. She could feel a low moan originating deep in his chest, roiling up like a wave through his ribs before it burst from his lips. Scully wrapped her arms around him and kissed him. She wondered if she had lost her mind until she looked up at his face and felt from deep within herself a rush of warmth in response to the emotion she saw there. It was cold everywhere but right where she was, and for the first time in five years, she could feel the sun shining for her alone. The Actor, 2: Telling Mulder A.I. Irving vsmith@ischemia.card.unc.edu NC-17 (for descriptions of sexual activity and profanity) S, R (Scully/Other, Scully/Mulder) Please see the Prologue for disclaimers. Summary: Scully spends the day with her new friend, and Mulder reflects on his own loneliness. Author's Note: I'm indebted to the most excellent Paula Graves for sending me back to my books for these bits of Donne, and some of the other quotations that appear later. Paula, you have such a graceful touch with the greats! Busie old foole, unruly Sunne.... Shine here to us, and thou art every where; This bed thy center is, these walls, thy spheare. John Donne, "The Sunne Rising" Mulder had just returned from a run through his neighborhood in Alexandria. He stomped the snow off his shoes and went into his apartment. He peeled off his clothes as he walked through the living room. He paused at the answering machine, his sweatshirt half on and half off, and saw that the light was black. No calls. No calls from anyone. No calls from Scully. "Boring," he whined to the walls. In the shower, he tried to remember when he had first begun to hang on Scully's every word, her every move, her every breath. Probably sometime after her abduction. She acted like it had never happened. It was just as well. If she caved, just once, he would be forced to admit to her that every day he wanted to protect her in his embrace. She would hate that. She had never been a woman who tolerated vanity in the guise of heroism. Yet Mulder couldn't stop feeling the urge to treasure her every breath. It had become more intense as the years went by, or perhaps as he grew older and more aware of his aloneness. Of course he was not utterly alone, and certainly not celibate. He had a complicated relationship with Marita that was chiefly about sex and skullduggery. With Scully it was more about love and commitment -- in his mind, at least. He knew that Scully knew about Marita, even though she never asked about his personal life anymore. They no longer spent time together outside of work as they had done in the first three years of their partnership. Now he was peripheral to her emotional life. When they weren't actively working side by side, he felt like an afterthought. She hardly noticed him anymore unless he was extolling a theory of transmigration or possession or something equally bizarre. Dousing himself under the shower, Mulder grinned ruefully at his thoughts. I'm becoming an old woman. Thirty-seven and ready for menopause. God damn it all to hell. He was drying off in the steamy bathroom and considering going up to New York and spending the night with Marita. Then he remembered the tomorrow's trip. He would be locked in a plane with Scully for three hours, maybe longer. If he was lucky, maybe he could lure her into a conversation about something other than work. XXXXXXXXXXXXX In a wide, firm bed on the fifth floor of the Ritz-Carlton Capitol Hill, Dana Scully was laughing, rolling, squirming with delight under the hands of Stuart Novak. He was tickling her. She giggled until tears sprang from her eyes, and he said, "No more. I can't bear the sight of your tears." And he kissed them away, kissed her neck, her jaw, her lips, her collarbones. "I'm mad for you, Dana, absolutely mad..." "That's not an accepted diagnosis, Stuart. The correct term for your problem is tumescence, and I think you need medical help...." XXXXXXXXXXXXX Mulder dialed her home number and got her answering machine. "Hey Scully, it's me. Are you home? Are you asleep? Will you pick up?" She wasn't home. At ten o'clock on a snowy Sunday morning, where could she be? She had given up going to church after Melissa died. At her mother's? Maybe stranded in the snow? He dialed her cell phone number. It rang six times -- he was counting -- before she picked up. "Scully," she said breathlessly. "Hey, it's me. Where are you?" "On the Hill," she replied in all honestly. "What are you doing on the Hill on a Sunday morning in the middle of a snow storm?" Mulder demanded. "Uh...running?" She giggled in the distance -- she was trying to cover the phone with her hand, but Mulder heard a basso profundo laugh in the background. "Scully, is this a bad time?" he asked irritably. "Kinda...is it the case?" "No, no. I was just worried about you. The temperature dropped really fast -- I couldn't get you at home and I thought you might be stranded somewhere. Are you okay?" "I'm fine, Mulder." She cleared her throat, and he could hear the rustle of sheets. She spoke more seriously. "I'm fine. Are you all right?" "Yeah, just freezing my ass off." "Put some clothes on," she said lightly. "Scully, how did you know?" he asked primly, wrapping his towel around his waist. "Look Mulder, as delightful as it is to hear your voice, I have to go...I have another engagement this morning. Is there a reason you called?" "Nothing important. I'll meet you at the airport tomorrow. That is if we're not snowed in -- Scully? Scully?" She had hung up. He stood staring at his telephone, clutching his towel, and wondering how he could be so alone. XXXXXXXXXXXXX Stuart rolled her onto her stomach and began caressing her freckled back, making slow circles around her shoulder blades. He heard her whimper into her pillow. "Are you tired now, Dana?" "A bit. But not too tired," she said, lifting herself up on one arm. Her red hair made a fiery cloud around her head and her lips were a bit swollen from his attentions. "I'm thirsty. Could you --" "Of course. What would you like?" "Water, please." She watched his nude form as he walked across the room to the refrigerator hidden the armoire. His musculature was so well defined that she could have used him to teach an anatomy class. No extra ounce of flesh could be found on him anywhere. He turned and saw her watching him. His response was immediate. The sight of her, one leg hitched over a pillow, her creamy flesh barely contrasting with the sheets except for the deep rose tint of her nipples, made the blood rush to his groin. He opened the bottle with one sharp twist and handed it to her. She drank greedily, dripping water on her chest and belly in her haste. Stuart lost no time in kneeling on the mattress next to her and lick the errant drops. He found a reservoir in her navel and repeatedly flicked his tongue into the tiny crevice, continuing long after the water was gone. Scully felt a sharp stab of pleasure between her legs in response to his ministrations to her belly button. She was reminded of summers spent on the beach with her brothers, and Melissa. They teased each other about their innies and outies -- and she was the only one with an innie. "What are you thinking about?" Stuart murmured into her skin. "My belly button," she replied, giggling. "What are you thinking about?" "I've moved down the road a bit," he said, and nuzzled the auburn curls between her legs. He pried the delicate folds of flesh apart with his thumbs, then caressed her with his tongue, the tip of his nose, and finally with the rough silver hair of his beard. He tugged at her clitoris with his lips, gently and then insistently, alternating with sweeps of his tongue among the folds and into her opening. He nibbled daintily with his even white teeth and then went back to his insistent suckling of the tiny mound of pink until he felt her thrashing against the crisp sheet. He held her by placing a large hand flat on her belly and another around her hip. Unwelcome images were flooding Scully's mind; it was because of them that she struggled. The more firmly he held her, the more lurid the images became. She saw Donnie Pfaster's face as he opened the door to the tiny closet where she had hidden from him. She saw Duane Barry's face splintering through her window. She saw her father sitting in the chair in her living room, murmuring the Lord's Prayer. And over and over again, she saw Mulder -- sitting next to her in a car at night, sleeping by her side in a plane, running away from her into the field as she cried "Mulder! You're dead!" Her lips silently formed Mulder's name at that moment, not out of longing for him, but because he had been her greatest vulnerability for so long. She heard Stuart calling her name in the distance, Dana, Dana, come back to me.... "I need to see your face," she murmured, reaching out for him. He was immediately above her, wrapping his arms around her. He peered at her with concern. "Dana, what is it? You're thinking of someone else, aren't you?" he said gently. She wrapped her fingers around his rigid cock, as proportionately thick as his biceps were bulging, and guided him to the warm, dark home between her legs. She groaned as he filled her. "I'm thinking of you now, Stuart." She shifted beneath him so that they were more comfortable, twisted her legs around his waist. She cupped his lean buttocks with her hands and pushed until he plunged deeper into her. Now it was his turn to groan. He thrust into her, slowly, deeply, tenderly as she tilted her pelvis upward to meet him with each stroke. Her movements brought up an even more urgent desire in him. He increased his pace, as did Scully, until she was breathless beneath him and his sweat was dripping onto her shoulders. "Dana?" She wiped the moisture from his brow and nodded vigorously. "I'm ready." "Quite sure?" But she had already left the realm of the speaking. All the ghostly faces fell away as she felt herself hurtling toward a white-hot star, through coronas of gold, orange, and pink. Stuart was there with her, waiting for her on the other side, smiling down at her. "Unruly sun...." he murmured, dropping a thousand tiny kisses on her face and neck. "Look at your chest! You've got a sunburn, darling." "Have my wings melted?" she whispered breathlessly. "Not as long as I'm around." XXXXXXXXXXXXX Stuart took her home at dusk. They sat cuddled in the back seat, sleepy and warm. "Can I take you to lunch when you come back?" he murmured in her ear. "I usually skip lunch.....how about dinner?" "I can do dinner until December 3, and then I'm starting 'Coriolanus.' It usually runs about three hours....." "Then I can come and see you and afterwards we can go back to your hotel and --" "Order room service and have a nice warm bath and some champagne," he said drowsily. "Oh yes, please," she said, kissing him lazily. "But between now and then," Stuart began. "When will you be back in town?" "I don't exactly know. Depends on the case, and on my partner......next week at the latest." "I'm doing a reading at the Library of Congress next Tuesday evening. Why don't you come?" "What will you be reading?" "Love poems of John Donne," he replied with a alluring smile. "In that case, I'll definitely be there." Once in her apartment, Scully undressed and carefully placed her running clothes in the laundry basket. She held her forearm to her nose and sniffed; she smelled of the lavender-scented soap in Stuart's hotel bath. She was looking forward to falling asleep with the scent of him and his soap on her skin. She pulled on her favorite flannel nightshirt -- the long white one with the random pattern of tiny blue and green stars -- and headed into the kitchen for a glass of milk and some graham crackers. She turned on the television and began flipping channels. The phone rang. It was Mulder. "Hi, Mulder. I was just trying to find a weather report. What have you heard?" "So far, so good. The snow's turned into rain and it's warming up. Should be in the fifties by noon tomorrow." "Oh..." "You sound disappointed," he said. She put her nose to her wrist and took in that lovely smell again. "Scully? Got a cold?" "No. I just wish we didn't have to leave town right now. Since I cut back on traveling with you I've really learned to like D.C. "I miss you out there," he said quietly. She sighed heavily. She already missed Stuart terribly. "Scully? You there?" "Yeah, I'm here." She made an effort to rouse herself from the sex-induced stupor. "So, Mulder, did you have a good Sunday?" "Pretty dull," he replied. "Did some laundry, cleaned up, banged around the Net. What about you?" "I had a wonderful day." "When'd you get home?" he asked. "Half an hour ago, I suppose. I lost track of time," she said, flipping through the cable channels. "You lost track of time? Scully, you didn't --" "Not **lost** time, Mulder, I just lost **track** of time. I was having fun, the hours flew by, you know." "I'm not sure I do know, Scully. Should I be concerned?" he asked soberly. "What? Mul-- Oh my God! There he is! I can't believe it!" She gaped at the television screen, where Stuart, dressed in his Star Fleet uniform, was crossing the bridge with an authoritative glare in the soft blue eyes that had gazed so lovingly at her just minutes earlier. "Mulder! Channel 22! Quick!" A second later, he said, "So? Star Trek. I thought you only watched PBS." "No, it's him, it's Stuart," she said in a strangely girlish tone that he had never heard before. "It's Stuart. He looks so -- so **imposing**." "What are you talking about, Scully?" "Stuart Novak, Mulder. I met him this morning. I spent the day with him." The Actor, 3: Madison A.I. Irving vsmith@ischemia.card.unc.edu NC-17 (for descriptions of sexual activity and profanity) S, R (Scully/Other, Scully/Mulder) Please see the Prologue for disclaimers. Author's Note: Saki is the pseudonym of Hector Hugh Munro (1870-1916), who wrote short stories including "the satiric, the comic, the macabre, and the supernatural" (from _The Concise Oxford Companion to English Literature_, Drabble and Stringer, eds.). Right up FWM's alley, I'd say. Summary: Scully accompanies Mulder on a case, and Mulder persists in questioning her about her new relationship. "Check it out," Mulder said, thrusting their boarding passes in her face. "I got us first class upgrades." "Well done, Mulder," Scully said with as much warmth as she could muster. "I'm totally beat. I hardly slept at all last night. I'm actually going to have a drink on the way this time. Hopefully a little Scotch will knock me out and I can sleep until we get to Madison." "Think I can get you drunk and have my way with you?" "On a plane, Mulder? That's almost as bad as the back seat of a car," she said, and walked toward their gate. He trotted along behind her. "And how would you know?" "The same way nearly every red-blooded American knows, Mulder," she retorted. "Not all of us spent our adolescence reading Saki and swooning over Julie Andrews." "How did you know about Julie?" he cried. She ignored him and boarded the plane. When they were settled in the mercifully spacious seats in first class, she took off her shoes and planted her feet atop her carryon bag. Mulder took the opportunity to sneak a peek at her legs -- she was wearing a short pleated skirt -- and saw that they were encased in opaque black lycra, rather than the usual sheer nylon. "Scully, you're wearing tights. Forget to shave your legs?" "Shut up, Mulder," she mumbled, pushing a pillow behind her head. Mulder began disentangling the headphones to his Discman, trying to hide his nerves. "So, this actor, he likes hairy legs?" "Minibrained iguana," she mumbled under her breath. "How exactly did you meet him?" "Running," she replied, still not looking at him. "Were you wearing those tight blue running pants?" She glared at him. "Mulder, is there something other than the usual constellation of neuroses up your ass today?" Mulder shrugged innocently. "I can understand how a man that age would want to run after a prime specimen like you ........." "Don't talk about me like I'm a zoo exhibit," she snapped. The flight attendant handed Scully a tumbler of Scotch and ice, and Mulder a cup of coffee. Mulder arranged his coffee on the tray table and proceeded to dump four packets of unrefined sugar in it. "So are you actually a Star Trek fan, or is it just his general wealth and fame that attracts you to him?" Even Mulder was surprised at what a jerk he could be. He had a sincere apology on the tip of his tongue, but never got to use it. "You want details, Mulder? Do you? I'll give you what you want if you'll promise to shut up and let me sleep." Mulder stuck out his lower lip, making a show of considering the proposition. "Okay." "He's very charming. He's intelligent, well-mannered, well-read --" "Well-hung?" Scully's eyebrows answered for her, as they so often did. "He's very good in bed, isn't he?" Mulder persisted, an impish sneer on his face. "Maybe he could give you some tips," she said, loud enough for their neighbors to hear. "You're making an assumption there, Scully. Maybe I could give **him** some tips. After all, I've known you for a lot longer than -- oh, what is it, now -- the twenty-four hours that he's known you? And I employ the verb 'to know' in both the archaic and modern usages." She took a sip of her drink, exasperated. "All right, Mulder. He's very -- skilled. He's very graceful. And he smells divine." Mulder repressed a moan of disgust. "Is that all you wanted to know?" she asked sweetly. "How many times?" "How many times what?" she echoed. Then she saw the leer on Mulder's handsome face. "Oh. Three. Three times." Mulder let out a low whistle. "Pretty good for a guy his age. How old is he, anyway?" "Fifty-one," she replied. "I should be so lucky when I'm that old," he said. I should be so lucky right now, he thought to himself. "So, I guess you liked it, huh?" "What do you think?" she asked irritably, taking another sip of Scotch. I think you liked it so much that you're exhausted this morning and would give anything to be sleeping next to him right now instead of on this plane with me, Mulder said inside his head. "Scully," he said in a sober tone. "I want you to be happy. I also want you to be alert enough to cover my ass in the field." "Don't worry about that, Mulder. I wouldn't want anything to happen to your lovely round ass," she said sarcastically. He frowned at her. "Too round?" "No, goldilocks. Juusssstttt right." She gave a weary laugh at his expression of disbelief. "Don't look so shocked, Mulder. I'm not blind. Can I go to sleep now?" "By all means," he murmured. Scully finished off her drink and pulled her tan cashmere shawl up to her chin. She curled up as best she could in her seat, nestling her head only a few inches from his. "Scully?" "Hmm?" "I'd like to meet him sometime. Do you think we could arrange that?" Scully opened her eyes and saw him gazing at her sincerely. "I'm serious," Mulder said. "I want to meet him. Sit down, have a nice civilized dinner somewhere, get to know him." "You're kidding," she declared. "No. Not at all. You pick the place, and it's my treat. Make it so, Number One." "Okay, Mulder. But don't call me that," she said, and closed her eyes. XXXXXXXXXXXXX Scully squinted at the monitor of her laptop. "Mulder. I think I've got it." Mulder looked momentarily away from the television to see her pale face illuminated by the blue glow from the monitor. "Well?" "The encoded note that was found with the body. That code -- I think it's a made up of phonetic symbols. Not the standard set, exactly -- possibly a bastardized version unique to the user. It may be our link to the glossectomy." Mulder squinched up his mouth and made a retching sound. "Jesus, Scully. That word." "Okay. It's the link to why he cut the tongue out and shoved it down her throat." "Ow." He stuck his tongue out a few times and flexed it, checking to be sure that it was still as it should be. "The threat of not being able to express yourself through speech really --" "Sticks in your craw?" "Very funny," he said, dragging himself off the bed and walking over to the table where she had spread out the documents in the case. "Of course there are many other good uses for your tongue, besides talking." "Like eating ice cream," she said, revealing the urge she had been suppressing since lunch. Breyer's chocolate chip, or butter pecan -- either one would do. She wasn't picky about ice cream, as long as it was the real thing. "Or taking your temperature," Mulder said, loosening the knot in his tie. "Or kissing," Scully said, staring into the monitor with a faraway look in her eyes. Mulder sat across from her, deliberately putting himself in her line of vision. "Kissing? With your tongue? What would a nice Catholic girl like you know about such a thing?" "A thing or two," she answered, smiling as she took off her steel-rimmed spectacles. She closed her eyes and rubbed her nose where the glasses has made matching red marks on either side of the narrow bridge. "But don't tell anybody. Wouldn't want my chilly reputation ruined, would we." The sounds of David Letterman's intro jarred the quiet room. Mulder grabbed the remote and shut the TV off. "You must be tired," Mulder said gently. "You've been at it for nearly five hours. Thanks for working so hard, Scully." "'S my job, Mulder," she said with a yawn. "Who does all this research when I'm not with you?" "My other partner," he teased. "You know, the husky brunette with the latex wardrobe." "Oh, yeah. I forgot about her. Is she as good as I am?" Scully asked with a sleepy smile. "Scully, no one will ever be as good to me as you are," he said steadily. She put her glasses back on slowly and took a good look at him. "Sometimes I miss this, Mulder. Tomorrow I may not admit to having said that, but at the moment, it's how I feel." "Why did you do it, Scully?" he asked. "Do what?" "Convince Skinner to let you spend more time in D.C. and less time on the road with me." "I told you---" "You told me some story about needing to give more time to your research projects, to finish those papers you were writing and start a new one......" He pressed his fingertips together and rested his chin on them. "That was over a year ago, Scully. Did I lose your trust somewhere along the way?" "Mulder --" "You can tell me, Scully," he said earnestly. She watched him. Tonight all the lines of stress and encroaching age were standing out on his tanned face. His hair hung limply over his brow, and nearly twenty hours of stubble darkened his chin. His dark eyes were bleary and red. She longed to reach out and push the hair back from his face and close his eyes with her thumbs, then massage his temples and the tight hinges of his jaw. He looked as if he needed to be touched. Mulder shivered when he saw her get out of her chair and take the two steps toward him. She stood toe to toe with him and reached out to touch his face. She got as far as closing his tired eyes with a light touch of her fingertips before he grasped her wrists and pulled her hands away from him. "I have to go to bed," he said hoarsely. The torment in his eyes was unmistakable. "See you in the morning?" She nodded almost imperceptibly and stood aside to let him go. XXXXXXXXXXXXX The following day they interviewed the chairman of the linguistics department and convinced him to describe the face of the suspect for a police artist. They were given a copy of the suspect's CV and copies of a few of his letters of reference. "The problem with Kaparthy's CV," Scully said as she closed her cell phone, "Is that there's no trace of him before he came to Madison. Madison thought he came from Chapel Hill, Chapel Hill thought he came from Jackson, Jackson thought he came from Berkeley. Each institution checked out his references and got enough positive information to hire him. Now none of those references can be found again. I think we have a chameleon on our hands." They were driving back to the motel after a grueling day spent all over the university campus -- in the driving Wisconsin snow. "Fargo," Mulder said as he pulled up to a Shoney's. "North Dakota?" "Could there be a connection between the phonetic symbols in which the notes were written, the -- as you put it -- glossectomies, and the regional dialects spoken by each of the victims?" "Possibly. Each victim was a native of the state in which she was murdered. Each was an underclassman, hardly out of the nest long enough to realize that not everyone speaks the way her parents do.....But what about North Dakota?" "North Dakotans have a very distinct accent," Mulder stated. "Don't you think that's a gross generalization?" she challenged. "Didn't you see 'Fargo'?" "I did, and I repeat -- a gross generalization. Like assuming that everyone from the South is ignorant because they speak with a slower cadence than people from other parts of the country." "But Scully, if you had a particularly sensitive ear -- the ear of a dialectician or grammarian, for instance -- you might find all these variations on the spoken language a little hard to take. You might idealize a certain accent as the one true way to speak English." "And cut the tongues out of everyone who differs from the ideal? I think you're reaching, Mulder." Mulder looked out at the snow. It had already blanketed the windshield and blotted out what little light had been leaking through the clouds. "He'd never want to do a glossectomy on Stuart Novak," Mulder observed. She scowled at him. "What are you talking about now?" "Your boyfriend, Scully." He saw her flinch at the term. "He speaks the Queen's English perfectly. Trained at RADA, twenty years with the Royal Shakespeare Company -- essentially he speaks for a living. His English has to be perfect." "And how does that relate to this case?" she asked coolly. "Maybe you should ask him how a person would go about erasing an accent, or adopting a new one." "He hates doing accents. We were talking about his films, and he mentioned it." "You actually talked?" Mulder said. Scully flipped the visor mirror down and turned on the little light. She pulled her black beret down over her ears. About three inches of red hair spiked out from under the hat. Mulder mused that she looked like little Madeline, who said to the tigers in the zoo, poo poo. "Of course we talked, Mulder. Looks alone don't do a whole lot for me." She flipped the visor back into place and turned to him. "If they did, I would've thrown myself at you a long time ago." Mulder felt his face stinging with a rare blush. "Are you saying that you think I'm attractive?" "I'm saying that you're handsome in that -- you know -- that soap opera hunk sort of way. The lips, the mole, the hair.....Most women love that." "Most women, Scully?" He shook his head at the bitter irony of her words. "But not you?" "You clean up very nicely Mulder," she said, patting his arm. "But you're not my type." "Thanks, Scully. It's good to know I don't have to worry about what to do in case you throw yourself at me," he joked, barely concealing his misery. "You're welcome," she said brightly, and stepped out of the car and into the snow. The Actor, 4: Telling Scully A.I. Irving vsmith@ischemia.card.unc.edu NC-17 (for descriptions of sexual activity and profanity) S, R (Scully/Other, Scully/Mulder) Please see the Prologue for disclaimers. Summary: Scully spends a quiet evening with Stuart. The following day, Mulder confesses his feelings to Scully. Author's Note: The poetry that Stuart quotes to Scully is from John Donne's "On Going to Bed." Scully had rushed back from Madison, leaving Mulder at the airport, to catch Stuart's reading at the Library of Congress. She arrived half an hour late, only to be astounded by the size of the crowd that spilled out of the reading room and down the marble-floored corridor. She could hear Stuart's well-trained voice even as she stood with the other women in the hallway. She scanned the ladies' rapt faces as they hung on Stuart's every utterance of Donne's words, swooning with every erotic reference. Without actually laying eyes on him, Scully could almost forget how well she knew Stuart. It never occurred to her that these women would be intensely jealous of her if they knew. She was accustomed to receiving evil looks from women who perceived her to be more than Mulder's partner, but she had never actually been involved with a man who could inspire this kind of lust among strangers. Weary and unwilling to stand on the hard marble floor any longer, Scully shuffled into a nearby alcove and scanned the shelves there for something to read. Choosing a volume at random, she sat in a wide wooden chair and settled her briefcase and purse on the floor nearby. She opened an old blue-bound book and saw by the frontispiece that it was the collected works of Robert Browning. Before she could think the better of it, she turned to 'Paracelsus' and began skimming the verse play. She had found a dog-eared copy of Browning in Mulder's coat pocket as Mulder slept on the plane on the way home from Apison, Tennessee, just over a year ago. He had used an evidence tag to mark a passage that she guessed had served to bolster his conceit about his past lives. At the time, she had regarded the book in disgust. He could so easily use his powerful intellect to rationalize anything, and had made Browning's words work for him. She saw by the imprint in the cover of that book that he had lifted it from the tiny Apison library. She had no difficulty in piecing together his actions: he had read the play at Oxford, and retained it in the recesses of his vast memory. When their encounter with Melissa Ephesian began to stir his soul, he called up the memory and, when all was said and done in the compound, went to the library to verify the words. She had wondered then, as she did now in the Library of Congress, if he had found that Browning's words were actually more of an indictment of the kind of arrogance that he so regularly displayed, rather than a rumination on the romance of reincarnation. Scully had read further on the plane returning from Apison, and had found lines on the next page that she had wanted to beat into his brain. She read them again on that November evening in Washington -- 'How can that course be safe which from the first/ Produces carelessness to human love?'. And later in the same passage, the words that had particularly piqued Scully's outrage back then -- Were I ...like you, I would encircle me with love.... .....it should seem impossible for me to fail, so watched By gentle friends who made my cause their own..... She closed the book. She had carefully avoided thinking of Apison since that day, so long ago, when she had gone to Skinner with the proposal that she would allow her the freedom to choose when and if she accompanied Mulder on a case. She would no longer follow him blindly into the field on every wild goose chase. Skinner had nodded sagely, congratulated her on her decision, and sent her off to her lab. And six months later, on the merit of her research as well as her accomplishments in the field, she had been given a staggering raise that had allowed her to buy a spacious new apartment in a newly renovated co- op building in Cleveland Park. What she may or may not have given up by changing the terms of her partnership with Mulder had been counterbalanced by what she had gained in self- respect. She heard thunderous applause rocketing out of the reading room. She ran into the walkway to lean over the railing in hopes of catching Stuart's eye. She smiled to herself when she realized that all the dozens of women gathered in the hall below had exactly the same idea. He was being moved along by the throng of fans, shaking hands and signing autographs, smiling and saying gracious things to prove that he didn't take the fans for granted. She knew him well enough to know that while he didn't take them for granted, he nonetheless hated to be kissed by strangers and called by his character's name. Scully considered arresting him and dragging him out of the building, but then decided that this would make for too much of a scandal in the tabloids. Instead, she walked halfway down the stairs and stood serenely above the crowd, her red hair glinting like a halo in the light. Then Stuart looked up and saw her. "Dana!" he bellowed in his enormously deep voice. The throng looked to see who he was calling to; they looked at her with ire as Stuart reached out for her. Scully ran down the rest of the stairs, grabbed his hand, and pulled him away. They ran out into the street, about twenty restless fans chasing after them. "My angel," he said breathlessly. "You've come to save me." "I'm afraid I've offended them. Should you stay a bit longer?" "Good Lord no. I've spent an hour answering the usual questions about what kind of boxer shorts I wear. The only problem is --" "Now they're going to want to know whose hands are in them," she said, stepping into the traffic to stop a cab. "Get in." XXXXXXXXXXXXX They sat in a bath of warm, vanilla-scented water, Scully resting against Stuart's chest, her hands on his knees. His arms twined around her neck and held her possessively. He kept one hand over her heart, feeling its strong, regular rhythm. "Dana?" "Hmm." "Are you awake?" "Oh yes." "What are you thinking about?" He could feel her smile as it spread across her face and utilized the fine muscles under her neck and upper chest. "I saw you on TV," she said. "Oh, no," he moaned. "I did. You were negotiating with these hideous creatures with big wrinkly ears -- what are they called?" "The Ferengi," he intoned. "That sounds like some kind of exotic mushroom." "It's three hours in make-up, every day, for the recurring Ferengi," he said. "How long does it take for you?" "About half an hour, because I have virtually no hair." She reached behind up to scratch his beard lightly. "I like you with a beard. It softens your face. You look less -- authoritative." He caught her fingers with his teeth and growled. She turned gingerly, careful not to slosh the water out of the tub, and, freeing her fingers, used them to stroke his beard. His lips seemed very rosy in the midst of the silver hair. She tilted her head back a little to kiss him, and felt his wet arms slip around her back. He returned the kiss, pressing his lips against hers, gently at first, then with the unspoken demand for entrance. She opened herself to him, and in her small mouth he tasted the smoky scent of the night air, a hint of cinnamon toothpaste, and, further back, a silky sweetness that reminded him of weightless warmth found between sleep and wakefulness. He pulled away so that he could see her. His desire for her was now in the company of something new: an unmistakable emotional yearning for the safety that he instinctively knew could be found in loving her. He felt as if he had just sailed over an unexpected bump in the road, and his stomach had flip- flopped. "You realize that I'm probably old enough to be your father?" he said in a voice husky with emotion. "Barely," she whispered, and reached up for more of the kiss. "Danaaaa," he moaned into her throat. "I can see what's happening. Do you want me to tell you?" "Maybe you should let me discover it on my own," she said, lightly touching the crown of his head, tracing his ears with her fingers, massaging the lobes, palpating the arteries of his neck. His pulse was racing. "I'd like to take my time with you. I can tell that you have a lot to teach me about so many things." Stuart knew that they had to get out of the tub before progressing any further. He slipped out from behind her and stepped onto the fluffy white mat, allowing her an exhilarating view of his sculpted legs, buttocks, and back. He took the terrycloth robe from the back of the door and slipped it on without tying it. When he turned back to her, she could see the impressive erection that her kisses had drawn. He offered her his hand and pulled her up and out of the tub. He opened his robe and pulled her close, wrapping her in it. She sighed and snuggled into his warmth. He put out a hand and switched off the light. There in the soft light that spilled in from the bedroom, he spoke some of the lines he had performed earlier that evening. This time, however, he didn't have to project to the back of the room. He merely whispered them in her ear. Licence my roving hands, and let them go, Before, behind, between, above, below. O my America! my new-found-land, My kingdome, safeliest when with one man man'd, My Myne of precious stones, My Emperie How blest am I in this discovering thee! She kissed him again, lightly this time. She was flooded with emotions, many of which she couldn't, or didn't want to, name. Tears poured down her cheeks, and when she tried to speak, a ragged sob came from the back of her throat. "Dana, forgive me, I didn't --" "No, no, don't apologize." He put a hand to her cheek and wiped away the tears with his thumb. "What is it?" "My heart is overflowing.....that's so corny, isn't it? But it's true. I haven't felt like this in years, Stuart. You're making me so happy. It's almost frightening." "I'll help you get over that fear, my darling," he said, hoisting her up in her arms. He carried her to the bed and lowered her gently into the sheets. "Comfortable?" She nodded and reached out for him. He looked down at body, quietly memorizing every inch of it before touching her. "We should spend some time talking to each other," he said, running his broad hand up and down her sternum. "What about?" "What's your favorite color?" he asked, trailing his fingers along her neck and shoulder. Dana watched his eyes. She could almost see the gears turning in his mind. "Green, I suppose," she replied. "What is your second name?" he asked, his hand at her waist. "Katherine," she said. "Sisters and brothers?" "Two brothers," she said purposely. She wasn't about to bring her sister's death into this moment. "Where were you born?" "Puerto Rico," she said. "How old are you, exactly?" "32." "Thank God. Older than my children. Now I know I'm not robbing the cradle," he said, stroking her thigh with the back of his hand. He seemed to be watching the patch of reddish curls between her legs, as if waiting for something to happen there. "Stuart?" "Hmm?" "What are you doing?" "Thinking," he replied cryptically. She lifted herself up on her elbows. "Is something bothering you?" He shook his head and turned his head to face her. His eyes were glistening with tears. "I had wondered if it would wear off.....You were gone for nine days, and not a moment went by when I wasn't trying to either talk myself out of loving you or planning how I would tell you that I did. And now I can't remember any of my plans." She sat up and slipped her arms around his waist. She laid her head against his solid shoulder, rubbing her cheek against the soft cloth of his robe. He sighed into her embrace and stroked her back. "Isn't there anything you want to ask me?" he whispered. She shifted slightly and pressed her cheek against the warmth of his neck. "Do you love me?" "Yes," he said, without hesitation. "That's all I need to know," she said. She put a firm hand to the back of his neck and pulled him down on top of her. He placed his hands on either side of her small face and kissed her reverently. She felt his breath coming and going through his powerful lungs. She felt his heart thundering and his skin warming with the flush of arousal. She felt the muscles of his legs rippling as he gracefully maneuvered his lower body to rest between her legs. She wanted to freeze this time and make everything else go away. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to be loved. XXXXXXXXXXXXX Two days later, Scully sat shivering at her desk. The basement office was, predictably, an ice box. She opened the thermos of tea she had brought -- Ceylon Breakfast -- and fired up her PowerBook. And then Mulder appeared. "Scully. What're you doing here so early?" he asked, trying to sound nonchalant. "The same thing you are, no doubt. Don't take you coat off -- it's freezing in here. Want some tea?" "You didn't make coffee for us?" he said with a frown. "Nah. I wanted to bring something comforting from home. It was hard enough to leave this morning.....You want some?" "Sure." He handed her his mug and sat on the edge of her desk as she filled it. He held the warm mug in his hands until the sensation began to return to his fingers. "So. Did we talk on the phone last night, or did I dream that?" "We talked. Around seven, I think. I went to bed pretty soon after that." "Early to bed? Alone?" he asked pointedly. She smiled and pushed her chair back from the desk -- and away from him. "Mulder, it's been a long time since you've meddled in my personal life. You must be bored lately." "I **have** been bored, actually. But I hope I'm not meddling. I'm concerned about you, Scully. You met this man -- when? -- last week, and jumped into bed with him almost immediately, today you look like the cat that swallowed the canary -- forgive the expression -- and I have to wonder what provoked such uncharacteristic behavior." She looked up at him and wondered how he could spew such bullshit at her, of all people. "Mulder, how would you know what constitutes uncharacteristic behavior in the world of Scully? You haven't been there in about fourteen months, if memory serves me." "Ah, that's right, 'the world of Scully.' Throwing my own words back at me. Now that's more like it!" He grinned devilishly at her. "So, how are things in the world of Scully, anyway?" "Ask me no questions, Mulder, and I'll tell you no lies." She stood and crossed the room. Making a show of rummaging in a file cabinet, she tried to gather her wits. She had no reason to be so angry at Mulder, she told herself. He had a right to be curious. He probably thought that Stuart was the only lover she had known in their lengthy partnership. If he thought that, then he thought right. "Look....I'm a little edgy about this. I know it's not like me. Believe me, I've thought about that." "You've had time to think? You must've been in bed with him within minutes of meeting him," Mulder said quietly. "It was sudden. It was almost an out-of-body experience." "Almost, but not quite," Mulder said with a bittersweet smile. She nodded. Leaning back against the cabinet, she sighed and said, "I guess you have a point. I must've lost my mind." "No, Scully. I don't believe that. It's just that I'm not accustomed to thinking of you with other men." Her gaze snapped up at him. "What do you mean, 'other' men?" Mulder squirmed under her scrutiny. "I was afraid you were going to ask me that." He slid off the desk and paced around the room for a moment. "We've been partners for over five years, Scully. We've been through too much to....I feel....I feel very strongly....." "Spit it out, Mulder," Scully said with a faint smile. He faced her from across the room. He took a deep breath. "Scully, I -- I was hoping that when you found time to fall in love, to have a relationship -- I was hoping it would be with me." He let the breath out, amazed that he was still alive. Scully squinted at him as if he were exuding a blinding light. She took one hesitant step, and paused, a hand over her eyes, shaking her head in disbelief. "Oh, Mulder......" Then he realized that she was shedding silent tears. When she took her hand away from her face, revealing to him the expression of tender confusion in her lovely eyes, Mulder went to her. He pulled her into his arms and held her there, wondering if this would be his last chance to feel her so close. "Scully, is it that bad?" he murmured into her hair. "I'm sorry -- I didn't mean to upset you. But I had to stake my claim, even though it sounds like I don't have much of a chance against this guy." "How long has this been going on?" she asked, turning her tearstained face to look at him. He was startled by the emotion in her. It was as if he had torn a bandage off a gaping wound in her heart, and now all the resentment and affection of five intense years poured out of her. "That's a good question." He hesitated before answering. He was a little embarrassed to admit just how long he had harbored this secret. "A long time. Almost since the beginning." She rested her hands on his chest and looked at him searchingly. "But what about --" "I didn't say I'd been a martyr to these feelings. I've tried to involve myself with other women. It never works out." "I'm not so sure that's because of me," she said, disentangling herself from him to search out a tissue. "I was afraid to offer myself to you; you're so sensible, you're bound to turn me down. What would a woman like you want with a neurotic workaholic man like me? I may very well have paranoid delusional tendencies, you know," he added with a smile. She laughed a tear-sodden laugh and delicately blew her nose into another tissue. "Mulder.....in spite of what I said to you in Madison, I have to admit that I'm attracted to you, and I have been from --" The telephone on her desk rang. Their eyes met in a one-second challenge: don't answer it -- it might be Skinner -- we have to answer it. Scully picked it up. Mulder could tell by the soft smile that came across her face that Stuart Novak was on the other end. Mulder had to smile, ever so slightly, at the sight of her joy. He loved her enough to be happy for her. XXXXXXXXXXXXX When she was finished, Scully found Mulder in the copy room. He was making enlargements and reductions of his hand. "Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious by this Sun of York," he said. "How did you know he was from Yorkshire?" she asked. "I didn't. It's the first Shakespeare that came to mind." She touched the papers bearing pictures of his hand. "But is it art?" "Probably not. I came in here to give you some privacy. How's the Captain?" "He took a nasty fall while we were out running yesterday morning and is having some residual pain today. Nothing a little ibuprofen won't take care of," she replied in a cool, clinical voice. Mulder rose to his full height and peered down at her. "Are you sure the fall's the cause of his pain?" He couldn't resist the jab. She glowered at him. "Cut it out, Mulder. I came in here ready to discuss this situation with you. If you're not up to it --" "Oh, I'm up to it, Scully. Just try me." He grabbed her around the waist and hoisted her up onto the copier in one fluid motion. He insinuated himself between her knees and began kissing her insistently, one hand steadying her head and the other caressing her hip. He felt her squirming beneath him, but in his desperation wanted to taste her at any cost. Finally he released her mouth. "Scully, you overpower me. Doesn't that count for anything? I'm -- I adore you. Doesn't it matter?" "Of course it matters, Mulder. But this isn't getting us anywhere," she said in a steady voice, barely containing her anger. "Help me get down, OK?" He lifted her off the machine and stood back while she readjusted her clothes. He fixed his gaze on the curve of her thigh as she smoothed the seat of her wool trousers. When she looked up at him, he did not flinch. He refused to be ashamed of his feelings. "Well? Aren't you going to scold me, Scully? That's the usual content of our conversations. I do something stupid, you tell me it's stupid, I tell you I acted on the strength of my beliefs..." "Jesus, Mulder. You're so defensive. Doesn't it occur to you that I may be very confused by all this? I had just begun to wrap my mind around the idea of being with Stuart when I find out that you're -- you're--" "Breaking the Prime Directive?" She almost smiled. "You could say that," she replied. As she turned toward the door, Mulder reached for her hand. "Please, Scully, forgive me for being so aggressive. I was overwhelmed. I just wanted you to know --" "I know, Mulder. I think I've known for some time. I'm sorry I didn't have the courage to speak of it. It's just too frightening to think of being rejected by you, of all people." She paused, remembering. "Is that what you were afraid of?" He nodded soberly. "I thought so. Look.....I'm pretty overwhelmed myself. I have to sort this out for myself. It may not be tomorrow, it may not be next week, but I promise I'll get back to you on this. Is that acceptable?" "More than acceptable," he whispered with a rueful smile. "And until then, we'll proceed as usual." "Do you really think that's possible?" she asked. "I don't know, but I'm going to try, for both our sakes." The Actor, 5: Impromptu A.I. Irving vsmith@ischemia.card.unc.edu NC-17 (for descriptions of sexual activity and profanity) S, R (Scully/Other, Scully/Mulder) Please see the Prologue for disclaimers. Summary: On Thanksgiving Eve, Stuart and Mulder finally meet. The rehearsal of 'Coriolanus' broke up early on Wednesday evening. The cast and crew were eager to get started on the Thanksgiving holiday. Stuart assented, and the stage manager darkened the theatre at 8:00. Stuart could hardly complain. He had thanks to give for what he regarded as his greatest blessing since his series' pilot was picked up eight years ago: Dana Scully. He walked out into Constitution Avenue and caught a cab uptown. He signed an autograph for the cabbie and asked him to stop at the corner of Scully's block. He trotted back down Connecticut Avenue to a grocery he had spotted from the car; there he bought a bouquet for her and signed two more autographs. Stuart didn't mind; he was just glad that no one kissed him. He found his way to Scully's door and knocked quietly. He felt suddenly insecure about showing up uninvited. She might be working, or in the bath, or -- with someone else. Stuart looked down at the bouquet of pink sweetheart roses. Was it a cloying gesture? He sighed. Twenty years' difference between them, and here he was standing on her doorstep like an adolescent. No fool like an old fool, he mused. Then he reminded himself that he never felt foolish when he was with Dana. Stuart smiled, smoothed his beard with his fingertips, and knocked again. "Come on in, Mulder," he heard her call. Stuart tried to think of a witty reply -- and came up dry. "It's Stuart, darling." After a few seconds, the door opened. She stood just inside the door, partially cloaked in darkness. "How did you know where to find me?" she asked in a low voice. "I asked the concierge to get your address for me," he answered. The hand that held the flowers dropped limply at his side. "I'm sorry I didn't ring you first. I came straight from rehearsal....You were expecting someone else, weren't you." "Not really. I had a feeling my partner might stop by tonight. We had some unfinished business. Come in, Stuart. Please." She stood aside and allowed him into the room. Stuart viewed the room as if it were the set for a romantic comedy. Unfortunately, he wasn't sure of his lines. The lush fabrics on her furniture, the soft lights, the sound of Sarah Vaughan wafting through the fragrant air brought one of Tom Stoppard's more accessible comedies. The one that no one ever produces, he mused. What's it called.... "Stuart?" He turned to her and, remembering the gift he had brought, presented the flowers. "Hope you like roses," he said, suddenly feeling hot under his leather jacket and cotton tee shirt. His jeans were beginning to chafe. Whenever he looked at her for more than a few minutes he wanted to take off his clothes and wrap himself around her. Tonight, however, she did not appear to be interested in joining in the fun. At least not yet. Scully smiled and sniffed the blossoms. "Oh, thank you. They're lovely. Come in here while I take care of them," she said, leading him through the living room to the kitchen. He sat at the pine plank table in the dining room, where he had a good view of her as she unwrapped the flowers at the kitchen sink. She was dressed in pajamas made of pale blue cotton jersey, trimmed with a slender band of satin of the same shade, like a perfect summer sky. A pair of horn-rimmed spectacles rested on the bridge of her nose, and her recently shampooed hair was curling as it dried. In a matter of minutes she had artfully arranged the roses in a globular crystal vase. As she turned from the counter to bring the flowers over to the table, the light filtered through the thin cotton knit and revealed to him the peaks and valleys of her body that he already knew so well. She placed the vase in the center of the table and then lit the fat white votives that sat in shallow bisque saucers on either side of the it. "Perfect. There're very sweet. Would you like something? Some tea?" "You. All I want is you," he said, slipping an arm around her waist and pulling her down onto his lap. She took off her glasses and put them on the table. "I feel a bit -- awkward," Stuart confessed. "Coming here......I feel as if I'm invading your real life. I'm breaking out of our little hotel fantasy." "It had to be done at some point," she said, putting a hand to his bearded cheek. "Now you know I'm real. These pajamas aren't the stuff of fantasies." "That's where you're wrong, Dr. Scully," he said with a sly smile. "Now that I've seen you like this, your black lace pales in comparison." "Liar," she said, laughing at him. "Any man who tells you that every fantasy features a perfect woman in sexy lingerie is lying to you," he said. He touched the satin trim of her top with his fingertip, followed it over her collar bone and down the front placket. "Some men fantasize about their schoolmistresses. Or a nurse who took care of them in hospital. Or a stranger they see every week at the laundromat. Or a gorgeous gingerhaired runner......" "Who happens to cut up dead bodies for a living,"she added. He grimaced. "You aren't joking, are you?" Scully shook her head. "Definitely not. I told you I was a forensic pathologist. That's what it involves, at least at the FBI. In academics you might work on the molecular level, but I get the gore. My trip to Madison was to examine the body of a woman who had been mutilated rather cruelly." Stuart paused in his attempt to unfasten the top button of her pajama top. "And what does your partner do?" "He handles the more theoretical end. He's a psychologist. His specialty is criminal profiling." "Sounds....spooky," Stuart mused. "Ah. You're right on that count," she said with a snort. She took his hand from her chest and kissed the blunt fingertips, then allowed him to clasp the back of her neck and pull her face toward his. "This partner of yours," he began, kissing the tip of her nose. Scully draped her arms around his broad shoulders, all thoughts of the analysis of the Kaparthy case that had occupied her until his arrival flying from her brain like so many smashed atoms. She lightly kissed his bare scalp, drawing a soft moan from Stuart. "Is he attractive?" "Mulder?" She laughed momentarily, until she saw what he was getting at. "To some women, I suppose. I think his looks are a little quirky, at best." "And do you travel with him often?" Stuart asked, moving on to the second button. "Only a few times a year now. Why do you ask?" She shivered as his hand slipped over her bare breast. She immediately felt a rush a warmth through her belly and into her groin. The familiar, thick wetness was coming quickly to the cache between her legs. She squirmed. "The two of you, alone in some remote town, pursuing these dark, existential questions of violence and madness, life and death, mystery and truth....it's a very titillating scenario, don't you think?" Instead of making the usual automatic denial, Scully considered his suggestion carefully as he undid the rest of her buttons and pushed the pale blue fabric away from her breasts. He cupped them in his hands, mounding the soft ivory flesh better than any bra she had ever owned. He buried his nose in the impressive cleavage he had created, and Scully moaned softly. She was imagining Mulder, in the motel room back in Madison, following Stuart's actions. She even reached up to touch his dark hair. Instead she found Stuart's baldness. She was not at all disappointed. He began to nibble in earnest on one of her mauve nipples, while plucking at the other one in the way he knew she liked. She shifted in his lap, and tried to push the heavy leather jacket off his shoulders. Stuart shrugged it off and wrapped his ropy arms around her again. Scully's hands slipped under the tight sleeves of his tee shirt, massaging the ridges of his triceps as she went. Stuart's mouth wandered across to the other nipple, and Scully reached up to the one he had abandoned. She pinched it fiercely, making herself yelp with the pleasure of the pain she caused. The sound she made brought a feral growl from Stuart, who looked up at her, panting, his lips glimmering with saliva, his eyes nearly black with the expansion of his pupils in response to his mounting arousal. "Tell me what you want, Dana," he said hoarsely. "The candles....blow them out," she replied, reaching for the table's edge. He lifted her out of his lap, his strong hands steadying her as she stood. She began to struggle with the waistband of her pajama pants. He blew out the candles, and removed them and the vase of flowers in one graceful motion. He returned to her quickly, and helped her push the thin pants over her hips. They fell in a puddle around her feet. Stuart put his right hand on her lower back, his left under her right thigh, and simultaneously lifted her from the floor and lowered her onto the table. She heard the scraping sound of his zipper. She was blinking up at the light fixture that hung over her kitchen table, noticing, in spite of her state, that a spider had left a strand of web between two arms of the chandelier. She felt his hand on her, slicking over her inflamed flesh, searching out the oscillating aperture. The target sighted, he plunged into her, unaware of the roar that he produced as he met with the entrance to her womb. He thrust deeply into her, three, four, five times, and then she abruptly put a hand to his chest to still him. She covered his mouth with her hand and listened. Stuart raised an eyebrow; she took her hand away from his mouth. "It was nothing," she said quietly. She grinned up at him, a challenge in her eyes. "Come on, then. Don't keep me waiting." He returned to his work, pistoning himself into her until she was whimpering a warning of the impending crash. Stuart pushed one last time, and saw the telltale flush come over her chest and face. It was matched by her thundering internal shudder. He cried out softly as she wrested every ounce of pleasure from him with her powerful contractions. Pulling her with him, Stuart collapsed into the chair where, just a few minutes ago, he had been asking her about her partner's looks. Scully straddled him, still holding him inside, and dropped her head to his shoulder. "You amaze me," she whispered. "I know," he agreed, and laughed breathlessly. Outside the door to Scully's apartment, Mulder stood motionless, listening. He heard rustling, the scrape of a chair leg against the floor, and a soft trill of laughter and voices. His instinct told him to turn and leave, but he could not. He leaned against the door frame and strained to hear Scully's voice. Now he could hear nothing. He put his keys back in his pocket and knocked loudly. Scully was returning the candles and roses to the tabletop when she heard his knock. She pulled on her pajama pants and quickly buttoned the top. Stuart sat in his chair, fully dressed, and watched as she went stealthily to the door, gun in hand, pajamas hanging loosely from her small frame. "Scully, it's me," a low voice said from the other side of the door. Her shoulders relaxed and she opened the door for the second time that evening. From his seat in the kitchen, Stuart could only see the back of the door and Scully, her gun held loosely at her side, her other hand on her hip in a posture of exacerbation. "Dammit, Mulder! I nearly shot you again." **Again**, Stuart mused as he relit the candles. "Sorry, Scully. I wanted to drop these files off, but at the last minute I thought I should knock in case.....y'know, in case you weren't alone." Stuart noted that Mulder's voice had a constrained quality -- probably the result of years of suppressing his anger. It alternated between a hoarse tenor and a velvety baritone, depending on where he was in the sentence and what he was saying. "I do have a visitor, but please, come in," she said, with a tinge of impatience in her voice. Her back was to Stuart as she pushed the door shut and locked it. Stuart watched as Mulder looked around the living room, obviously looking for clues as to what he had interrupted. Finding nothing unusual there, he peered through the dining room passage toward the the kitchen. There, illuminated in the golden light coming from the candles, Mulder saw the actor himself. He sat erectly in the ladder back chair, his noble profile half in shadow and half in candlelight. Mulder had no difficulty in sensing the potent intensity that had drawn Scully to Stuart. It drew him, too. In a few long strides he was in the dining room, offering his hand to Stuart and looking into his dark eyes. Stuart stood and shook his hand. Mulder was certainly a taller man, but had little of the muscle mass of Stuart. They were equally graceful and composed, however, in spite of the potential conflict of the moment. Scully joined them, still carrying her gun. "Fox Mulder, Stuart Novak. Stuart, meet my partner. And please don't call him Fox." "As long as you don't call me Captain," Stuart said with a cool smile. He assessed Mulder's petulant mouth, slightly receding chin, dark, moody eyes, and widely set brows. "Anyone ever tell you you'd make a great Stanley Kowalski?" Mulder shook his head soberly, barely able to look away from Stuart's face long enough to shed his coat and sit at the table. "Drink, Mulder?" Scully said, pulling glasses down from a cabinet. "You know what I like," he said, causing Stuart to cock an eyebrow. Mulder rolled up the sleeves of his starched white shirt and rested his forearms on the table. He studied Stuart carefully, almost as if he were about to interrogate him. He observed the smooth, pale pate, the silver hair, the Roman nose, and surprisingly soft expression of his eyes. He hadn't expected the beard; picturing what it did to Scully's delicate skin was not a good idea at that moment. "Sizing up the competition, Mulder?" Stuart murmured in a low tone audible only to Mulder. He was smiling as he said it. Mulder blushed slightly. "Sorry. I was watching your show just the other night, and -- you know -- it's weird to see you here, now, on the surface of the earth, in normal clothes, relaxed." "I'm off duty," Stuart said genially. "What about you?" "Me?" "Shall I leave so that you can consult with Dana? You mentioned some files....." Mulder smiled crookedly. "No, no. I used to do that a lot, tell her I had some work for her to look over when what I really wanted was a home-cooked meal and good company." "You admit to that?" Scully said, placing a tall glass of iced tea on the table before Mulder. He shrugged and looked up at her. "I never fooled you, did I?" She smiled sadly and shook her head. Stuart observed this interchange; he felt an ocean of undercurrents between them. "Darling, may I have a drink?" "Of course," she replied, and poured a few ounces of Scotch for Stuart. She placed it on the table and leaned over to put a kiss on the crown of his head. Once she had done this, she felt suddenly self-conscious. After Mulder's soul-bearing that afternoon, she was sensitive about exhibiting her feelings for Stuart in front of him. Mulder had averted his eyes and was sipping his tea. When Scully sat opposite him at the table and began to open the files he had brought as an excuse for his visit, he allowed himself to look at her. It was then that he realized one of the buttons on her pajama top was in the wrong buttonhole. And that her neck was flushed. "So, Scully," he said, his voice a little shaky. "So, Mulder?" "Tomorrow's Thanksgiving," he stated. "Going to your mom's?" "No, I'm not. She's spending the week in Norfolk with Charlie. You going up to Connecticut?" "Yeah. Catching a flight at ten. Why don't you two drive down to Norfolk tomorrow? It's only -- what -- three, four hours? You could surprise your mom." "Surprise her? She'd probably go into v-tach when she saw Stuart," Scully said, grinning at the prospect of her mother swooning over the actor. "We could go, darling, if you like," Stuart said, placing a hand over hers. "No way, Stuart. My mother is a big fan of yours. I can't quite stomach the picture of her sitting speechless through Thanksgiving dinner, her eyes glistening as she watches every bite you put in your mouth." Mulder and Stuart laughed at the image. Then Stuart said, "But eventually Dana...." "I'll give her fair warning when the time comes for you to meet," she said, squeezing his hand. Mulder considered Scully's words. When the time comes.....She's going to marry him, he told himself. She's going to marry him and leave me here to rot with my stupid unprovable theories. I'm been such a fucking idiot...... "So what will you do?" Mulder asked, hoping that speaking would silence the internal tirade. "For Thanksgiving?" Scully said. She glanced at Stuart. "Probably just take it easy. Stuart? I hadn't really given it any thought. Do you mind?" "I'll welcome a day of rest," Stuart said. "My schedule is packed through December. You'll have to move into my suite so that we can see each other." "I could do that," she said. "How do you like Washington?" Mulder asked, trying to ignore the pink flush on Scully's face and neck. "I like it very much," Stuart said. "How long have you lived here, Mulder?" "Seems like forever. Eleven years now, I think. Scully?" "Sounds about right," she said, opening a file and spreading the papers on the table. "But when did you --" "That was '89," Mulder replied. She peered at him over the rim of her glasses "I thought it was '92," she said. "No, you're thinking of --" "I know what you mean, Mulder, but what about --" "That was after you came along, Scully," Mulder said with a smile. Watching them banter in their abbreviated code was like watching a tennis match. Stuart shook his head vigorously as if to clear it. "You two are like an old married couple," Stuart said, perplexed. "How long have you been able to do that?" "Able to do what?" the partners asked, almost simultaneously. Stuart laughed at them. "That. Able to do **that**." "Oh, that," Scully said. "We've been able to do that since our first case together, when I thought I had been -- the victim of -- er --" A light when on in Mulder's head. She hadn't told him about her abduction. He was still her only true confidant. A smile spread across his face. "She had mosquito bites on her back. They resembled the marks we found on the bodies." "On the bodies....." Stuart said, dread creeping into his voice. "She was frightened," Mulder said. "Was not," Scully said. "You were! Why else would you strip down in front of a total stranger!" "You weren't a total stranger. Besides --" "I'm missing something here," Stuart said, his eyebrows peaking with curiousity. Scully was glaring at Mulder. Stuart wondered what she was silently telling him. He expected it was some sort of scold. "No, not really, Stuart," Mulder said. "Just that she asked me to look at the marks, and she is -- as you know -- extraordinarily beautiful -- so I had to use what little self- discipline I have to look at her back and then walk away." Stuart nodded his appreciation for the situation. "Now I see why she trusts you so completely." Scully got up from the table and went to rummage in the cabinets. Stuart leaned toward Mulder and spoke conspiratorally. "What was she like then?" Mulder considered the question. Had he been feeling particularly paranoid that evening, he might have imagined that Stuart was asking him if he had slept with Scully on that long- ago night, and what the experience had been like. Instead, he took it as a general sort of question. "She was tough as nails, just as she is now. She could shoot a snake between the eyes from a hundred yards, and outsmart Einstein himself. Right Scully?" "Right, Mulder," she said automatically, like a well-trained wife. She placed a plate of cheese, fruit, and baguettes -- as well as the bottle of single malt Scotch -- on the table. "You two should eat something with that. The last thing I need is two drunks to put to bed." She walked out of the kitchen and missed the amused look the two men shared. "So you never --" Stuart began, tearing off a hunk of bread. "Of course not," Mulder replied evenly. "And if I had, I wouldn't be the one to tell you, now would I?" "Good answer," the actor said. "You're not married, I take it?" "Me? Married?" Mulder snorted. "Who in their right mind would marry me?" "You seem a decent enough fellow," Stuart said, eyeing the younger man. "Why not?" "Why not?" Mulder finished off his tea and poured some Scotch over the remaining ice. "Because, Stuart, I'm obsessed with my work. I'm a loner. I have enough scars from gunshots wounds, knifings, and bites to terrify even the bearded lady in the circus. Why aren't you married?" "I was, for twenty-two years," Stuart replied. He poured more Scotch into his own glass. "Then I became a popular success. Moved to California. She didn't want to be married to an American television star. Can't say that I blame her, really. I was no longer the man she married. My standards changed....." "And now?" "Now, thank God, the show's over, and I'm back in my own skin, acting Shakepeare. That's **my** obsession, Mulder." Mulder cut off a slice of cheese and held it between his thumb and forefinger. He took a delicate bite and chewed for a moment. "And what about Scully? Where does she fit into your obsession?" "Ah, there's the rub," Stuart said with a rueful smile. "I imagine you'll be faced with a similar predicament someday. When does one retreat from one obsession for the sake of another?" "Are you saying that she's an obsession?" Stuart glimpsed Dana at the opposite end of the apartment, where she occasionally passed in front of the open bedroom door while changing the sheets on her bed. "Perhaps it's wrong of me to speak of her in this way," Stuart said, passing a hand over his eyes in a gesture of weariness. "Nonetheless......I'm sure I don't have to spell it out for you, Mulder. You're no fool. She makes me feel like I could live forever. When I'm with her, all I can think about is touching her. She's brilliant, and gorgeous, and almost unbearably sexy. But on the other hand, she's rather -- implacable, really. I have no idea what's she thinking half the time. I envy your bond with her." "It was bred during some agonizing times," Mulder said, almost apologetically. He was feeling a flinch of sadness for Stuart. It had never occurred to him that Scully's heart would be more of a mystery to this man than it was to him. Stuart was nodding, a little embarrassed for having spoken so openly. Then, as if to clear the air, he raised his glass to Mulder. "To Dana," Stuart offered. Mulder touched his glass to Stuart's. "To the enigmatic Dr. Scully." They drank together. Then, with a grin, Stuart said, "Tell me about the time she shot you." ---end of section---

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