X-Files fic: A Helping Hand 1/2
Apr. 17th, 2005 05:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ghost2An X-Files fic I wrote several years back.
TITLE: A Helping Hand 1/2
KEYWORDS: parody, Mulder/Scully romance, Skinner/Mrs. Scully
romance, cliches galore, obligala, badfic, fluff, sap
RATING: NC-17 eventually. First part is PG.
SPOILERS: Tooms, Anasazi, Never Again, Fight The Future (movie),
Sein Und Zeit
TIMEFRAME: after Closure, before all things
DISCLAIMER: XF/characters are owned by CC, Ten Thirteen, Fox.
SUMMARY: Every cliche I could think of. Ice Queen? Check. Gratuitous mention of bees? Check. Puppy face? Check. Celine Dion? Check....
NOTES: Response to a challenge (elements at end). Thanks to xfb
and Sky for the beta and additional cliche suggestions. Also,
as far as I can tell, the show never definitively answered the
question of whether Skinner and Sharon divorced. For the purposes
of this story, they did.
***Prologue***
It all began one February day in Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner's office. Mulder and Scully sat poring, chestnut head next to auburn like shades of autumn, over a case file about magnetic eggplants in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Skinner looked across his desk at them and experienced an epiphany: 'They're in love,' he thought. It seemed most curious to him that he had never before acknowledged that fact.
Still, Skinner doubted they were together in *that* sense of the word. Not the way they should be. To test his theory, he asked casually, "So, agents, do you have any plans for the weekend?"
Mulder's head whipped up. Scully's eyes darted sideways at him.
"Uh, I thought I'd go to a UFO convention," said Mulder.
Scully looked relieved, probably because Mulder had said nothing about having a date. She said, "I might visit my mother."
Mulder also looked relieved, probably because Scully didn't have a date, either.
Thoughts of the case flying from his head, Skinner said, "You
two may go."
Scully opened her mouth, but Mulder placed his hand on the small of her back and propelled her out of the office.
Alone, Skinner sat and pondered for a very long time. Ever since his divorce from Sharon, he'd been adrift. He needed a hobby. Or better yet, a cause. And what more worthy cause than the union ofhis two favorite, albeit most problematic, agents? If he
couldn't be happy, at least they could be.
Only, how to achieve his self-imposed goal? Skinner needed help. He needed a partner who was as devoted to Mulder and Scully's welfare as he was. He needed...Scully's mother! Scully had mentioned her during the meeting. It was a sign! He looked up
Mrs. Scully's phone number and dialed.
"Hello," answered a pleasant female voice.
"Margaret Scully?"
"Yes."
"This is Assistant Director Walter Skinner from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I think that together, we can help your daughter and her partner."
***Two Months Later***
Bob Stanton, manager of the Fieldcrest Motel in Sydney,
Connecticut, eyed the two annoyed FBI agents. They were more
agitated than he had been led to expect.
"I'm sorry," he said once more. "I know it's a Wednesday, and ordinarily we would have plenty of free space. But you came here at a bad time. Our rooms have been booked for weeks in advance for the annual Chilton Corporation Business Convention. There's
one room with a double bed left, and that's due to a last-minute cancellation. You aren't going to find any other openings within a 60-mile radius."
"Do you have a cot I can use?" the man asked.
Bob shook his head, using his knee to wedge the spare cot safely out of sight under the counter.
The woman sighed. "We don't have much choice. I'm tired of sitting in a car, and one room is better than none."
"You're right," her companion agreed. "We'll take the room." He handed Bob his credit card and signed the register. "Let us know if any other rooms become available, okay? Especially if they have a connecting door."
"Yeah, right." Bob pushed the key to number 42 across the desk. After the agents left his office, he picked up the phone and dialed a number.
"Skinner," said a familiar voice.
"Walter, it's Bob. They took the vacancy, but they weren't happy about it. Agent Mulder said something about wanting connecting rooms. What does he think this place is, the Ritz? Are you sure your plan will work?"
"Don't worry, Bob," his old friend replied. "All Mulder and
Scully need is a nudge. Now that I've provided it, they should do
the rest themselves. There *is* only one bed in that room,
right?"
"I didn't forget. So, what happens when they figure out that the case you sent them on is a fake?" Bob wondered.
"If all goes as expected, by tomorrow morning, they won't care," Skinner said confidently. "Thank you again for your help. If you ever need a favor, get in touch."
"Right, Walter." Bob hung up, hoping his friend really did know what he was doing.
*********
Back in Washington, D.C., Skinner turned to his companion,
Margaret Scully. "Mission accomplished. The next time we see
them, they should be engaged."
Maggie clasped her hands. "That's wonderful news! I've been waiting years for Dana and Fox to wake up to the truth. They're both so stubborn. No matter how many times I remind Dana that Fox is like a son to me, she doesn't take the hint. And no matter how
many times I tell Fox to call me Mom, he doesn't make a move, either. If you hadn't phoned me out of the blue that day two months ago, I might have given up hope. All along, I've been afraid that Dana was holding back because of the anti-fraternization regulation."
"It exists," said Skinner. "But in my opinion, it shouldn't
apply to Mulder and Scully. Their partnership is the strongest
I've ever seen, and it's clear those two were meant for each
other. You're quite a woman, you know. Not many mothers would
put so much thought and effort into securing their daughter's
future."
Maggie turned pink. "Walter, those two don't know how fortunate they are to have you on their side."
"Or you, Maggie. Or you."
The unlikely pair smiled at each other.
*********
Meanwhile, oblivious to the conversation taking place far away,
Mulder crawled the dark-blue Ford Taurus alongside the row of
motel rooms. Scully pointed out a "42" against the peeling paint
of a door near the end of the ramshackle structure, and Mulder
parked in the closest available space. He pulled the key from
the ignition and passed it to Scully. While she circled around
to the back of the Taurus, he went to inspect the room. It took
some wiggling and a solid shove to force the key into number
42's lock. He put his weight into it, and the door lurched
inward, accompanied by a long, loud squeal like that of a piglet
being slaughtered.
Mulder stared at the dismal interior. From the threadbare carpet
to the ratty armchair to the rabbit-eared television set, it was
a virtual carbon copy of the many other cheap motel rooms they
had stayed in over the seven years of their partnership. The
sole difference was that they were to share this room, and there
was one bed. It was a double, true, but it was still one bed.
Scully walked up beside him with her suitcase. "Mulder, we're
both adults. There's no reason we can't share the bed."
"It's not sharing the bed that has me worried. It's touching it
at all. Look at it. The sheets are gray."
"Well, with any luck, we'll only be here tonight. Let's unpack,
eat, and then get some sleep. In fact, why don't we order
something?"
Mulder nodded. "What do you want: Chinese, or pizza?"
More enterprising than he, Scully entered the room and grabbed
the phone book from the chipped bedside table. "We had pizza last
time."
"Chinese it is, then." Mulder accepted the book and flipped to
the yellow pages.
Forty-five minutes later, as they sat cross-legged on the floor
enjoying the last of their meal, Scully remarked, "Good thing
Skinner told us to try this motel. Otherwise, we might not have
found a room at all."
"It gets even better, Scully. We got fortune cookies for dessert.
Let's see what lies in store for us."
"Mulder, you know I don't believe in these things." Nevertheless,
she accepted the cookie he shoved toward her.
He broke his open first. The fortune read, "The love of your life
will soon be yours." Not likely, at this rate. He substituted,
"Your generosity will be rewarded. How about yours?"
Unlike Mulder, Scully ate her cookie before smoothing the strip
of paper that held her fortune. After a pause, she crumpled it
into a ball and reported, "It says that the early bird catches
the worm. In other words, time for bed. Which side do you want,
Mulder?"
He shrugged. "You pick."
"You can have the left, then." She fished around in a
dresser drawer and came up with an armful of flannel. "I'll
change in the bathroom."
He noticed that she took the wadded paper with her. Had she lied
about her fortune? What could the cookie have told her? He
contemplated that question, but reached no conclusion by the
time Scully emerged from the bathroom, clad in a shapeless set of
rose-covered pajamas.
"Your turn," she prompted him.
Mulder gathered his sweat pants and T-shirt and headed into the
bathroom. He seized the opportunity to hunt for Scully's mystery
fortune, but there was no sign of it. His curiosity piqued, he
returned to the bedroom.
Scully lay tucked under the blankets on the far side of the bed.
Mulder crawled into the left side and closed his eyes.
"Mulder?" Scully whispered.
"Yeah?" he whispered back.
"You can turn on the TV if you want. I know it helps you get to
sleep. I mean, since we usually leave our connecting door ajar
when we're out on a case, I hear it sometimes," she added
quickly.
"Thanks, Scully."
"Well, just so you know it won't bother me."
"Okay. Thanks," he repeated.
"Good night, Mulder."
"Good night, Scully."
They lapsed into silence.
Two hours later, Mulder hadn't slept a wink. He tried to blame
his insomnia on indigestion resulting from bad crab egg foo yung,
but the real reason was that the heat radiating off of Scully's
body so near to his made it impossible for him to relax. Scully
evidently suffered from no similar affliction. Her deep, regular
breathing attested to her state of sleep.
Frustrated, he took her up on her television offer. He didn't
want to watch the triple X channel with Scully in the room, so
his viewing options were limited to infomercials and home
shopping. When the Stupendous Yappi came on at 3 a.m., he called
it quits, turned off the set, and lay staring at the ceiling,
waiting for morning to come.
Even that strategy was doomed to fail. Mulder remained unable to
nod off for long minutes that stretched into hours. To complicate
matters, Scully turned over in her sleep, pressing against his
side. Mulder panicked. He couldn't let her wake up in that
position; they would both be hideously embarrassed. He eased away
about an inch, but Scully moved with him. He wiggled away; she
followed. That pattern continued until Mulder found himself
precariously balanced near the edge of the bed.
Scully stirred and murmured in her sleep. It was now or never.
Mulder lunged to the side and landed on the floor. As he rubbed
his hip and congratulated himself on his narrow escape, Scully's
eyelids fluttered open.
"Mulder? What's going on?" she mumbled in a sleep-thickened
voice.
He cleared his throat. "Nothing. I'm going jogging. Sorry I woke
you up."
She rubbed her eyes and peered at her watch. "It's only 6:25."
"I know. It's gonna be a long jog. Go back to sleep. I'll wake
you up when I get back." He slipped through the door before
Scully could utter another word.
*********
Back inside the room, unbidden tears leaked from Scully's eyes.
Mulder had fallen off the bed to avoid a minimal amount of
physical contact. If she'd thought he might be at all attracted
to her, that dream was vanquished. She recalled last night's
misleading fortune that she had flushed down the toilet. "Your
tall, dark, handsome partner will propose to you." Never had a
fortune cookie lied so baldly.
It was no use trying to get back to sleep. She might as well
review the case notes until Mulder resurfaced. The investigation
had all the earmarks of being dead end, but Skinner had insisted
that they follow up on it. A woman named Mrs. Simmons claimed
that a giant spider abducted her baby every night and returned it
before dawn each morning. Even Mulder considered the case to be
only mildly intriguing.
As promised, he was gone a long time. He returned at a little
after 8, shivering from the cool air yet sweating from his
exertions. After his quick shower, he and Scully drove to Mrs.
Simmons' apartment building three miles away.
They located the correct apartment, and Mulder banged on the
door. No answer. He hammered again, with the same results.
Halfway down the hall, a door flew open. A elderly neighbor
poked her kerchiefed head out like a painted turtle peeking from
its shell. "Are you looking for Mrs. Simmons? She moved last
weekend."
"Are you sure?" Mulder called back.
"Sure, I'm sure. Her baby used to cry half the night and keep me
awake. Since they've been gone, I've been sleeping fine."
"Well, have you seen any giant spiders around here?" Mulder
asked.
The woman stared at him and addressed Scully. "Lady, what is
your husband talking about?"
"We're not married," Scully said. She thought, 'But people often
assume we are.'
The woman sniffed and drew her head back inside her room.
After they confirmed with the manager that not only had Mrs.
Simmons indeed left with no forwarding address, but she had never
complained to him about spiders of any size, they agreed to
go home.
"Just another hoax," Mulder decided. "At least our car didn't
break down this time," he added in a weak attempt at humor. The
failure of their most recent maroon Ford Taurus while on the
road to Boston remained a sore subject.
Upon their return home, they reported to Skinner's office.
*********
The meeting over, Skinner watched the door close behind Mulder
and Scully. He could hardly believe the plan had gone awry.
According to his calculations, Mulder and Scully should have
fallen into each other's arms the previous night. But judging
from their behavior, they hadn't made any progress. This
matchmaking business was obviously not as easy as it appeared to
be at first glance. He had to confer with Maggie. With his
connections and her brainpower, their new and improved idea was
guaranteed to work.
*********
Later that evening, Mulder moped around his apartment. He was
lost without Scully around. The Lone Gunmen had invited him over
to nitpick the scientific inaccuracies of "Star Trek: Voyager,"
but he didn't have the heart for it. He sprawled on his battered
leather sofa, his right arm dangling over the side, before he
had the welcome idea of turning on the radio. Coincidentally, a
song was just beginning. The voice was that of Celine Dion, one
of his favorite singers.
I want to be the face you see when you close your eyes
I want to be the touch you need every single night
I want to be your fantasy
And be your reality
And everything between
A bolt of shock shot through Mulder. How could Celine Dion know
exactly how he felt about Scully? It was uncanny, like she had a
window into his mind. With her next words, the phenomenon
continued.
I want you to need me
Like the air you breathe
I want you to feel me
In everything
*********
At the same time, in Scully's Georgetown apartment, she sank into
her vanilla-scented bubble bath. As she uncapped her favorite
strawberry shampoo, she realized that she had neglected to turn
on the radio, which she liked to play while soaking in the tub.
She corrected her oversight and settled back into the foamy
liquid. A beautiful song was playing, and she recognized the
melodious voice of Celine Dion.
I want you to see me
In your every dream
The way that I taste you feel you breathe you need you
I want you to need me
Like I need you
She couldn't have said it better herself. The lyrics echoed her
feelings for Mulder. If only they weren't so one-sided. If only
he could see her in the same light. If only it could be true....
*********
I want to be the eyes that look deep into your soul
I want to be the world to you
I just want it all
I want to be your deepest kiss
The answer to your every wish
I'm all you ever need
After the last note faded away, Mulder lay awash in memories of
Scully.
"Mulder, you're the only one I trust."
"I hope you know that I'd consider it more than a
professional loss if you decided to leave."
"I had the strength of your beliefs."
"Even when the world was falling apart, you were
my constant...my touchstone."
"And you are mine."
He desperately needed to hear her voice; nothing else would do.
Maybe this time, he could work up the courage to declare himself.
As Jim Croce's "Time in a Bottle" played in the background, he
hit the speed dial with joint hopes: that Scully wouldn't be
annoyed with him for calling at 11:21 p.m., and that a male voice
wouldn't answer the phone.
If I could save time in a bottle
One ring.
The first thing that I'd like to do
Two rings.
Is to save every day 'til eternity passes away
Three rings.
Just to spend them with you
"Hello."
He slapped off the radio in the middle of Jim Croce's next note.
"Scully, it's me. What are you wearing?" For tension-soaked
seconds that felt more like hours, he held his breath until she
answered.
"Cotton pajamas and a floor-length robe. Why did you call,
anyway? Is something wrong?"
In an effort to calm his nerves, he bounced his basketball as he
replied, "Nah, just feeling introspective. Thinking about what I
would regret not having done if colonization began right now.
That sort of thing."
"Oh." Scully yawned. "Look, Mulder, I'm pretty tired. So if
there's nothing else...."
"Sorry, Scully. You go on to sleep. I didn't mean to keep you
up."
"That's okay. See you tomorrow." She hung up.
The buzzing dial tone mocked Mulder. He dropped the phone into
the cradle and groaned. He'd chickened out again. Disgusted with
himself, he pulled his pillow over his face.
*********
Scully looked down at her sheer peach silk negligee. Mulder
never would have believed she was wearing it. Mulder, her
partner, thought that he could call her at all hours and use her
as his talk-to whenever he was bored, or lonely, or frustrated,
with no regard for how his actions might make her feel.
Come to think of it, she should have turned the tables and asked
what *he* was wearing. She settled for the next-best thing and
formed a picture of a mental Mulder mannequin.
Mulder wearing a Speedo.
Mulder wearing blue jeans.
Mulder wearing a gray T-shirt.
Mulder wearing a black leather jacket.
Mulder wearing his glasses.
Mulder wearing all five was an unbeatable combination. She might
as well stop there; it wasn't going to get any better than that.
Unless she substituted a turtleneck for the T-shirt. That
decision was a tough call, and she couldn't choose between them.
Scully drifted into dreamland with a smile on her lips and
visions of a perfectly-clad Mulder dancing in her head.
*********
As was customary, Mulder arrived at the office ahead of Scully
the next morning. He unlocked the door and saw a 9x11 manila
envelope lying on the floor. It was from Jim Wilson, a Bureau
photographer. Whenever Jim was assigned to one of his and
Scully's investigations, he took an extra photo for Mulder in
exchange for the occasional loan of a video.
Mulder slitted open the envelope and lifted out the fresh shot of
him and Scully. It depicted them facing each other over a
mutilated corpse (that had, thankfully, been cropped out). Mulder
turned to the bulletin board and carefully thumbtacked the 5x7
shot into place between a Loch Ness clipping and a crop-circle
diagram. One of a half-dozen candids adorning the board, it was
his new favorite.
He heaved a heavy sigh, dropped into his chair, and propped his
feet up on his desk. The problem was, he could never tell Scully
how he felt. Nearly every ounce of the pain she had suffered
since being paired with him was his fault, from Melissa's death
to Emily to her abductions. He was no good for her. Never had
been, never would be.
The ringing phone shattered his reverie, and he scrabbled for it
under a mound of papers. "Mulder," he said into the receiver as
the tower of files collapsed onto the floor.
"Agent Mulder," said Skinner's assistant, "AD Skinner would like
to see you and Agent Scully in his office."
"Scully isn't here."
"Come alone," the disembodied voice instructed.
During the elevator ride, Mulder wondered why the AD had
summoned him. Most likely to chew him out over some quibble with
the latest field report, he concluded. Skinner was constantly
finding fault with his work.
The secretary waved him into Skinner's office. He entered and
shut the door.
Skinner waited for him to sit down before beginning. "Agent
Mulder. As you know, the annual FBI ball is tonight. I expect
you to attend to prove you can get along with the other agents.
And no sneaking off after 15 minutes -- you have to stay for a
full hour. This assignment will improve your interpersonal
relationships. It's for your own good."
"Then why does it sound so bad?" Mulder protested. "Besides, it's
not part of my job description to attend stuffy events during my
off-duty hours, especially on less than a day's notice."
"I'm making it your job," Skinner informed him in a decidedly
smug tone. "If I'd given you more warning, you might have found a
way to squirm out of it. Now that won't be so easy. You go, we
have no problem. You don't go, and I drop so much paperwork on
your desk, it will take you a year just to read it all."
Mulder envisioned the current state of his desk. A year's worth
of additions would not be a pretty sight. "I guess I don't have
a choice," he grumbled.
"I want Agent Scully there as well," Skinner added, "but I'll
come up with a better incentive for her. You can break the
news."
*****
Mulder gloomily stalked back to his office. Scully was there,
tunelessly humming as she sorted the papers on her desk into tidy
stacks. She looked at him and shaded her eyes. "Mulder, can't you
ever turn it down? One day, you're going to blind someone with
those ties of yours."
Mulder glanced down at his aesthetically-pleasing, lightning
bolt-patterned neckwear. "What's wrong with it, Scully?"
She shook her head. "If you don't know, I can't tell you. But
please take some advice: Stick to solid colors. They're boring,
but inoffensive."
He scowled as her words brought to mind the unpleasant task
assigned to him by Skinner. Best to get the torture over with as
soon as possible. "Scully, Skinner ordered us to attend the ball
tonight for at least an hour, under pain of some horrible,
unspecified punishment for you, and a mountain of paperwork for
me, if we don't show."
He'd gotten it all out in one breath. Scully stared blankly at
him. Had she heard?
"Mulder, are you serious?"
Yes, she'd heard him. "Skinner was set on it. I'll pick you up at
7:30."
"Why don't I pick you up? I hardly ever get behind the wheel when
we're together."
"You want to know why? Because your lead-footed driving scares
me," he lamely joked.
Scully raised an eyebrow and gave Mulder her patented
ScullyGlare. "If we don't go together, you won't have to worry
about it."
Him and his big mouth. He hadn't been aware that she was so
sensitive on the subject. He tried to apologize, but Scully
brushed away his words. It looked like he would be driving alone
to the ball.
*********
At around 6:00, Mulder entered his apartment building and
collected his mail from the downstairs box. As he rode up in the
elevator, he saw that he held the latest issues of "Alien
Abduction Monthly" and "Celebrity Skin," a handful of bills and
junk mail, and a small, unmarked box that probably contained the
video he'd ordered over the Internet last week. He was alone, so
he tore open the package to confirm that it was "Redheads in
Vegas." Too bad he didn't have time to watch it before the ball.
The elevator stopped on his floor, and he made his way to his
apartment, straightened the lopsided "42," and unlocked the door.
There was one message on his answering machine: from Cherise, who
asked him to call 1-900-555-1013. His fish tank featured two
floating bodies: the rummy-nose tetra he had named Krycek, and
the guppy called Spender.
Nearly tripping over the heaps of clutter coating the floor, he
spat a sunflower-seed shell into the air and went into his
bedroom to change.
*********
Scully stood in her living room and cursed Skinner like the
sailor's daughter she was. She went ahead and cursed Mulder,
too, since the situation was probably his fault.
Although she didn't relish the company of her snobby fellow
agents, she had little choice but to obey Skinner. A Scully had
never backed down from a challenge before; she had no intention
of being the first to let down the family name. She strode to her
closet and dug out her secret weapons -- her 6" Prada heels and
the strapless green satin dress she had been saving for a special
occasion.
Ninety minutes later, Scully wished she could take back the
stupid argument with Mulder about her driving. She'd ended up
taking a taxi when a ride from him would have been welcome. But
it was too late for regrets. She paid the driver and headed for
the ballroom of the J. Edgar Hoover Building.
After a handful of steps, she paused behind a pillar to adjust
her right shoe. As she tugged at the strap, the familiar voice of
Agent Hanover drifted to her ears from perhaps 15 feet ahead.
"Honestly, I don't know why Mulder stays with that Ice Queen. Do
you, Melinda?"
"No, but I know why she stays with him," the other woman, who
sounded like Agent Booth, replied. "Have you ever seen him in a
Speedo?"
"What about his 'spooky' reputation? Doesn't that make you
nervous?" Hanover asked.
Booth laughed. "It adds to his mystique. I wonder when someone's
going to win that huge office pool. You'd think it would be easy
to prove they're doing it. All anyone would have to do is follow
them into the parking garage, or bug their office."
"Well, he may have melted the Ice Queen, but she'll freeze back
up once he dumps her. It could happen tonight, in public!"
Both agents laughed as they walked away.
Trembling with indignation, Scully emerged from her quasi-hiding
place. She couldn't believe the nerve of those women. She knew
neither she nor Mulder had any friends in the Bureau, but the
disparaging comments still stung like acid in an open wound. It
was particularly unfair that her and Mulder's cruel nicknames
from the Academy days continued to follow them around. She had to
spend an hour in that ballroom? She'd do it, all right, with far
more class than Agents Booth and Hanover could ever imagine
possessing.
*********
Mulder was bored. He ran a finger under his collar and wished to
be anywhere except standing by the bowls of flat raspberry punch
in the Hoover Ballroom. How much longer before his sentence was
up? It wouldn't be nearly so bad if he had Scully's company, but
there had been no sign of her. Perhaps she planned to defy
Skinner and not come. Not that he would know. After he'd
insulted her driving, she hadn't exactly been forthcoming about
her plans.
As for Skinner's theory that he would improve his interpersonal
relationships by attending, no such thing had occurred. He was
the recipient of admiring glances from various women, but no one
approached him.
As he popped half of a stale windmill cookie into his mouth, a
murmur arose at the head of the room. Curious, Mulder looked in
that direction. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, and there
stood the most beautiful woman Mulder had ever seen. It was
Scully, a vision in her strapless gown.
One thought circulated through Mulder's Jelloed brain: He had to
reach her before anyone else did. Like he was moving in slow-
motion, he made his way toward her. He wasn't fast enough;
Skinner appeared from out of nowhere and extended his hand.
Scully took it, and she and Skinner circled the dance floor as
Mulder retreated to the fringes of the crowd to choke down glass
after glass of watery punch.
The second the music ended, he moved possessively to Scully's
side and glared at the other male agents who had also started
forward. As a man, they gulped and dropped their eyes. It looked
like no one was willing to tangle with "Spooky" over his woman.
He looked at Scully. "May I have this dance?" With those words,
he became the envy of every man in the room.
Speechlessly, Scully floated into his arms.
*********
They danced time and time again as their fellow agents stared,
whispered, and boosted the office pool with every second.
The 6" heels had been a wise choice, Scully thought. Without
them, she wouldn't have stood high enough to hear Mulder's
murmur of, "Scully, your hair looks like gray fire."
What a lovely compliment. Then she analyzed it more thoroughly
and began to worry. Mulder was red/green colorblind, so of
course her hair looked gray to him. But he was afraid of fire.
Maybe his description of her hair wasn't a compliment. She stole
a glance at his face. He was smiling. It really had been a
compliment, thank God.
At the finish of the next dance, Mulder maneuvered Scully toward
the door. "Have you been here for one hour yet?"
She checked the clock. "Yes, in about four minutes."
"I can't wait that long. Did you drive?" Mulder asked.
"No, I took a taxi."
"I can give you a lift home," he offered.
She smiled her thanks and walked out with him.
As he watched them exit the ballroom, Skinner beamed approvingly.
Mission accomplished. He had to call Maggie and fill her in on
their marvelous success.
*********
Mulder halted his car in front of Scully's apartment building and
turned off the ignition. That action should be enough to alert
Scully that he wanted an invitation inside.
She picked up on his intent with unerring instinct. "I didn't eat
before I left. I thought I'd just grab a snack when I got home."
"Yeah, me, too."
"Why don't you come up with me, then? We can order in."
In answer, Mulder got out of the car and trailed Scully to her
apartment. Inside, she said, "I'm going to change. I'll be right
back." She headed toward her bedroom, leaving Mulder alone in the
living room.
He paced restlessly while waiting for her to return. Scully
wouldn't mind if he put on some music. He wandered over to her CD
collection. Faith Hill, Sarah McLachlan, Jewel, the Backstreet
Boys, Britney Spears... He pushed the Shania Twain CD "Come On
Over" into the player and fast-forwarded to "You're Still The
One."
When I first saw you, I saw love.
And the first time you touched me, I felt love.
And after all this time, you're still the one I love.
He cast about for another activitity to keep himself amused. And,
as so often happened with Mulder, his overactive brain found a
way to get him in trouble.
Scully's apartment was usually as neat as a pin, with a place for
everything and everything in its place. In short, it was the
exact opposite of his own pigsty. Except for today. There on the
coffee table lay the holiest of holies: Scully's journal, opened
to a page covered with writing. Mulder crept a little closer, and
a little more, until he stood within arm's length of the book. He
shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't. But the temptation was so great.
What if Scully had written about him? (What if she hadn't?) Her
comments wouldn't be unflattering, would they? He flashed back to
a recent Saturday-morning telephone conversation.
Scully: Scully.
Mulder: Scully, it's me.
Scully: What is it, Mulder? And it had better not
include the words autopsy, plane, or pack.
Mulder: Would I do that to you four weekends in a row?
Don't answer that. Um, look, I'm really sorry...
He felt a renewed pang of guilt over that incident. Even though
he knew Scully was terrified of flying, he was forever dragging
her across the country. So yes, any mention of his name might
well be connected to some exceedingly negative observations. But
if so, he reasoned, it was best that he learned what upset
Scully so he could amend his behavior.
Good and bad briefly skirmished before Devil Mulder stabbed Angel
Mulder with his pitchfork and knocked him out of the running.
Mulder picked up the book and read.
"It has been yet another frustratingly
inconclusive day, and once again I find myself
turning to this book to reveal my innermost
secrets.
"One more day gone by, so many more opportunities
lost. If only he knew the truth. If only he knew
how I really feel. Sometimes I want to shout it to
the world. But instead, I just think it. The only
place I can truly express myself is here, in these
pages I know he will never see. I imagine myself
one day turning to him and saying, 'I love you, "
The sentence ended there. Scully must have been interrupted
before she could complete the incriminating entry. Mulder felt
almost sick with overwhelming jealousy. Who could his rival be?
Was it someone he knew? A man he unwittingly passed in the halls
of the J. Edgar Hoover Building every day? Oh, God, it couldn't
be Skinner, could it? He was the only other man Scully had danced
with at the ball. Mulder had to learn the truth. Maybe Scully
mentioned the man's name on another page. He frantically skipped
to an earlier entry.
So absorbed in his hunt was he that he failed to register the
warning sounds of a door clicking open, the pad of unshod feet,
the abruptly cut-off breathing. He became aware of Scully's
presence in a highly unpleasant manner, when a voice roared,
"Mulder, what the hell do you think you're doing?" Scully crossed
the room with quicksilver strides and snatched up the book in a
whirlwind of motion.
The universe around Mulder seem to swirl at warp speed as he
struggled to complete a sentence. "I...um...I...."
Scully pointed at the door. "Out! Get out! Now!"
As Scully advanced on him, Mulder retreated until his back hit
the door. Only then did he turn and grasp the knob, eager to
escape before she killed him.
*********
Once the door closed behind Mulder, Scully sank to her knees on
the floor. She was sure her face was lit up like a firecracker on
the Fourth of July. Had he seen? Did he know? She would never be
able to look him in the eye again! Mulder probably regarded her
as a little sister. How humiliating if he had read her pathetic
outpourings of undying ardor. She cringed as she recalled the
more embarrassing passages -- the impossible dreams, the
imaginary dates, the fevered ramblings of a brain drunk on
unrequited love.
Through it all, the music taunted her.
Looks like we made it
Look how far we've come, my baby
We mighta took the long way
We knew we'd get there someday
"Shut up, Shania!" Scully yelled.
*********
Mulder spent the weekend torturing himself over his lack of
willpower. Why hadn't he been stronger? What had possessed him to
read Scully's journal? Would she forgive him? How much would she
make him suffer first? How much did he deserve to suffer?
On Monday morning, he sat in his office and convinced himself
that no punishment was great enough. He would have to throw
himself on Scully's mercy.
He chewed on the end of his pencil, then leaned back in his chair
and launched it upward. He'd been waiting a long time for Scully,
as evidenced by the thickness of the ceiling-forest of pencils.
His cursed photographic memory wouldn't let him forget. Every
word of that page remained etched upon his mind. He tortured his
psyche with the multitude of ways in which he had screwed up, not
just Friday but every single day of his miserable existence. The
laundry list of sins ended only when he heard the tap-tap-tap of
approaching footsteps.
He arranged his face into his most pathetic pout and prepared to
waggle his eyebrows.
Scully didn't so much as glance at him as she entered.
He had to make a verbal apology this time? She really *was*
pissed. He whined, "I'm sorry for invading your privacy, Scully."
"Let's forget about it," she said distantly.
Scully hated him. The bottom had fallen out of Mulder's world.
*********
Skinner fully expected Mulder and Scully to call in sick on
Monday morning. When they didn't, he began to worry. He finally
phoned their office himself. Scully answered the call. Her
subdued tone worried him even more. He made up an excuse to get
them into his office. They wouldn't look at each other, let alone
touch. His grand plan had failed, but what could have gone awry?
The set-up had been ideal. He dismissed the two and steeled
himself to make the telephone call he dreaded.
No! Skinner was no coward. He would meet his challenges head on,
like a man. He would break Maggie's heart to her face. He told
his secretary to cancel his appointments for the rest of the
day and drove to Baltimore.
Although he'd given her no notice, Maggie greeted him with a
pitcher of lemonade, a plate of peanut-butter cookies, and a
serene smile. "You came over to celebrate with me, Walter?"
He flinched. "There's no easy way to say this: We struck out
again. Our plan didn't work. I can't begin to apologize enough."
"Walter, it's not your fault. You'll see. Everything will work
out in the end."
Skinner laughed shortly. "I can't imagine how. Our first two
schemes have succeeded only in driving a wedge between Mulder and
Scully."
Maggie's eyes flashed fire. "We can't give up! I won't let us.
You're not the only one who knows people. Your friend managed the
the motel. I have a friend who owns an online dating agency. If
I call Doris and explain the situation, we can work something
out."
Skinner's optimism returned with the power of Maggie's
certainty. "I feel better already. I always feel better around
you. So much so that...Maggie, over the past few months of our
acquaintanceship, I've developed these very special feelings for
you -- feelings I most sincerely hope you might return. Could
you, would you, ever feel the same way?"
His entire future rested on the next movement of those bow-
shaped lips.
They shaped a single word: "Yes."
*********
Mulder had endured Scully's cold shoulder for three whole days
when a knock sounded on his door one afternoon. It had to be her!
He sprang up to open the door, but it was another Scully who
stood facing him: Margaret. He tried not to look too disappointed
as he said, "Hello, Mrs. Scully. It's nice to see you."
"Now, Fox, I keep telling you to call me 'Mom,'" she chided as
she breezed into the kitchen. He followed, belatedly realizing
that he should have been a gentleman and carried her large, white
cardboard box for her.
Mrs. Scully set the box on the counter, propped open the
refrigerator door, and shook her head as she surveyed the meager
contents. After she flipped up the box flaps, she removed a
lasagna platter, then neatly slid it onto the top shelf between a
green slice of what had once been pizza and a four-months-
expired jug of milk. Item after item filled the empty spaces: an
apple pie, a mound of sandwiches, fried chicken, and meatloaf.
Finished, Mrs. Scully rubbed her hands together in a satisfied
manner. "There. Oh, Fox, what would you do if I never came over?
Starve, I suppose."
Maggie's expression turned grave. "Fox, you can't slip anything
past me. I raised four children. I can tell when they're feeling
down. What you need is a girlfriend. Since you don't seem to be
interested in my Dana -- there's no accounting for some people's
taste -- maybe you'll have better luck elsewhere. I took the
liberty of getting you a gift. It's a trial membership in a
wonderful online dating service. I only ask that you try it once.
That's all. Once."
She pressed a legal-sized envelope into his hand and flew out the
door. In the wake of Hurricane Maggie, Mulder gave in and
examined the single paper inside the envelope.
"Are you lonely?" the text began.
'Yes,' he answered silently.
"Do you worry that you'll always be alone?"
'Yes,' again.
"Are you willing to give us a chance to make your life happier,
satisfaction guaranteed?"
A little more slowly, another 'Yes' followed.
"Great! The Lonelyhearts Online Dating Service is waiting for
you! Your access code is x1013f. Sign up now for your no-strings-
attached trial membership."
If he couldn't have Scully, shouldn't he have someone else?
Another woman would be a poor substitute, perhaps, but better
than no one. Mrs. Scully had seemed so pleased with herself. She
would be sure to ask if he had tried the agency, and he didn't
want to disappoint the gracious lady.
Within minutes, Mulder had turned on his computer and was at the
Lonelyhearts site, where he validated his user code. The next
step was to fill out a simple application.
For user name, he rejected M.F. Luder, the pseudonym he'd used
for his "Omni" article, and trustno1, his old computer password.
"Truth_Seeker" sounded appropriate. For occupation, he considered
law enforcement but ended up with the safe alternative of psycho-
logist. Interests: basketball, watching old movies, jogging. He
omitted baseball because he didn't want to give the impression
that he was a complete sports nut. He left paranormal off the
list for fear of giving the impression that he was a complete
nut, period. Last but not least, the description of his dream
woman was modeled on Scully.
He reviewed his application and hit the save button.
*********
Following her visit to Fox, Maggie stopped by Dana's. There, her
spiel ran almost identically.
"Since you aren't interested in Fox, isn't it about time you got
a boyfriend? A good man is hard to find, but I live to serve. The
Lonelyhearts Online Dating Service can change your life. I took
the liberty of buying a three-month membership in your name. All
the information is in this envelope. Dana, please try it. It's a
gift."
For the next two days, the envelope lay on the edge of the table,
looking accusingly at Scully whenever she entered the room. After
a particularly trying Friday, she went into the kitchen to
prepare a crisp salad. Going back into the living room with her
bowl, she caught sight of the envelope. It seemed almost to be
waving for her attention. She gave in and tore it open as she
chewed on a tough rutabaga.
The offer was straightforward. Based on her interests and
preferences, potential dates would leave her a message. She could
choose to go out with any, all, or none. What did she have to
lose? If none of the matches appealed to her, she could drop the
matter. She sat down at her computer and typed in the
Lonelyhearts URL. After she entered her access code of dk1121s,
the application form popped up on the screen.
First, it asked for a user name. "DrRed," she decided. Next,
occupation: She didn't want to put FBI. That designation might
attract a bunch of psychopaths. She settled for a partial truth
and typed in "doctor." As for interests, reading and traveling
topped the list. Her ideal man? She couldn't help picturing
Mulder as she typed her short description.
second part
TITLE: A Helping Hand 1/2
KEYWORDS: parody, Mulder/Scully romance, Skinner/Mrs. Scully
romance, cliches galore, obligala, badfic, fluff, sap
RATING: NC-17 eventually. First part is PG.
SPOILERS: Tooms, Anasazi, Never Again, Fight The Future (movie),
Sein Und Zeit
TIMEFRAME: after Closure, before all things
DISCLAIMER: XF/characters are owned by CC, Ten Thirteen, Fox.
SUMMARY: Every cliche I could think of. Ice Queen? Check. Gratuitous mention of bees? Check. Puppy face? Check. Celine Dion? Check....
NOTES: Response to a challenge (elements at end). Thanks to xfb
and Sky for the beta and additional cliche suggestions. Also,
as far as I can tell, the show never definitively answered the
question of whether Skinner and Sharon divorced. For the purposes
of this story, they did.
***Prologue***
It all began one February day in Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner's office. Mulder and Scully sat poring, chestnut head next to auburn like shades of autumn, over a case file about magnetic eggplants in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Skinner looked across his desk at them and experienced an epiphany: 'They're in love,' he thought. It seemed most curious to him that he had never before acknowledged that fact.
Still, Skinner doubted they were together in *that* sense of the word. Not the way they should be. To test his theory, he asked casually, "So, agents, do you have any plans for the weekend?"
Mulder's head whipped up. Scully's eyes darted sideways at him.
"Uh, I thought I'd go to a UFO convention," said Mulder.
Scully looked relieved, probably because Mulder had said nothing about having a date. She said, "I might visit my mother."
Mulder also looked relieved, probably because Scully didn't have a date, either.
Thoughts of the case flying from his head, Skinner said, "You
two may go."
Scully opened her mouth, but Mulder placed his hand on the small of her back and propelled her out of the office.
Alone, Skinner sat and pondered for a very long time. Ever since his divorce from Sharon, he'd been adrift. He needed a hobby. Or better yet, a cause. And what more worthy cause than the union ofhis two favorite, albeit most problematic, agents? If he
couldn't be happy, at least they could be.
Only, how to achieve his self-imposed goal? Skinner needed help. He needed a partner who was as devoted to Mulder and Scully's welfare as he was. He needed...Scully's mother! Scully had mentioned her during the meeting. It was a sign! He looked up
Mrs. Scully's phone number and dialed.
"Hello," answered a pleasant female voice.
"Margaret Scully?"
"Yes."
"This is Assistant Director Walter Skinner from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I think that together, we can help your daughter and her partner."
***Two Months Later***
Bob Stanton, manager of the Fieldcrest Motel in Sydney,
Connecticut, eyed the two annoyed FBI agents. They were more
agitated than he had been led to expect.
"I'm sorry," he said once more. "I know it's a Wednesday, and ordinarily we would have plenty of free space. But you came here at a bad time. Our rooms have been booked for weeks in advance for the annual Chilton Corporation Business Convention. There's
one room with a double bed left, and that's due to a last-minute cancellation. You aren't going to find any other openings within a 60-mile radius."
"Do you have a cot I can use?" the man asked.
Bob shook his head, using his knee to wedge the spare cot safely out of sight under the counter.
The woman sighed. "We don't have much choice. I'm tired of sitting in a car, and one room is better than none."
"You're right," her companion agreed. "We'll take the room." He handed Bob his credit card and signed the register. "Let us know if any other rooms become available, okay? Especially if they have a connecting door."
"Yeah, right." Bob pushed the key to number 42 across the desk. After the agents left his office, he picked up the phone and dialed a number.
"Skinner," said a familiar voice.
"Walter, it's Bob. They took the vacancy, but they weren't happy about it. Agent Mulder said something about wanting connecting rooms. What does he think this place is, the Ritz? Are you sure your plan will work?"
"Don't worry, Bob," his old friend replied. "All Mulder and
Scully need is a nudge. Now that I've provided it, they should do
the rest themselves. There *is* only one bed in that room,
right?"
"I didn't forget. So, what happens when they figure out that the case you sent them on is a fake?" Bob wondered.
"If all goes as expected, by tomorrow morning, they won't care," Skinner said confidently. "Thank you again for your help. If you ever need a favor, get in touch."
"Right, Walter." Bob hung up, hoping his friend really did know what he was doing.
*********
Back in Washington, D.C., Skinner turned to his companion,
Margaret Scully. "Mission accomplished. The next time we see
them, they should be engaged."
Maggie clasped her hands. "That's wonderful news! I've been waiting years for Dana and Fox to wake up to the truth. They're both so stubborn. No matter how many times I remind Dana that Fox is like a son to me, she doesn't take the hint. And no matter how
many times I tell Fox to call me Mom, he doesn't make a move, either. If you hadn't phoned me out of the blue that day two months ago, I might have given up hope. All along, I've been afraid that Dana was holding back because of the anti-fraternization regulation."
"It exists," said Skinner. "But in my opinion, it shouldn't
apply to Mulder and Scully. Their partnership is the strongest
I've ever seen, and it's clear those two were meant for each
other. You're quite a woman, you know. Not many mothers would
put so much thought and effort into securing their daughter's
future."
Maggie turned pink. "Walter, those two don't know how fortunate they are to have you on their side."
"Or you, Maggie. Or you."
The unlikely pair smiled at each other.
*********
Meanwhile, oblivious to the conversation taking place far away,
Mulder crawled the dark-blue Ford Taurus alongside the row of
motel rooms. Scully pointed out a "42" against the peeling paint
of a door near the end of the ramshackle structure, and Mulder
parked in the closest available space. He pulled the key from
the ignition and passed it to Scully. While she circled around
to the back of the Taurus, he went to inspect the room. It took
some wiggling and a solid shove to force the key into number
42's lock. He put his weight into it, and the door lurched
inward, accompanied by a long, loud squeal like that of a piglet
being slaughtered.
Mulder stared at the dismal interior. From the threadbare carpet
to the ratty armchair to the rabbit-eared television set, it was
a virtual carbon copy of the many other cheap motel rooms they
had stayed in over the seven years of their partnership. The
sole difference was that they were to share this room, and there
was one bed. It was a double, true, but it was still one bed.
Scully walked up beside him with her suitcase. "Mulder, we're
both adults. There's no reason we can't share the bed."
"It's not sharing the bed that has me worried. It's touching it
at all. Look at it. The sheets are gray."
"Well, with any luck, we'll only be here tonight. Let's unpack,
eat, and then get some sleep. In fact, why don't we order
something?"
Mulder nodded. "What do you want: Chinese, or pizza?"
More enterprising than he, Scully entered the room and grabbed
the phone book from the chipped bedside table. "We had pizza last
time."
"Chinese it is, then." Mulder accepted the book and flipped to
the yellow pages.
Forty-five minutes later, as they sat cross-legged on the floor
enjoying the last of their meal, Scully remarked, "Good thing
Skinner told us to try this motel. Otherwise, we might not have
found a room at all."
"It gets even better, Scully. We got fortune cookies for dessert.
Let's see what lies in store for us."
"Mulder, you know I don't believe in these things." Nevertheless,
she accepted the cookie he shoved toward her.
He broke his open first. The fortune read, "The love of your life
will soon be yours." Not likely, at this rate. He substituted,
"Your generosity will be rewarded. How about yours?"
Unlike Mulder, Scully ate her cookie before smoothing the strip
of paper that held her fortune. After a pause, she crumpled it
into a ball and reported, "It says that the early bird catches
the worm. In other words, time for bed. Which side do you want,
Mulder?"
He shrugged. "You pick."
"You can have the left, then." She fished around in a
dresser drawer and came up with an armful of flannel. "I'll
change in the bathroom."
He noticed that she took the wadded paper with her. Had she lied
about her fortune? What could the cookie have told her? He
contemplated that question, but reached no conclusion by the
time Scully emerged from the bathroom, clad in a shapeless set of
rose-covered pajamas.
"Your turn," she prompted him.
Mulder gathered his sweat pants and T-shirt and headed into the
bathroom. He seized the opportunity to hunt for Scully's mystery
fortune, but there was no sign of it. His curiosity piqued, he
returned to the bedroom.
Scully lay tucked under the blankets on the far side of the bed.
Mulder crawled into the left side and closed his eyes.
"Mulder?" Scully whispered.
"Yeah?" he whispered back.
"You can turn on the TV if you want. I know it helps you get to
sleep. I mean, since we usually leave our connecting door ajar
when we're out on a case, I hear it sometimes," she added
quickly.
"Thanks, Scully."
"Well, just so you know it won't bother me."
"Okay. Thanks," he repeated.
"Good night, Mulder."
"Good night, Scully."
They lapsed into silence.
Two hours later, Mulder hadn't slept a wink. He tried to blame
his insomnia on indigestion resulting from bad crab egg foo yung,
but the real reason was that the heat radiating off of Scully's
body so near to his made it impossible for him to relax. Scully
evidently suffered from no similar affliction. Her deep, regular
breathing attested to her state of sleep.
Frustrated, he took her up on her television offer. He didn't
want to watch the triple X channel with Scully in the room, so
his viewing options were limited to infomercials and home
shopping. When the Stupendous Yappi came on at 3 a.m., he called
it quits, turned off the set, and lay staring at the ceiling,
waiting for morning to come.
Even that strategy was doomed to fail. Mulder remained unable to
nod off for long minutes that stretched into hours. To complicate
matters, Scully turned over in her sleep, pressing against his
side. Mulder panicked. He couldn't let her wake up in that
position; they would both be hideously embarrassed. He eased away
about an inch, but Scully moved with him. He wiggled away; she
followed. That pattern continued until Mulder found himself
precariously balanced near the edge of the bed.
Scully stirred and murmured in her sleep. It was now or never.
Mulder lunged to the side and landed on the floor. As he rubbed
his hip and congratulated himself on his narrow escape, Scully's
eyelids fluttered open.
"Mulder? What's going on?" she mumbled in a sleep-thickened
voice.
He cleared his throat. "Nothing. I'm going jogging. Sorry I woke
you up."
She rubbed her eyes and peered at her watch. "It's only 6:25."
"I know. It's gonna be a long jog. Go back to sleep. I'll wake
you up when I get back." He slipped through the door before
Scully could utter another word.
*********
Back inside the room, unbidden tears leaked from Scully's eyes.
Mulder had fallen off the bed to avoid a minimal amount of
physical contact. If she'd thought he might be at all attracted
to her, that dream was vanquished. She recalled last night's
misleading fortune that she had flushed down the toilet. "Your
tall, dark, handsome partner will propose to you." Never had a
fortune cookie lied so baldly.
It was no use trying to get back to sleep. She might as well
review the case notes until Mulder resurfaced. The investigation
had all the earmarks of being dead end, but Skinner had insisted
that they follow up on it. A woman named Mrs. Simmons claimed
that a giant spider abducted her baby every night and returned it
before dawn each morning. Even Mulder considered the case to be
only mildly intriguing.
As promised, he was gone a long time. He returned at a little
after 8, shivering from the cool air yet sweating from his
exertions. After his quick shower, he and Scully drove to Mrs.
Simmons' apartment building three miles away.
They located the correct apartment, and Mulder banged on the
door. No answer. He hammered again, with the same results.
Halfway down the hall, a door flew open. A elderly neighbor
poked her kerchiefed head out like a painted turtle peeking from
its shell. "Are you looking for Mrs. Simmons? She moved last
weekend."
"Are you sure?" Mulder called back.
"Sure, I'm sure. Her baby used to cry half the night and keep me
awake. Since they've been gone, I've been sleeping fine."
"Well, have you seen any giant spiders around here?" Mulder
asked.
The woman stared at him and addressed Scully. "Lady, what is
your husband talking about?"
"We're not married," Scully said. She thought, 'But people often
assume we are.'
The woman sniffed and drew her head back inside her room.
After they confirmed with the manager that not only had Mrs.
Simmons indeed left with no forwarding address, but she had never
complained to him about spiders of any size, they agreed to
go home.
"Just another hoax," Mulder decided. "At least our car didn't
break down this time," he added in a weak attempt at humor. The
failure of their most recent maroon Ford Taurus while on the
road to Boston remained a sore subject.
Upon their return home, they reported to Skinner's office.
*********
The meeting over, Skinner watched the door close behind Mulder
and Scully. He could hardly believe the plan had gone awry.
According to his calculations, Mulder and Scully should have
fallen into each other's arms the previous night. But judging
from their behavior, they hadn't made any progress. This
matchmaking business was obviously not as easy as it appeared to
be at first glance. He had to confer with Maggie. With his
connections and her brainpower, their new and improved idea was
guaranteed to work.
*********
Later that evening, Mulder moped around his apartment. He was
lost without Scully around. The Lone Gunmen had invited him over
to nitpick the scientific inaccuracies of "Star Trek: Voyager,"
but he didn't have the heart for it. He sprawled on his battered
leather sofa, his right arm dangling over the side, before he
had the welcome idea of turning on the radio. Coincidentally, a
song was just beginning. The voice was that of Celine Dion, one
of his favorite singers.
I want to be the face you see when you close your eyes
I want to be the touch you need every single night
I want to be your fantasy
And be your reality
And everything between
A bolt of shock shot through Mulder. How could Celine Dion know
exactly how he felt about Scully? It was uncanny, like she had a
window into his mind. With her next words, the phenomenon
continued.
I want you to need me
Like the air you breathe
I want you to feel me
In everything
*********
At the same time, in Scully's Georgetown apartment, she sank into
her vanilla-scented bubble bath. As she uncapped her favorite
strawberry shampoo, she realized that she had neglected to turn
on the radio, which she liked to play while soaking in the tub.
She corrected her oversight and settled back into the foamy
liquid. A beautiful song was playing, and she recognized the
melodious voice of Celine Dion.
I want you to see me
In your every dream
The way that I taste you feel you breathe you need you
I want you to need me
Like I need you
She couldn't have said it better herself. The lyrics echoed her
feelings for Mulder. If only they weren't so one-sided. If only
he could see her in the same light. If only it could be true....
*********
I want to be the eyes that look deep into your soul
I want to be the world to you
I just want it all
I want to be your deepest kiss
The answer to your every wish
I'm all you ever need
After the last note faded away, Mulder lay awash in memories of
Scully.
"Mulder, you're the only one I trust."
"I hope you know that I'd consider it more than a
professional loss if you decided to leave."
"I had the strength of your beliefs."
"Even when the world was falling apart, you were
my constant...my touchstone."
"And you are mine."
He desperately needed to hear her voice; nothing else would do.
Maybe this time, he could work up the courage to declare himself.
As Jim Croce's "Time in a Bottle" played in the background, he
hit the speed dial with joint hopes: that Scully wouldn't be
annoyed with him for calling at 11:21 p.m., and that a male voice
wouldn't answer the phone.
If I could save time in a bottle
One ring.
The first thing that I'd like to do
Two rings.
Is to save every day 'til eternity passes away
Three rings.
Just to spend them with you
"Hello."
He slapped off the radio in the middle of Jim Croce's next note.
"Scully, it's me. What are you wearing?" For tension-soaked
seconds that felt more like hours, he held his breath until she
answered.
"Cotton pajamas and a floor-length robe. Why did you call,
anyway? Is something wrong?"
In an effort to calm his nerves, he bounced his basketball as he
replied, "Nah, just feeling introspective. Thinking about what I
would regret not having done if colonization began right now.
That sort of thing."
"Oh." Scully yawned. "Look, Mulder, I'm pretty tired. So if
there's nothing else...."
"Sorry, Scully. You go on to sleep. I didn't mean to keep you
up."
"That's okay. See you tomorrow." She hung up.
The buzzing dial tone mocked Mulder. He dropped the phone into
the cradle and groaned. He'd chickened out again. Disgusted with
himself, he pulled his pillow over his face.
*********
Scully looked down at her sheer peach silk negligee. Mulder
never would have believed she was wearing it. Mulder, her
partner, thought that he could call her at all hours and use her
as his talk-to whenever he was bored, or lonely, or frustrated,
with no regard for how his actions might make her feel.
Come to think of it, she should have turned the tables and asked
what *he* was wearing. She settled for the next-best thing and
formed a picture of a mental Mulder mannequin.
Mulder wearing a Speedo.
Mulder wearing blue jeans.
Mulder wearing a gray T-shirt.
Mulder wearing a black leather jacket.
Mulder wearing his glasses.
Mulder wearing all five was an unbeatable combination. She might
as well stop there; it wasn't going to get any better than that.
Unless she substituted a turtleneck for the T-shirt. That
decision was a tough call, and she couldn't choose between them.
Scully drifted into dreamland with a smile on her lips and
visions of a perfectly-clad Mulder dancing in her head.
*********
As was customary, Mulder arrived at the office ahead of Scully
the next morning. He unlocked the door and saw a 9x11 manila
envelope lying on the floor. It was from Jim Wilson, a Bureau
photographer. Whenever Jim was assigned to one of his and
Scully's investigations, he took an extra photo for Mulder in
exchange for the occasional loan of a video.
Mulder slitted open the envelope and lifted out the fresh shot of
him and Scully. It depicted them facing each other over a
mutilated corpse (that had, thankfully, been cropped out). Mulder
turned to the bulletin board and carefully thumbtacked the 5x7
shot into place between a Loch Ness clipping and a crop-circle
diagram. One of a half-dozen candids adorning the board, it was
his new favorite.
He heaved a heavy sigh, dropped into his chair, and propped his
feet up on his desk. The problem was, he could never tell Scully
how he felt. Nearly every ounce of the pain she had suffered
since being paired with him was his fault, from Melissa's death
to Emily to her abductions. He was no good for her. Never had
been, never would be.
The ringing phone shattered his reverie, and he scrabbled for it
under a mound of papers. "Mulder," he said into the receiver as
the tower of files collapsed onto the floor.
"Agent Mulder," said Skinner's assistant, "AD Skinner would like
to see you and Agent Scully in his office."
"Scully isn't here."
"Come alone," the disembodied voice instructed.
During the elevator ride, Mulder wondered why the AD had
summoned him. Most likely to chew him out over some quibble with
the latest field report, he concluded. Skinner was constantly
finding fault with his work.
The secretary waved him into Skinner's office. He entered and
shut the door.
Skinner waited for him to sit down before beginning. "Agent
Mulder. As you know, the annual FBI ball is tonight. I expect
you to attend to prove you can get along with the other agents.
And no sneaking off after 15 minutes -- you have to stay for a
full hour. This assignment will improve your interpersonal
relationships. It's for your own good."
"Then why does it sound so bad?" Mulder protested. "Besides, it's
not part of my job description to attend stuffy events during my
off-duty hours, especially on less than a day's notice."
"I'm making it your job," Skinner informed him in a decidedly
smug tone. "If I'd given you more warning, you might have found a
way to squirm out of it. Now that won't be so easy. You go, we
have no problem. You don't go, and I drop so much paperwork on
your desk, it will take you a year just to read it all."
Mulder envisioned the current state of his desk. A year's worth
of additions would not be a pretty sight. "I guess I don't have
a choice," he grumbled.
"I want Agent Scully there as well," Skinner added, "but I'll
come up with a better incentive for her. You can break the
news."
*****
Mulder gloomily stalked back to his office. Scully was there,
tunelessly humming as she sorted the papers on her desk into tidy
stacks. She looked at him and shaded her eyes. "Mulder, can't you
ever turn it down? One day, you're going to blind someone with
those ties of yours."
Mulder glanced down at his aesthetically-pleasing, lightning
bolt-patterned neckwear. "What's wrong with it, Scully?"
She shook her head. "If you don't know, I can't tell you. But
please take some advice: Stick to solid colors. They're boring,
but inoffensive."
He scowled as her words brought to mind the unpleasant task
assigned to him by Skinner. Best to get the torture over with as
soon as possible. "Scully, Skinner ordered us to attend the ball
tonight for at least an hour, under pain of some horrible,
unspecified punishment for you, and a mountain of paperwork for
me, if we don't show."
He'd gotten it all out in one breath. Scully stared blankly at
him. Had she heard?
"Mulder, are you serious?"
Yes, she'd heard him. "Skinner was set on it. I'll pick you up at
7:30."
"Why don't I pick you up? I hardly ever get behind the wheel when
we're together."
"You want to know why? Because your lead-footed driving scares
me," he lamely joked.
Scully raised an eyebrow and gave Mulder her patented
ScullyGlare. "If we don't go together, you won't have to worry
about it."
Him and his big mouth. He hadn't been aware that she was so
sensitive on the subject. He tried to apologize, but Scully
brushed away his words. It looked like he would be driving alone
to the ball.
*********
At around 6:00, Mulder entered his apartment building and
collected his mail from the downstairs box. As he rode up in the
elevator, he saw that he held the latest issues of "Alien
Abduction Monthly" and "Celebrity Skin," a handful of bills and
junk mail, and a small, unmarked box that probably contained the
video he'd ordered over the Internet last week. He was alone, so
he tore open the package to confirm that it was "Redheads in
Vegas." Too bad he didn't have time to watch it before the ball.
The elevator stopped on his floor, and he made his way to his
apartment, straightened the lopsided "42," and unlocked the door.
There was one message on his answering machine: from Cherise, who
asked him to call 1-900-555-1013. His fish tank featured two
floating bodies: the rummy-nose tetra he had named Krycek, and
the guppy called Spender.
Nearly tripping over the heaps of clutter coating the floor, he
spat a sunflower-seed shell into the air and went into his
bedroom to change.
*********
Scully stood in her living room and cursed Skinner like the
sailor's daughter she was. She went ahead and cursed Mulder,
too, since the situation was probably his fault.
Although she didn't relish the company of her snobby fellow
agents, she had little choice but to obey Skinner. A Scully had
never backed down from a challenge before; she had no intention
of being the first to let down the family name. She strode to her
closet and dug out her secret weapons -- her 6" Prada heels and
the strapless green satin dress she had been saving for a special
occasion.
Ninety minutes later, Scully wished she could take back the
stupid argument with Mulder about her driving. She'd ended up
taking a taxi when a ride from him would have been welcome. But
it was too late for regrets. She paid the driver and headed for
the ballroom of the J. Edgar Hoover Building.
After a handful of steps, she paused behind a pillar to adjust
her right shoe. As she tugged at the strap, the familiar voice of
Agent Hanover drifted to her ears from perhaps 15 feet ahead.
"Honestly, I don't know why Mulder stays with that Ice Queen. Do
you, Melinda?"
"No, but I know why she stays with him," the other woman, who
sounded like Agent Booth, replied. "Have you ever seen him in a
Speedo?"
"What about his 'spooky' reputation? Doesn't that make you
nervous?" Hanover asked.
Booth laughed. "It adds to his mystique. I wonder when someone's
going to win that huge office pool. You'd think it would be easy
to prove they're doing it. All anyone would have to do is follow
them into the parking garage, or bug their office."
"Well, he may have melted the Ice Queen, but she'll freeze back
up once he dumps her. It could happen tonight, in public!"
Both agents laughed as they walked away.
Trembling with indignation, Scully emerged from her quasi-hiding
place. She couldn't believe the nerve of those women. She knew
neither she nor Mulder had any friends in the Bureau, but the
disparaging comments still stung like acid in an open wound. It
was particularly unfair that her and Mulder's cruel nicknames
from the Academy days continued to follow them around. She had to
spend an hour in that ballroom? She'd do it, all right, with far
more class than Agents Booth and Hanover could ever imagine
possessing.
*********
Mulder was bored. He ran a finger under his collar and wished to
be anywhere except standing by the bowls of flat raspberry punch
in the Hoover Ballroom. How much longer before his sentence was
up? It wouldn't be nearly so bad if he had Scully's company, but
there had been no sign of her. Perhaps she planned to defy
Skinner and not come. Not that he would know. After he'd
insulted her driving, she hadn't exactly been forthcoming about
her plans.
As for Skinner's theory that he would improve his interpersonal
relationships by attending, no such thing had occurred. He was
the recipient of admiring glances from various women, but no one
approached him.
As he popped half of a stale windmill cookie into his mouth, a
murmur arose at the head of the room. Curious, Mulder looked in
that direction. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, and there
stood the most beautiful woman Mulder had ever seen. It was
Scully, a vision in her strapless gown.
One thought circulated through Mulder's Jelloed brain: He had to
reach her before anyone else did. Like he was moving in slow-
motion, he made his way toward her. He wasn't fast enough;
Skinner appeared from out of nowhere and extended his hand.
Scully took it, and she and Skinner circled the dance floor as
Mulder retreated to the fringes of the crowd to choke down glass
after glass of watery punch.
The second the music ended, he moved possessively to Scully's
side and glared at the other male agents who had also started
forward. As a man, they gulped and dropped their eyes. It looked
like no one was willing to tangle with "Spooky" over his woman.
He looked at Scully. "May I have this dance?" With those words,
he became the envy of every man in the room.
Speechlessly, Scully floated into his arms.
*********
They danced time and time again as their fellow agents stared,
whispered, and boosted the office pool with every second.
The 6" heels had been a wise choice, Scully thought. Without
them, she wouldn't have stood high enough to hear Mulder's
murmur of, "Scully, your hair looks like gray fire."
What a lovely compliment. Then she analyzed it more thoroughly
and began to worry. Mulder was red/green colorblind, so of
course her hair looked gray to him. But he was afraid of fire.
Maybe his description of her hair wasn't a compliment. She stole
a glance at his face. He was smiling. It really had been a
compliment, thank God.
At the finish of the next dance, Mulder maneuvered Scully toward
the door. "Have you been here for one hour yet?"
She checked the clock. "Yes, in about four minutes."
"I can't wait that long. Did you drive?" Mulder asked.
"No, I took a taxi."
"I can give you a lift home," he offered.
She smiled her thanks and walked out with him.
As he watched them exit the ballroom, Skinner beamed approvingly.
Mission accomplished. He had to call Maggie and fill her in on
their marvelous success.
*********
Mulder halted his car in front of Scully's apartment building and
turned off the ignition. That action should be enough to alert
Scully that he wanted an invitation inside.
She picked up on his intent with unerring instinct. "I didn't eat
before I left. I thought I'd just grab a snack when I got home."
"Yeah, me, too."
"Why don't you come up with me, then? We can order in."
In answer, Mulder got out of the car and trailed Scully to her
apartment. Inside, she said, "I'm going to change. I'll be right
back." She headed toward her bedroom, leaving Mulder alone in the
living room.
He paced restlessly while waiting for her to return. Scully
wouldn't mind if he put on some music. He wandered over to her CD
collection. Faith Hill, Sarah McLachlan, Jewel, the Backstreet
Boys, Britney Spears... He pushed the Shania Twain CD "Come On
Over" into the player and fast-forwarded to "You're Still The
One."
When I first saw you, I saw love.
And the first time you touched me, I felt love.
And after all this time, you're still the one I love.
He cast about for another activitity to keep himself amused. And,
as so often happened with Mulder, his overactive brain found a
way to get him in trouble.
Scully's apartment was usually as neat as a pin, with a place for
everything and everything in its place. In short, it was the
exact opposite of his own pigsty. Except for today. There on the
coffee table lay the holiest of holies: Scully's journal, opened
to a page covered with writing. Mulder crept a little closer, and
a little more, until he stood within arm's length of the book. He
shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't. But the temptation was so great.
What if Scully had written about him? (What if she hadn't?) Her
comments wouldn't be unflattering, would they? He flashed back to
a recent Saturday-morning telephone conversation.
Scully: Scully.
Mulder: Scully, it's me.
Scully: What is it, Mulder? And it had better not
include the words autopsy, plane, or pack.
Mulder: Would I do that to you four weekends in a row?
Don't answer that. Um, look, I'm really sorry...
He felt a renewed pang of guilt over that incident. Even though
he knew Scully was terrified of flying, he was forever dragging
her across the country. So yes, any mention of his name might
well be connected to some exceedingly negative observations. But
if so, he reasoned, it was best that he learned what upset
Scully so he could amend his behavior.
Good and bad briefly skirmished before Devil Mulder stabbed Angel
Mulder with his pitchfork and knocked him out of the running.
Mulder picked up the book and read.
"It has been yet another frustratingly
inconclusive day, and once again I find myself
turning to this book to reveal my innermost
secrets.
"One more day gone by, so many more opportunities
lost. If only he knew the truth. If only he knew
how I really feel. Sometimes I want to shout it to
the world. But instead, I just think it. The only
place I can truly express myself is here, in these
pages I know he will never see. I imagine myself
one day turning to him and saying, 'I love you, "
The sentence ended there. Scully must have been interrupted
before she could complete the incriminating entry. Mulder felt
almost sick with overwhelming jealousy. Who could his rival be?
Was it someone he knew? A man he unwittingly passed in the halls
of the J. Edgar Hoover Building every day? Oh, God, it couldn't
be Skinner, could it? He was the only other man Scully had danced
with at the ball. Mulder had to learn the truth. Maybe Scully
mentioned the man's name on another page. He frantically skipped
to an earlier entry.
So absorbed in his hunt was he that he failed to register the
warning sounds of a door clicking open, the pad of unshod feet,
the abruptly cut-off breathing. He became aware of Scully's
presence in a highly unpleasant manner, when a voice roared,
"Mulder, what the hell do you think you're doing?" Scully crossed
the room with quicksilver strides and snatched up the book in a
whirlwind of motion.
The universe around Mulder seem to swirl at warp speed as he
struggled to complete a sentence. "I...um...I...."
Scully pointed at the door. "Out! Get out! Now!"
As Scully advanced on him, Mulder retreated until his back hit
the door. Only then did he turn and grasp the knob, eager to
escape before she killed him.
*********
Once the door closed behind Mulder, Scully sank to her knees on
the floor. She was sure her face was lit up like a firecracker on
the Fourth of July. Had he seen? Did he know? She would never be
able to look him in the eye again! Mulder probably regarded her
as a little sister. How humiliating if he had read her pathetic
outpourings of undying ardor. She cringed as she recalled the
more embarrassing passages -- the impossible dreams, the
imaginary dates, the fevered ramblings of a brain drunk on
unrequited love.
Through it all, the music taunted her.
Looks like we made it
Look how far we've come, my baby
We mighta took the long way
We knew we'd get there someday
"Shut up, Shania!" Scully yelled.
*********
Mulder spent the weekend torturing himself over his lack of
willpower. Why hadn't he been stronger? What had possessed him to
read Scully's journal? Would she forgive him? How much would she
make him suffer first? How much did he deserve to suffer?
On Monday morning, he sat in his office and convinced himself
that no punishment was great enough. He would have to throw
himself on Scully's mercy.
He chewed on the end of his pencil, then leaned back in his chair
and launched it upward. He'd been waiting a long time for Scully,
as evidenced by the thickness of the ceiling-forest of pencils.
His cursed photographic memory wouldn't let him forget. Every
word of that page remained etched upon his mind. He tortured his
psyche with the multitude of ways in which he had screwed up, not
just Friday but every single day of his miserable existence. The
laundry list of sins ended only when he heard the tap-tap-tap of
approaching footsteps.
He arranged his face into his most pathetic pout and prepared to
waggle his eyebrows.
Scully didn't so much as glance at him as she entered.
He had to make a verbal apology this time? She really *was*
pissed. He whined, "I'm sorry for invading your privacy, Scully."
"Let's forget about it," she said distantly.
Scully hated him. The bottom had fallen out of Mulder's world.
*********
Skinner fully expected Mulder and Scully to call in sick on
Monday morning. When they didn't, he began to worry. He finally
phoned their office himself. Scully answered the call. Her
subdued tone worried him even more. He made up an excuse to get
them into his office. They wouldn't look at each other, let alone
touch. His grand plan had failed, but what could have gone awry?
The set-up had been ideal. He dismissed the two and steeled
himself to make the telephone call he dreaded.
No! Skinner was no coward. He would meet his challenges head on,
like a man. He would break Maggie's heart to her face. He told
his secretary to cancel his appointments for the rest of the
day and drove to Baltimore.
Although he'd given her no notice, Maggie greeted him with a
pitcher of lemonade, a plate of peanut-butter cookies, and a
serene smile. "You came over to celebrate with me, Walter?"
He flinched. "There's no easy way to say this: We struck out
again. Our plan didn't work. I can't begin to apologize enough."
"Walter, it's not your fault. You'll see. Everything will work
out in the end."
Skinner laughed shortly. "I can't imagine how. Our first two
schemes have succeeded only in driving a wedge between Mulder and
Scully."
Maggie's eyes flashed fire. "We can't give up! I won't let us.
You're not the only one who knows people. Your friend managed the
the motel. I have a friend who owns an online dating agency. If
I call Doris and explain the situation, we can work something
out."
Skinner's optimism returned with the power of Maggie's
certainty. "I feel better already. I always feel better around
you. So much so that...Maggie, over the past few months of our
acquaintanceship, I've developed these very special feelings for
you -- feelings I most sincerely hope you might return. Could
you, would you, ever feel the same way?"
His entire future rested on the next movement of those bow-
shaped lips.
They shaped a single word: "Yes."
*********
Mulder had endured Scully's cold shoulder for three whole days
when a knock sounded on his door one afternoon. It had to be her!
He sprang up to open the door, but it was another Scully who
stood facing him: Margaret. He tried not to look too disappointed
as he said, "Hello, Mrs. Scully. It's nice to see you."
"Now, Fox, I keep telling you to call me 'Mom,'" she chided as
she breezed into the kitchen. He followed, belatedly realizing
that he should have been a gentleman and carried her large, white
cardboard box for her.
Mrs. Scully set the box on the counter, propped open the
refrigerator door, and shook her head as she surveyed the meager
contents. After she flipped up the box flaps, she removed a
lasagna platter, then neatly slid it onto the top shelf between a
green slice of what had once been pizza and a four-months-
expired jug of milk. Item after item filled the empty spaces: an
apple pie, a mound of sandwiches, fried chicken, and meatloaf.
Finished, Mrs. Scully rubbed her hands together in a satisfied
manner. "There. Oh, Fox, what would you do if I never came over?
Starve, I suppose."
Maggie's expression turned grave. "Fox, you can't slip anything
past me. I raised four children. I can tell when they're feeling
down. What you need is a girlfriend. Since you don't seem to be
interested in my Dana -- there's no accounting for some people's
taste -- maybe you'll have better luck elsewhere. I took the
liberty of getting you a gift. It's a trial membership in a
wonderful online dating service. I only ask that you try it once.
That's all. Once."
She pressed a legal-sized envelope into his hand and flew out the
door. In the wake of Hurricane Maggie, Mulder gave in and
examined the single paper inside the envelope.
"Are you lonely?" the text began.
'Yes,' he answered silently.
"Do you worry that you'll always be alone?"
'Yes,' again.
"Are you willing to give us a chance to make your life happier,
satisfaction guaranteed?"
A little more slowly, another 'Yes' followed.
"Great! The Lonelyhearts Online Dating Service is waiting for
you! Your access code is x1013f. Sign up now for your no-strings-
attached trial membership."
If he couldn't have Scully, shouldn't he have someone else?
Another woman would be a poor substitute, perhaps, but better
than no one. Mrs. Scully had seemed so pleased with herself. She
would be sure to ask if he had tried the agency, and he didn't
want to disappoint the gracious lady.
Within minutes, Mulder had turned on his computer and was at the
Lonelyhearts site, where he validated his user code. The next
step was to fill out a simple application.
For user name, he rejected M.F. Luder, the pseudonym he'd used
for his "Omni" article, and trustno1, his old computer password.
"Truth_Seeker" sounded appropriate. For occupation, he considered
law enforcement but ended up with the safe alternative of psycho-
logist. Interests: basketball, watching old movies, jogging. He
omitted baseball because he didn't want to give the impression
that he was a complete sports nut. He left paranormal off the
list for fear of giving the impression that he was a complete
nut, period. Last but not least, the description of his dream
woman was modeled on Scully.
He reviewed his application and hit the save button.
*********
Following her visit to Fox, Maggie stopped by Dana's. There, her
spiel ran almost identically.
"Since you aren't interested in Fox, isn't it about time you got
a boyfriend? A good man is hard to find, but I live to serve. The
Lonelyhearts Online Dating Service can change your life. I took
the liberty of buying a three-month membership in your name. All
the information is in this envelope. Dana, please try it. It's a
gift."
For the next two days, the envelope lay on the edge of the table,
looking accusingly at Scully whenever she entered the room. After
a particularly trying Friday, she went into the kitchen to
prepare a crisp salad. Going back into the living room with her
bowl, she caught sight of the envelope. It seemed almost to be
waving for her attention. She gave in and tore it open as she
chewed on a tough rutabaga.
The offer was straightforward. Based on her interests and
preferences, potential dates would leave her a message. She could
choose to go out with any, all, or none. What did she have to
lose? If none of the matches appealed to her, she could drop the
matter. She sat down at her computer and typed in the
Lonelyhearts URL. After she entered her access code of dk1121s,
the application form popped up on the screen.
First, it asked for a user name. "DrRed," she decided. Next,
occupation: She didn't want to put FBI. That designation might
attract a bunch of psychopaths. She settled for a partial truth
and typed in "doctor." As for interests, reading and traveling
topped the list. Her ideal man? She couldn't help picturing
Mulder as she typed her short description.
second part
